TrippingOwl's Used Soul Emporium

Apropos of an earlier post on Lionel Shriver's writing, her opinion of the recently released film adaptation of her book We Need To Talk About Kevin can be found here.  I had to put this here because it seems that Shriver can't even write an article about her own wildly successful film without turning it into a parallel nightmare universe fantasy.

One of my favourite pubs in London is The Phoenix in Cavendish Square.   Most of you will get why that's very appropriate.  I don't go there that often, just because time is limited and there are lots of places to go in London.  Well, it's happened several times now (four, by my count) that I've coincidentally wandered into a comedy night there without really knowing that it was on.  Mondays are apparently "Old Rope" nights, where comedians new and old go to try out their new material.  Today there were brief performances by Shappi Khorsandi, Rich Hall, Robin Ince, Stephen Merchant, and Rufus Hound (and a few others, but these were the highlights... I feel a bit bad for relegating the others, but they were a bit dire).  The first two were people I've liked for a long time, but never seen live.  My socks were chuffed right off.

And for some reason I can't get it out of my head that my mother would really have liked Rich Hall.  It's an odd feeling that I can't quite shake; he's just so on the money for her type of humour, so every time I see him I think of her...

Also I kept making up stand-up routines in my head when the others were bad.  I think when the audience was getting really bored, they probably would have enjoyed the story of iguana girl.

I sat down on a Victoria line train today.  For a while I just sat there, minding my own business, listening to music, planning dinner.  Then I noticed the shirt of a guy sitting opposite me.

IF IN DOUBT, PULL IT OUT.

I couldn't help myself.  I started to grin uncontrollably.  Then he noticed that I'd noticed, and he gave a wide, slightly sheepish grin.  Because I was so openly amused by the sheer rudeness of the t-shirt, he even got a little bit embarrassed, and put his arms up to cover the shirt.  Halfway through the movement he realised what a futile gesture it was and stopped.  I had to avert my gaze after that because I couldn't stop giggling - not just at the shirt anymore, but at his reaction and the whole scenario, in fact.

As much as this guy and his t-shirt amused me, the best thing for me is that now he's probably gone home and said, "There was this girl on the tube..."

Ok, so you're at a big meeting.  There are large bottles of mineral water on the table.  Good so far.  But APPLES?  Has anyone EVER eaten an apple at a corporate meeting?  "The projected figures for the scarf-wrangling department for the next quarter-" CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH

Not that I've been in a large corporate meeting recently.  But it looks like it might seem like a good idea at the time to take one of those juicy delicious apples, and then the moment you bite into it, you realise what a devastating mistake you've made.  But there's no alternative; you can't throw it away.  There's nowhere to put it.  You can't just hold it.  There is simply nothing for it but to finish it in the most cringeworthy three to ten minutes of your life. (Depending on eating habits, mouth size, fruit size and density.)

The only possible reason I can think of is dramatic effect: your rival is sitting across from you, presenting his most important and impressive report for the year, and you start to slowly and malevolently eat an apple.  Ah, the cut-throat corporate world's latest weapon.

Apples are the loudest fruit.  Why have them in a meeting room? 

After riding in Dorking, my life this week continued to present me with activities that would imply to the casual observer that I was living in a million pound mansion on The Bishop's Avenue rather than in a three bed ex-council house in a slightly less nice but still rather cheerful, comfortably middle-class area in north London.  One of my friends invited me to have a drink with him at The Savile Club, which is an exclusive one-time gentlemen's club near Bond Street.  I say one-time because of course the equality laws no longer allow them to be gentlemen's clubs. 

Small irrelevant sideline: apparently The Savile Club never actually made it explicit that it was gentlemen-only; it was simply understood.  Since each new member have to be vouched for by several existing members, the tradition of gents-only has been sustained even past the equality laws.  It's not that women aren't allowed; it just hasn't been done yet.  (In theory.  The cynically-minded of you may disagree.)   We found a lot of amusement-value in the thought of my becoming the first female member of the Savile.  For that I would have to have a few people who would vouch for me, for it to pass the committee, and I'd have to have a spare £1000 kicking around for the privilege of pretending to be rich...

Of course, things being what they are, while it's most assuredly not worth £1000 to me, it is very nice in there.  Apparently the interiors are restored rather than originals, but they are of the classic dark wood and leather, distinctly masculine style one would certainly associate with a gentlemen's club.  It's an aesthetic I happen to like very much, a lot more than the lighter rooms in pastels, designed for parties of women to inhabit while the menfolk adjourn to the smoking room for brandy. (Unsurprisingly, far less effort has been put into making the "women's" rooms nice.)  The bar contains a large number of leather-upholstered chairs, an open fire, a decent collection of whiskies and other drinks, and on the mantelpiece there stands the Wager Book, filled with bets - usually around £5-10 - on anything from the cricket results and drinking games to the outcome of the presidential elections.  ("The wager: if Barack Obama becomes the next democratic candidate in the presidential election, he will be successful.")

This is one place where Old England still survives.  I wasn't sure it really had; there are perhaps a few remnants of it left in the British pub, or on the golf course, or in certain parts of London (the East End, for instance, under threat of gentrification but still somewhat present).  I am endlessly fascinated by it, this pillar of British wealth.  And it struck me how powerful an aid it could be to the conduction of business.  By virtue of belonging to the same club, you make contacts for a lifetime - so different to the relentless uphill struggle of modern day advertising.  A good word here and there, and imagine the possibilities!  (This is an oversimplification.  There must be a host of social conventions that make that world almost as difficult to navigate as the world outside.  At The Savile, for example, one must never talk about business, or what one does for work.)

I must be an odd little chameleon.  I can fit into that world by virtue of my accent and education, but I will always have  an unconventional approach to things (though recent events have taught me that you NEVER KNOW what lies beneath the posh exterior).  This may be innate, but I rather suspect that it has something to do with the dual influences of my Hungarian upbringing and a British private school education.  Through my education and choice of subjects (Classics has always been well-respected especially in those circles), I can hold my own at places like this.  But my parents' way of forming relationships, the intimacy enjoyed by the Hungarians: it adds a layer foreign and curiously attractive to the English.  Having spent some formative relationship years (17-23) with A means that an added layer of ability to communicate was evolved at a very important time.  Thus something unexpected formed: someone the English can relate to, have some common ground with, but who brings an alien warmth and openness to the table, who talks about things the English don't talk about.

(I realise that this may be a contentious topic, and as such extremely subjective.  Do weigh in!)

But what a strange place!  It really is another world in there, at once insular and expanded.  You can be sure that everyone has received a public school education.  Thus all manner of conversational topics are possible, but is something missing?  Something more abstract and indefinable, an intimacy and human connection not found in the halls, by the warm hearths, rich dinners, quiet reading rooms.  That world is very comfortable, but does it feed the soul; does it challenge?

Tomorrow I'll be going horse riding for the first time in years.  I've never fallen from a horse before, but if I ever do, it's much more likely to be on a day when there is a camera in the vicinity.  Ah yes.

But you know, I forget sometimes how wonderful it is to get out of town.  I do get out sometimes when I go to Budapest, but it's not quite the same as good old English countryside, with old pubs, open fires, and small farms. 

egadfly  and I went to a tiny place called Thaxted a few years ago, a small town north of London, which served no other purpose than to Not Be London.  It did remarkably well and though there wasn't anything especially interesting or captivating to look at, it really wasn't the point.  We went at a fairly unseasonable time of year - late February/early March if I remember - and we were content with the tiny churchyard, cemetary, and ye olde English pubbe as our main sources of entertainment, and for the evening, an old scratchy VHS of Wuthering Heights.  The difference in setting and lack of intravenous internet was enough to regenerate us.

So.  Roll on Dorking.

I have to stop WABbing.

Majestic sells Thelema wine, but only by the case of 6 or 12. (12 online, 6 in store.)

If I get enough takers, I will buy a case, probably in store as there is only one type online (unless someone can give me a glowing recommendation of the Mountain Red 2007 Elgin). They usually cost between £10-13 per bottle. Is anyone keen?

Also, does anyone have any tips on which ones are the best?

Why is it that professional florists make such ugly bouquets?  Or am I the only person who thinks this?

I love flowers.  I love getting flowers.  I'm a girl with fairly progressive views, but I'm not above getting excited over receiving some overpriced foliage.  Apart from just liking flowers in general, there are certain elements of old-world charm that I still find, well, charming.

Just to turn that on its head, I also love giving flowers to boys.  Especially just because, not for any special occasion.

Every time I even consider sending flowers to someone - for a birthday, or just for the hell of it - I make the mistake of thinking of a professional florist.  Then I look at the websites.  It almost puts me off flowers altogether; the arrangements just leave me completely cold. It's not just that they will always look sickeningly identical to the picture, but the arrangement itself is hideously impersonal.  Cookie cutter bouquets.  If I were receiving flowers, I'd much rather have a simple bunch of tulips wrapped in brown paper.  Maybe in thin tissue paper in a matching colour, but really, there's a certain charm to brown paper wrapping.

Instead we get cellophane, and this horrid squat thing they call a bouquet.  I appreciate that a measure of skill must go into the symmetry of a professional bouquet of flowers, and yes, there must be some composition at work...  The awful thing is that these bouquets come at a premium. We're looking at the very least £25, probably more like £30-40, whereas tulips are about £4 for 10.  A nice bunch of flowers, when you put it together yourself with the florist on the corner, can cost around £20, and can be as cheap as £8 if you're clever and good with colours.

So what does one do instead?  The only thing I can think of is to scope out the little local florists and ask them to do what I want, and offer to pay them if they deliver.

Sodding Interflora.

Boys, what do you think of getting flowers from girls?  Girls, do you still like the odd bunch of daisies, or does it seem a hopeless symbol of past rituals?

This is going to be a very list-oriented post, which is not surprising since my life for the last few weeks has consisted of to-do lists.

I do apologise everyone who might have suffered as a result of the hectic moving schedule.  I know I would like to have seen more of you all over the last month of being in London, but between work, travelling between north London, Barking, and Isleworth a lot, anything other than taking it a day at a time has been impossible.  So, here I am.  This weekend, I shall have moved into a place in north London with foamyshowbiz  and Ed.  By Monday, we will even have a fridge.  And a washer-dryer.

The boring details:

We were EXTREMELY LUCKY.  I was getting quite stressed out by the third week when nothing was materialising.

The elements against which we were pitted:

1. We picked exactly the wrong time to make this move.  We really ought to have been looking in July, before all the students moved in. As it was, we caught the market on the downslide, and not only does this mean that it's very competitive to try and find a place, it's very hard to negotiate with both landlords and agents (who, by the way, can be so very high-handed).

2. None of us has enough of a renting history in this country to be deemed trustworthy.

3. None of us are employed or have the possibility of a UK based guarantor.

4. Agent fees are exorbitant.

The two factors which saved our collective ass:

1. A stellar agent with whom we've rented before.  The fact of our renting in the past meant that they were prepared to make SIGNIFICANT concessions re: guarantors, references, credit checks - in other words, we needed practically nothing, just reasonably convince the agent that we could come up with the money.   These same agents phoned me before putting the property on the market because the previous candidates hadn't come up with the correct references.  They also took very little admin fee - greatly reduced, and far less than charged by all the others out there.  Just for a laugh, ask Foxtons what they charge.  (Over £300, plus they charge for a whole lot of other shit you don't need.)

2. Our awesome family (i.e. dad and grandmother) who were prepared to help us out with the deposit and first month's rent in advance.

Of course, I'm dead now.  In a partly deliberate endeavour to test my reserves, I actually deliberately planned a bunch of stuff in the last couple of weeks.

Things I've done in the last week and a half:
Went to Slimelight (again).
Went to afterparty (again).
Saw a friend's short film at a small social gathering last week.
Several days of work at the spa.
Had three dates in the space of four days, and was taken on a motorcycle for the first (few) time(s) ever.  Now I want one myself.
Spent 2 nights with Francesca in Barons Court (I keep wanting to type an apostrophe in there!)  There are pictures with lightsabres and masks.  Francesca is one of those people with whom anything and everything can and will happen.  It's great fun.
Travelled between Barons Court, Barking, Finchley Central, Isleworth,  to sign papers, collect keys, collect random stuff from disparate places and move it ALL OVER LONDON.
Found 2-3 clients for my private practice
Visited the war memorial in Windsor, also a tiny old-fashioned tea room with a very noisy freezer, and a pub, with an unexpected overnight stay.  Windsor is beautiful.
Where possible, catch snippets of time with a gentleman friend - usually a couple of hours in a coffee shop sandwiched between his busy schedule and my bizarre ferrying about.  Between us we have half a social life.
Wrote an 8000 word article about visiting Budapest on the cheap.

I'm sure I've missed a few things.

There may not have been much sleep this week (probably averaging about 4 hours per night).  Hopefully see you all later tonight, where I may be required to be tranquillised.

*** edit *** I've realised that I keep skipping a day. Of course I meant tomorrow, when we all gather in the centrum for sebrelations.