I’m dreaming of a white Christmas

Well, not really, but I has just started snowing again.

Winter is moving on a-pace but in early January I’m off to lie on a beach near the Equator. Much as I love winter, it does go on for quite a while.

Blogging away on various other blogs that I run, I’ve sort of let this one slide. Part of the reason is that I’m just not sure what it is I’m supposed to be sharing with you. My love life? My rants? My work-related woes?

I don’t think so.

I’m afraid that this must therefore be my last post. Happy holidays everyone!

xxxx

Autumn

I like this time of year, but this is not going to be a free association entry about the joys of autumn. Or favourite autumnal recipes – I’ll leave that to the airheads and their foodblogs.

Autumnal weather and dark, early nights do tend to encourage introspection, however. I find myself mildly ill-at-ease, worrying about everything and nothing. This morning I woke up at 5am from a horrible nightmare about someone murdering my dog. I was grieving his demise even as I stumbled to the bathroom, still only half awake, and then I saw him down the bottom of the stairs, safe and asleep.

Dogs have nightmares too, of course. They mutter and yelp in their sleep and their legs move as if they’re running away from something. They also have nice dreams, during which they smile and stretch. I normally resist the temptation to wake them from their nightmares, much as I dislike watching them suffer.

I don’t normally suffer from depression – my thing is anxiety. I had several epic panic attacks many years ago, when I first arrived in London, which changed my life. I’ll probably write about them at some point, but suffice it to say that having those catastrophic, choking anxiety attacks made me more attuned to anxiety in general. I know what it is, I can hear it coming, smell it in the air. I can see it in the patterns of the autumn leaves on the wet ground as I take my dogs out. It is an old, old companion.

It’s been back this week, brought on by the seasonal darkness, the stresses of family life, illness in my loved ones, and unpleasant upheavals at work. No major manifestations, just a shortness of breath. Light, troubled sleep. Weird phobias coming to the fore (heights and spiders this time).

I went to Boots and got my usual November treat: a big box of St Johns Wort. I’ll take it until March – I know it works.

The rain it raineth every day

How nice is it so have a few miserable rainy days in London. The skies are leaden, it’s cold and dark and everyone is back at work. Summer couldn’t be any more over.

I like the occasional bit of gloom – it’s the perfect antidote to the sunny, optimistic, “fun” culture we now live in. I was reading some of my love-to-hate food blogs recently and realised that there is an immense pressure these days to be “happy”, to have a truly “wonderful” life, travel to exciting new destinations every weekend, cook fabulous meals with ingredients from artisan markets, go to endless summer festival concerts, have a wide circle of Facebook friends and ideally work in some kind of artistic endeavour – e.g. food photography, for which your dull-as-fuck blog acts as a marketing tool.

grrrrrrrrrr

Grow up people. It’s not all meant to be fun and fabulous. Human life is nothing but a great struggle for survival. Life is 90% dreary circumstance, hard work and worry, 5% downright horrible, and if you’re lucky there might be 5% of genuine pleasure and joy tucked away somewhere. Anyone that pretends otherwise is talking out of their rear end.

So bring on the rain. It’s autumn in London and the Tories are on their way back to power. I sense a long decade of suffering ahead. Maybe it will bring some of these blogging airheads back to reality.

Panic Over ! The City is not broken after all.

Panic over! The City is not going under, banks will not disappear off the face of the earth and we won’t be going back to bartering for food with bits of polished shell.

With the summer holidays over, the roads, train links, buses and tubes leading into the City are packed. All thoughts of swine flu are forgotten as people desperately squeeze into the space available in their attempt to get to the office, sneezing and coughing on each other as they do so. Everyone seems to have a cold, but everyone wants to get to work.

It looks like there is going to be some serious money made and paid this year after all. The French may try to destroy our financial centre with their unrealistic demands about banker’s bonuses, but Sarkozy’s relish about the failure of the “Anglo Saxon model” was unfounded. The Germans may quietly wish that the Thames would rise up and flood the Square Mile, but Frankfurt is not about to step up and take our place. I remember in the mid-Nineties they were fondly referring to that dull city as “Bankfurt” as there were apparently loads of banks there and it was going to rival London. Didn’t happen and won’t happen.

Better run, I’ve several meetings to prepare for and then I have to take a cab to Canary Wharf, to meet some other busy bankers and lawyers and kick off a new project. There is a lot going on.

It’s good to be back.

I survived my surgery – but a spider almost killed me in the kitchen

I had surgery on my big toe joint on Thursday, to remove a bone spur and carry out an arthroscopy. Something to do with cleaning out the joint basically and ensuring that it continues to function. I had suffered with inflammation over the last few years and during particulary evil attacks found it difficult to walk, so the surgery was a godsend. I was able to have it at a private hospital in St Johns Wood, which made for a very comfortable experience. Private room, menu, wine list, movies on demand, view over sculpted gardens, friendly staff (mainly Seth Efrican) and a jovial anestheologist.

I was nervous about going under a general anaesthetic but it was absolutely fine. One minute I was chatting happily about London life to the various staff in the operating theatre, and the next I woke up in my room with a kind person watching over me. Half an hour later I was wolfing down my lunch – no nausea for me! I went home the same night and am walking again, albeit slowly, like an old man.

4 days at home was relaxing and I read a book called The Standing Pool by Adam Thorpe. Very promising book, well written, darkly funnny, about a family renting a house in Languedoc and being beset by all kinds of evil under the sun… They are Cambridge intellectuals and deliciously naive about the real world and in particular the customs and history of the French village where they are staying. Old grudges from World War Two surface, mental illness, law-breaking hunters trespassing, an unfriendly village mayor etc. But the problem with the novel, which is common to so many novels I read these days, is that the ending leaves a lot to be desired. Writers, even the really good ones, often don’t know how to end their stories. After 400 pages of delicous prose, I put down the book with a bitter scowl.

** ** **

There were two huge spiders in the kitchen, one last night, and the other this morning. J removed last night’s one while I hid in the living room. This morning’s one was in the sink and I had to face it alone as J was fast asleep. I was half asleep myself but the spider still managed to completely freak me out – I am an arachnophobe. I turned the hot water on and watched it being sucked down the plug hole, but it was unfortunately too big to go into the holes and kept trying to heave itself up out of the swirling water. I grabbed a wooden spoon and smashed it down, no doubt breaking off legs and squashing bits of the spider as it finally got sucked into one of the holes and disappeared. I turned off the water and listened to my heart pounding in my ears, my ragged breathing. How I hate the spider season.

Japanese food, Indian summer

I just had sushi in the park. The sushi was from Itsu (where the Russian spy was poisoned with the radioactive sushi) and the park was Finsbury Square, not far from my favourite home away from home – the office.

It is 27 degrees in the shade! I wolfed through my generic salmon and tuna sashimi and sushi, saving my favourite bit, the crab and avocado roll, til last. The sushi was not really cold enough, but maybe that’s a good thing? Fridge cold sushi lacks flavour and I read somewhere that in Japan the rice is meant to be the same temperature as the hand that rolled it.

Finsbury Square was oozing with sex. It’s a fairly scruffy little park, officially part of the Islington ward rather than the City, and as such probably a little poorer than its more salubrious near neighbours (e.g. Finsbury Circle). Not that there are that many parks in the City anyway. This one has lots of municipal looking flowerbeds, a dodgy toilet and an unappetising little park cafe/restaurant thing. And for some reason people also play petang (petong? petanq?) here, like we’re in a French village.

Back to the sex. The Indian summer (if one hot day an Indian summer makes) had the office workers out in droves, stripping down and rolling in the grass. I was impressed by the display of nonchalant sun worship. Although I had primly seated myself on a little brick wall, keen to avoid getting any mess on my newish black trousers, others were less concerned. A young man (also with sushi from Itsu) pulled off his business shirt and plonked himself down, displaying impressive muscles and tattoos. Everyone looked. Some girls next to me rolled up their already short skirts and tanned their thighs, to the appreciative stares of some middle aged bankers sitting across from them. A courier youth dropped his bike in the middle of the lawn and ate a Pret sandwich whilst posing in his courier shorts. And so on.

I closed my eyes and imagined I was back on a beach somewhere. I wished I had my Ipod. But it was not to be. A wasp buzzed loudly in my ear and I had to stumble back through the crowds, dropping my sushi detritus in a big pile of similar bags next to the overflowing bins.

What’s so great about London anyway?

I hardly go out in London of an evening. In fact, it’s less than a monthly event. I like to get home after work and see my partner, enjoy my house and spend time with my dogs.

I don’t want to run around town drinking, having dinner in mediocre restaurants, clubbing, visiting theatres or late night gallery openings. I did all that in my 20s and 30s and it was great, really great. I had the hangovers and the overdraft to prove it.

I also met loads of people and all their numbers are still on my mobile phone. But I’ve not called them and they haven’t called me. For years. Goodbye people – it was fun and I hope you’re happy.

So as I soldier on into my 40s with my much reduced social circle, a healthier liver and more sleep, what am I still doing in London? Surely “the galleries, the theatres and the restaurants” are the only reason you’d want to live here, besides the job market.

Well, putting the career etc to one side, there are still some reasons for an antisocial bastard in his 40s to enjoy Londontown. Voila:

(a) Columbia Road Market – great East End market, selling flowers and garden plants at bargain prices. Fantastic variety, real buzz, great characters. I love it but you have to get there early on a Sunday morning. Which isn’t a problem if you didn’t go out clubbing the night before (see above).

(b) Cheap Asian restaurants – there are loads, with my favourites including the Hong Kong Diner in Soho, the Phoenix dim sum restaurant near Baker Street, the Wing Yip restaurant in Croydon (yes, Croydon), the restaurant on the boat near Canary Wharf (forgot the name) and the Thai restaurant near the British Museum (again, forgot the name – not a great travel writer, eh). My point is – London has loads of wonderful culinary experiences and you don’t have to go to bloody Nobu/Hakkasan/etc to enjoy.

(c) Shopping at Primark. I struggled to spend £50 there yesterday and I have new jackets, trousers, underwear, t-shirts, socks… disposable fashion rocks!

(d) The views from Waterloo Bridge…. it’s Gormenghast, man.

(e) OK, ok, the pop and rock concerts. I didn’t want to include this as it is such a cliche, but sooner or later everyone you ever wanted to see live performs here and you will get tickets if you’re willing to spend da money. I’ve been to some truly wonderful gigs here. Most recently Blur in Hyde Park.

(f) The bookshops on Charing Cross Road. I love them! My study is beginning to look like one though.

(g) The continuous regeneration, the new buildings, the projects, the development. London has a past and a future. We are just passing through, hopefully adding to it in some way, improving it, but it was here before us and it will be here when we’re gone.

x

Time to get the dog trainer in

It could have been the stormy weather, it could have been the fact I was tired and a little blue, or it could have been puberty blues on his part, but my German Shepherd behaved very badly last night in the park.

It started off in the car, on the way there. I don’t mind a bit of excitement but he was obviously beyond that stage, panting, doing little dog shrieks and running from window to window. Not wanting to be discouraged by this, I continued to the park.

I kept him on the lead when we got there but he completely flipped, jumping wildly up and down, pulling me across the gravel, lunging at other dogs (in play, not attack mode) and generally hysterical.

After ten minutes of this, I realised he was in no state to come off the lead. I dragged him back to the car and we went home. What a shame, especially as he had been doing so well. He’s one and a half years old, with the sweetest temperament, but he can’t control his excitable urges.

I have today contacted a local dog trainer who will hopefully help me sort him out. I also think he will mellow with age, as the books I’ve read suggest that German Shepherds do go through a difficult, rebellious streak in their teenage years.

I still love him to bits though.

I’m happy it’s Friday. The week in the office has been profoundly boring.

In the evenings we’ve been watching Dexter Season 2, which is great. So twisted!

House prices

Haheheheheheeheheeeee – it’s a national obsession! And it brings out the very worst in people.

House prices in the UK. Are they going up or down?

The forum, www.housepricecrash.co.uk is full of speculation on just this topic. It has been going for years and seems to be mostly populated by rabid posters who (a) don’t own any property; (b) hate anyone that owns property; and (c) are convinced (really, really convinced!) that house prices are going to drop 50% in the next year or so; and (d) want all buy to let investors tortured to death.

What strikes me is the incredible nastiness on the forum. There is so much jealousy and hatred on display, it makes horrible reading. What is wrong with these people?

In London, house prices are racing back up again now, and it does seem that the good times are going to return. There have been reductions in prices, of course, and 2008 was a very frightening year for homeowners.

The losers on www.housepricecrash.co.uk will keep waiting for house prices to crash but the rest of us will get on with our lives.  And with the interest rates so low now, we may even be able to afford a couple of holidays abroad in 2009 (I’ve just booked 9 nights in Thailand and a week in Portugal).

Hell, we could probably even afford to trade up the property ladder. Not that I really want to – we’ve planted so many nice trees and plants in the garden and I really want to stick around to see them grow.

That’s one of the benefits of home ownership that long term tenants never have: the wonderful pleasure of designing your own garden and watching it grow…

One thing I feel strongly about is tenant’s rights. I would like to see UK laws changed to give greater assurances to tenants about long term rentals and rental rates.  This works well in countries like Germany, France and the Netherlands, where a sizeable chunk of the population doesn’t bother with home ownership and happily rents for a lifetime, choosing to invest in other things. I am sure there is not the same level of bitterness shown towards homeowners in those countries.

Bank Holiday Blooze

Hey! Another bank holiday has passed and , I’m pleased to say, I did not drink myself into a stupor (unlike most of the rest of the country).

Bank Holidays in Blighty are all about alcohol, even more so this year than ever before. The hordes of hobbits, unable to afford even a cheap and nasty Easyjet trip to an expensive and ultimately exhausting European city, stayed home and drank. I saw them, jumping around the pub gardens at midday, already well onto their second pints. 

My neighbour looked particularly rough last night. I expect he was both drunk and hungover, having poisoned himself for three days running. Poor sod.

My own total booze count for the long weekend was:

Three cans of Kronenbourg, consumed at various stages, mostly in the garden, in the sun.

One can of Stella, gulped down when I woke up from an afternoon slumber.

One glass of Singha beer, with my Vietnamese lunch on Saturday. I had the national dish, Pho, the beef stock with noodles. Perfectly pleasant but I think I’ll stick to Thai food as a rule – much more interesting.

One bottle of Australian Semillon Chardonnay – a bit naughty, this one. I drank half at lunchtime and the other half in the evening of the same day, which meant (I think) that I officially binged that day.

Three single shots of brandy – sipped on the sofa, one a night, in front of the telly.

All in all, this felt like quite a mild weekend, but writing it all down it does seem like rather a lot. I didn’t have a hangover at any stage, though, and I won’t drink now for the next two weeks (promise) as I am to have some minor surgery on the 10th (and want to be in top condition for the general anaesthetic, just in case it kills me if I’m not).

So that was me. A work in progress, if you like. One day I’ll stop drinking altogether. I don’t think I really need it anymore, as it gives me very little pleasure. The drugs don’t work, as the song goes.