Come friendly bombs and fall on . . . Doncaster?

On Friday, we picked up a car at Norwich Airport and headed across the country to Doncaster. This involved traversing the flatlands of North-West Norfolk and Lincolnshire, grim places that advertise the death tolls on local roads with a sense of pride. I'd make some jokes about incest and in-breeding, but my experience in schools in this area made me realize they weren't particularly funny. For reasons that I can't begin to fathom, houses in the Swaffham/King's Lynn region can fetch huge sums -- upwards of 500,000 English pounds! How? Why? More importantly, who? Lincolnshire, it turns out, smells of cabbages; the stretch between Sleaford and Newark is desolate, and I can now see why a friend who came from there departed for the Far East (that's Vietnam, not Lowestoft) a tout vitesse, swearing never to return.

Apparently, last week was sun awareness week; women are more likely to develop melanomas on the back of their legs, presumably because of the difficulty of applying sun-tan lotion there. Doncaster highlighted why many women should be persuaded to wear trousers and skirts at all times of year -- not just to prevent skin cancer, but also to avoid dazzling me -- and not in a good way -- with their white legs. The women of this town fall into two categories: depressingly overweight and wearing skimpy skin-tight clothing, and scarily thin and wearing skimpy skin-tight clothing. There were very few who looked, well, normal. This is hardly surprising when you notice the advertisements for something called "pole fitness" around town.



My brother's comment about the increasing similarity of the wealthy across countries and the disparity between rich and poor within countries made perfect sense here: a community based on coal, decimated by the closure of the mines, a local economy now based on pubs and call centres, and some of the most appalling new buildings ever seen. It's depressing.

In contrast, Barnsley looked great! And I never thought I'd say that.

Norfolk, my Norfolk

The limited blogging of the past few days was the result of a trip to the UK. Irritatingly, we only had a broadband connection for an hour during our five-day stay. Despite near-constant badgering from two of his children, my father has yet to upgrade his dial-up connection, and the locals with unsecured Wi-Fi are starting to wise up to our piggy-backing. PJ's mother doesn't even have dial-up, resulting in a desperate charge to the Cafe Nero in Doncaster, which was hardly conducive to writing entertaining posts. Even worse was that I couldn't access my "stories"; I had to learn about the birth of the Brangelina Baby from (gasp!) a newspaper! I felt so isolated, so alone, compelled to buy three mags during our 90-minute delay at Doncaster Airport yesterday morning and gorge on the gossip. After reading Star and Closer, I felt, once again, soiled and ashamed. Do you think there's a self-help group for celebrity gossip addicts? If not, should I set one up?

Despite suffering from Net withdrawal, the trip was a good one. Thursday saw us leave the rainclouds of Norwich behind in a jaunt up to the sun-drenched North Norfolk coast. We enjoyed lovely fresh seafood at Cookies, lush azaleas and rhodendrons at Sheringham Park, and then the quaint shops of Holt. Bootiful, as Bernard Matthews, turkey strangler and Norfolk boy, used to say.









Still to come: Driving across Lincolnshire.

You know what doesn't suck, though?

My new shoes! YAY!!! United Nude didn't bother answering my email, but just popped another pair of shoes in the post -- and they were waiting for me when I got in off my (delayed) flight from sunny Doncaster.

I look like Minnie Mouse on acid.

This is not the lounge service I was looking for

Flying pleb sucks.

Another sign of aging?

I actually rather like the "hold" music that's playing at the moment before my telephone meeting starts. Very mellow, good rhythm, catchy melody -- I'd buy this from iTunes. I wonder what the conferencing provider would say if I phoned up and asked for more details?

Liver failure

No, not that type. Rather, my liver failed to cope particularly well with the one teeny-tiny vodka and orange I had with dinner last night. This might have something to do with the fact that I went to the restaurant straight from the gym, so knocked back my drink rather swiftly (along with demolishing the plate of bread and hummous that came with it; don't go to restaurants hungry). But when I lived in Spain, my liver was great -- it could cope with 5 large Southern Comforts and lemonade or batida de cocos of an evening, with only a handful of pinchos to line my stomach. My return to Northern Europe and more expensive drinks has severely limited my ability to knock back the cocktails and suffer few (short-term, at least) ill effects.

Or maybe I'm just getting old.

No show shoes

Still no message from united nude about my shoes. Sniff. I realize that the shoemaker's elves are probably busy crafting me a new pair right now, but you think they'd outsource their email answering service to elves in Bangalore and get me a swift response.

24x7 economy

I sent United Nude a begging email last night -- I really want those shoes -- and wasn't really expecting that they'd have responded by the time I got up this morning. And they hadn't. But I couldn't stop myself from checking.

Patience clearly isn't one of my (many) virtues.

Oats: good for the heart, bad for the tongue

If you suddenly decide to make cranberry and chocolate chip flapjacks one evening, DON'T lick the pan out afterwards: It's hot.

Infamy! Infamy!

They've all got it in for me. Shoe shops, that is. I've been trying to order a pair of shoes, at ever-increasing prices, for the past month with little success.

It all started, as these things so often do, with a post on Shoewawa -- highlighting the sale of gorgeous pairs of United Nude Eva Eamz shoes. Designed by Dutch architect Rem Koolhaus, these are a masterpiece of design -- round-toed shoes with a detached metal heel. Beautiful. I headed over to Noflysonus.com as fast as my little fingers could carry me, ordered one of the few remaining pairs in jade in a size 4, and waited for them to turn up. 10 days later, I'm still waiting. I phone the store, only to be told that they didn't have any left in stock and I should have received an email to tell me.

Sigh.

So, off to the United Nude site. Success! Size 4, this time in ruby red. Looks a bit bright and is twice the price of the pair on sale at Noflysonus but by this time I'm completely in love with and MUST HAVE these shoes. Credit card number goes in, the shoes are delivered, and PJ picks them up from the London office today and takes them out of the box to show the lovely ladies on reception. Bollox! There's a bloody great mark on the heel of one of them! It looks as if they've had a price label on and someone's tried to remove the glue, but has instead removed most of the velour (another bonus, no animal matter used to make the shoes). Back in the box they go, off to the supplier.

Sigh again.

I have this feeling that I am destined never to get these shoes. The manufacturers will tell me tomorrow that that was the last pair they had in a size 4, and that they're never making them again. There will be much crying and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

But seriously. They are BEAUTIFUL shoes.

Next thing you know, it's Russian paratroopers in Trafalgar Square

Another work trip (for PJ), another haul of free magazines from BMI's business class lounge. Let's see what we have: In Style (clothes porn), Smart life international (gadget porn), and Vanity Fair (Anderson Cooper porn?). Ah! Tatler! One of the most revolting magazines published -- class porn!

If you believe that nearly 10 years of a Labour government has undermined the class system in the UK or if you simply want to understand the (otherwise fairly low-key) ruling classes, just read Tatler. This is the upper class's in-house magazine, a record of their birthday parties, weddings, charity events, and most distinguished members. Old Etonian toffs who think rapping is something of a lark? Food and motoring columns by the Parker Bowles offspring? Models with titles? It's got them all. The sense of self-confidence and utter entitlement radiates off the page. You can tell that these people never worry about getting good grades at school or being able to afford somewhere to live -- they're destined to get jobs via friends of mummy and daddy or live of their trust friends in their (inherited, natch) flats in South Ken.

But boy, do they hate it when they're threatened. When I was at university (one of their traditional stamping grounds), I helped run a scheme to attract more state school pupils that garned some media attention. The reaction was startling and predictable. One newspaper columnist declared that it was rewarding the children of feckless spendthrifts who would rather go on holiday than spend money on privately educating their children. The president of my college told me he'd received worried phone calls from the headmasters of various private schools, anxious that they were being discriminated against. Never mind that it didn't occur to them that state school teachers don't have a hotline to Oxbridge tutors. Bugger meritocracy -- what if one of their little darlings didn't get the place that their birthright entailed!

I read Tatler to remind me of why I'm still a leftie and to help formulate my list of who'll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes.

You know you're getting older

. . . when your new physiotherapist looks like he should still be in school.

On the other hand, teasing your brother about turning 40 this year makes you feel a whole lot younger!

Prudish and proud

As I entered the ladies' changing room at the gym after exercising this evening, I was "greeted" with the sight of a naked lady vigorously towelling herself dry with one leg propped up on the bench. While the Dutch attitude to semi-public nudity is probably laudable and healthy, I really don't want to be able to work out someone's gynaecological history at a glance. What's wrong with a little bit of repressed discretion?

Maggie Maggie Maggie! Out Out Out!!!

Following several months of books focusing on the Holocaust, Islam, and various forms of oppression, we opted for a somewhat lighter read: The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst. Sex, drugs, and Tories in Thatcher's Britain! The stately homos of England! Vile social-climbing Oxford graduates, desperate to escape their dreary provincial, middle-class roots! That's more like it! 500 pages of often rambling prose slipped down easily in a little over a week, reminding me of how much I loathed the 1980s and relighting my sense of righteous lefty political ire -- something that's disappeared over the past five years. It brought back memories of joining Youth CND in the wake of the Falklands War, protesting at cuts in education funding, and wearing badges that read "The Tories are the cream of society: rich, thick, and full of clots".

Amusingly, the book was recommended to me by one of the very few Conservatives that I actually know socially, and I'm stunned that he enjoyed it. To me, the book highlights the awful hypocrisy and snobbery of dyed-in-the-wool, semi-aristocratic Conservatives -- the traditional ruling class. Their racism, their avarice, their disdain for new money all get a good outing. One of the funniest moments is when Tory MP Gerald, having scored the coup of having Mrs T herself attend a party at his house, starts panicking about the fact that he has a green front door -- "Maybe she'll think we support the Alliance!" -- and rapidly has it repainted a more loyal deep blue. Mrs T, of course, walks right past; like the Queen, she doesn't notice these things. And if my friend identified with the lead character, well, Nick is a pure parasite, always trying to say and do the right thing to ingratiate himself with the people he's sponging off. It's rare that a book is still enjoyable even when the central character -- I'm loathe to call him the hero -- is utterly vile, but Alan Hollinghurst pulls it off.

Fortuitously for some of the slacker members of our book club, the BBC has chosen to dramatize the novel this month, drawing on the talents of Andrew Davies, who provided us with the lovely Colin Firth diving into ponds in Pride & Prejudice. Al fresco and rather graphic sex on Hampstead Heath is not quite as appealing, and the series fails to capture the sheer awfulness of many of the characters, preferring to rely on a Hits of the 80s soundtrack to establish atmosphere. So much of the book is Nick's observations of the people around him and his unconscious social climbing, which was clearly going to be extremely difficult to translate to the screen. But the boys are nice-looking, the houses attractively grand, and the stone-washed jeans and lacy tights memorably horrid so I'll probably keep watching. But if you haven't read the book, don't judge it by this series. Buy it, read it, and give thanks that Thatcher is just a dim memory rather than a revered statesman.

It never rains

As predicted, the weather has turned. It's still dry, but there's a nip in the air in the mornings that masks an unpleasant humidity. Cycling to work leaves you hot and sticky, yet strangly chilled. Nice. Over the weekend, the heavy breezes brought down most of the blossom from the trees and piled it up in deep drifts by the sides of the street. The canals were also carpeted in a thick layer, leaving houseboats looking as if they were marooned in a cornfield rather than floating on the water.



I guess I should be grateful that it hasn't rained for several weeks, but unsurprisingly, I'm not. The dryness, light winds, and blossom are all combining to make the daily commute something of a pain -- literally and figuratively. The dust kicks up into my eyes, leaving them red and streaming. Maybe this is why the Dutchies cycle so badly -- they're blinded by the tears pouring down their faces, rendering them incapable of seeing other bikes, cars, dogs, and small children. Typically, my eyes start playing up midway between work and home, with no way of stopping to remove my contact lenses and free the dirt trapped under them. I know I should start carrying my glasses with me, along with a spare lens case, but on top of my ever-present rain pants and jacket (just in case)? Too much. I'll just press on, resembling a test beagle in a cigarette factory.

No animals were harmed in the making of this dish

Such is the tedium of my daily life that I need to set myself little challenges to stay awake. It might be cycling to work via a different route, trying a new exercise machine at the gym, or cooking a dish for the first time. One of the more exciting culinary tasks I had was to cook a dinner party for fussy guests, including 2 vegetarians, a vegan, and someone who couldn't eat fat. At all. No oil, no nuts, nothing. The resulting sense of achievement was magnificent.

While PJ's been away, I've been trying to avoid eating fish and assorted animal products like cheese. The result? Lots of hummous and veggies and last night's excellent noodle/cabbage salad with spicy peanut dressing and orange-ginger marinated tofu. I took pictures to post here, but unfortunately I'm not sufficiently skilled with the camera to make peanut sauce on noodles look like anything other than an unfortunate accident after too many beers. So you'll just have to trust me when I tell you that it was delicious. The peanut dressing was chock full of coriander, a herb I'm unable to use when PJ's at home (he's one of those poor unfortunates who believes that it tastes like soap), the cabbage was crunchy, while the tofu was contrastingly soft but flavorsome. One to add to the list of favorites.

Damn, blow, blast, and bloody hell

Liverpool won the FA Cup -- and after a truly stunning third goal from West Ham, which should clearly have been the match winner. Penalties are such a horrendous way to settle a match; I can understand why the Dutch revile them, refuse to practise, and therefore always lose on them.

I should explain that I'm no great fan of West Ham, but I do hate Liverpool. You see, I can't forgive them for Heysel and the resultant banning of English clubs from European competition. That was the year Norwich won the Milk Cup, the year we should have been a contender in Europe -- our dreams crumbling along with the wall between the Liverpool and Juventus fans. It would be another 8 years before the Canaries were able to display their (occasionally) dazzling talents to a stunned Bayern Munich.

Old scars run deep.

Silence is golden

The dripping appears to be over. I am nothing if not paranoid though, so will keep a tub back under the whole mess of pipes and taps and valves, just in case. The good news is that I've also arranged for us to have a new bathroom radiator fitted and get our tumbledown radiators in the front room put on little legs, so that they don't fall off taking a great part of the front wall with them. So maybe the leak was a good thing, after all.

Actually, don't quote me on that. At least until Monday or Tuesday.

Beautiful flowers

 

Thank you. 

Water water everywhere

I'd never realized how effective Chinese water torture could be. But the incessant dripping drove me to distraction last night; even though I slept in a room some distance from the source of the noise, I woke twice -- my subconcious working overtime to make me get up and empty the bag sitting under the leak.* This morning, I got up early to clean the kitchen and utility room; apparently, it's important (to me) that my house be tidy before a plumber comes along.

And come along he did -- early! Surely this violates the plumbers and builders code of conduct regarding punctuality? He's gone off now to pick up some parts to replace the leaking hose, we will then turn the water off in the building, and I can (hopefully) then get a good night's sleep tonight.

Just as well I was up early, as I had an 8 a.m. visit from my downstairs neighbour, complaining of "incredible damage" to his apartment. I'm guessing he means there's a mark on the ceiling that needs a coat of paint, but maybe he'll get a new kitchen out of this from his insurance company. This is the man who came up to welcome us to our new home five years ago and promptly asked if we were planning to replace the carpet with floorboards. And who wanted to have the ability to vet potential purchasers of the apartments so that there were no parents, no pet owners, no "foreigners" (well, white ones are okay). And who declared that people in apartments shouldn't have washing machines and that HE took all his washing to the cleaners. A somewhat "excitable" man, then, and one that I hope won't keep bugging me about this for too long.

*Parents: total respect for you getting up to feed kids during the night. No wonder you always look so tired.