Christmas

I missed the Christmas lights on Regent Street this year. And on Oxford Street. And the festively lit Burlington Arcade. I was around for the Christmas build-up, but on the 18th I traded in one Smoke for another. This holiday season I breathed in the smoke of a 3rd world*, Caribbean island. The mixture of fumes from unregulated second-hand cars, the burning of rubbish in abandoned fields, the aroma of the local Christmas delicacy: roasted pork. Available along the side of highways and side streets alike, entire pig carcasses, skewered on what must be tree branches, contribute to the unique bouquet of Christmas in the tropics.

It's warm. Sometimes hot. Despite frequent and copious applications of sunscreen, my nose is pink.

I swang in a hammock in the Caribbean breeze. I drank a Coco Loco and ate plantains and fried cheese. I swam in crystal clear blue water and walked on white sand. I found a big orange starfish and a little purple one. I exchanged gifts with extended family.

Now I'm looking foward to my return to the more familar smoke. See you tomorrow, gray London.

*I know it's not 'au current' to refer to 'developing countries' as 3rd World, but old habits die hard; and, sometimes, I like to be a bit contentious.

Christmas Blear

A poor financial year and a vote of the generally disgruntled drones culminates in this sad, scrooge-like state of affairs: the company Christmas party is cancelled.

Management puts it so:

Due to the disappointing 3rd quarter performance, immediate cost saving measures have been evaluated. Beginning immediately, all expense reimbursements will be re-evaluated. Any non-essential spends will be summarily rejected.

Additionally, the seasonal festivities offer The Company an immediate opportunity for immediate reigning in of unnecessary expenditure. Rather than invest unnececssarily in our typical lavish Christmas fete, management propose either to host a modest event (a glass of wine or beer in the canteen) or to gift each employee a modest Christmas bonus, which will be subject to 2005 tax. Because The Company values the input of our employees, we will put this important decision to a vote. Please complete the attached ballot and put it in the voting box in the canteen by COP Friday.


Despite the electoral results (the Employees opted for cold-hard cash in hand regardless of the post-tax measly sum), not all employees of The Company submit to corporate malaise. Somewhere amid the cubicles a cheerful heart still beats; this cheerful heart gets busy organising an unofficial Christmas bash. When management gets wind of the not-so-clandestine affair, they make sure to issue a statement.

The Company is encouraged that its family of employees has pulled together to sponsor a Christmas do. Please note, however, that said event is by no means sponsored or endorsed by The Company. The Company will therefore not be held liable for any misadventure that may result. Furthermore, the use of The Company time or assets (email included) in planning for the event or participation for said event is prohibited.

Wishing all employees a Happy Christmas, The Company.

The cheerful hearts that still beat under corporate servitude gather in the corner of a hastily booked, and thus overcrowded, venue. The wait for a beverage exceeds an acceptable allottment.

Consequently, the revellers order two drinks at time. Oblvious to alchohol content, I double-fist a pair of Stellas.

Consequently, over-inebriation is guaranteed

Consequently, I dance. I sing. I might, in the process, stumble and slur. Just a bit.

By the time my good sense steps in to take me home, the tube has shut for the night. From my cross-eyed perspective, the queue for taxis at Liverpool Street Station stretches for an impossible distance. It will be dawn before I get home.

A colleague in much the same shape as myself joins me in a search for western-headed transport. We walk from Liverpool Street Station to Bank. An all nightbus approaches. It is heading west. I flag it down. My colleague opts to wait for a more certain bus home. We part ways. The bus indeed heads west. But wait!

No! No! NOOOOOOO!

It turns onto Waterloo Bridge. The bastard is heading south, which causes me to dismount and begin the slog back over the bridge back to my original trajectory. The streets here are not full of Christmas cheer. It's quiet. Too quiet. The cold and quiet have sobered me up. I'm on the lookout for dubious types as well as buses or taxis or some means home.

I walk. I walk. My feet hurt. My bladder hurts. I need to pee. Too much beer in there. Along the embankment. No taxis. No buses. Hurting feet. An urgent need to wee.

Up Villiers to Charing Cross to Trafalgar Square, and I am once again safe, surrounded by others full 0f Christmas Cheer. I know of a bus that will take me home if I reach Picadilly; but, I really, really do need to wee.

I have no shame (which will become shame tomorrow on the retelling of these events). I find a dark corner south of Picadilly, east of St. James Square. I squat. I adopt a nonchalant pose of someone waiting. I drum my fingers on lips. If anyone spies me, they won't know what I'm doing.

Ahhhhhhhh.

A shake, and a wipe of the hands on a handy wipe which I happen to carry in my bag, and I´m good as new. I continue my stroll.

In Picadilly, I´m confronted by the smell of grilled onions. I haven´t eaten red meat in over 20 years, but the allure of the onions is too great. I´m drawn to the siren who is selling hot dogs outside the Virgin Mega Store. He smothers a hot dog with onions and mustard and ketchup. I take a bite. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

Shit! There´s the bus.

I look at my lovely hot dog. I look at the bus. I still have no shame. It will come. Hot dog in hand, I board the goddamn bus. Despite the hour (approaching 4am), the bus is packed. All those revellers heading home. Not one private corner where I can discreetly savour this exquisite treat.

Fuck it.

The guy I sit next to smirks.

Fuck it.

I savour each and every mustardketchuponionisitpork bite. It´s gone. It was delicious.

At home, I´m careful to make little noise as I fumble with keys and slam the door shut and trip over My Man´s briefcase, which is inconveniently where it always is. I fall into bed where the My Man tells me, ¨You smell of onion.¨

The Company is not liable.

The Arrival

And then it arrives.

An oversized envelope with an 84¢ stamp addressed to Ellie*.

Like so:

Ellie
My Address
London, Postal Code
United Kingdom

No surname. You see, when you're the blogger of a spouse who suffers from a heightened sense of privacy, you only share so much of yourself with the cyber community. And My Man is right: it's only smart to take precautions. From what you hear there are all sorts of hoodlums lurking about; paedophiles and the like (though truth be told, I'm far past my paedophilic sell-by-date.)

It takes a leap of faith, a jump in the ocean, to build trust with the (mostly) faceless loiterers of this thing called the Internet. It's one thing to blog, it's another to meet up with bloggers (in the real world? dare I?) and swap private correspondance! A dubious line to draw!

I learned something in 2006: When smartly and safely taken, a jump in the ocean can result in the most surprising of life's little joys**. Even the Mista and his streetsmart cynacism were struck dumb by the gesture: the arrival of a handmade Christmas card sent from across the waters from a woman who in the conventional sense is a stranger, but who in this odd new world is one of my oddly new, oddly ethereal friends.

Now, snuggled into the hallway mirror, next to a postcard of the pyramids and another of some central American beach, I have my very own (Ellie has her very own) 2007 Christmas card. Thanks Maritza!

*Truth be told, Ellie isn't even my name! Can you believe it!
**Why, even this very angry man has admitted surprise (of the good kind) to opening himself to the hugs of strange women who frequent the internet.

Letterbox

'Tis the season to expect great things from the letterbox; a seasonal variation from the norm, which generally constitutes spam of the old fashion kind: business cards from local mini-cab drivers; menus from competing cuisines (Indian, Italian and Chinese fare); water, electricity and gas bills; Inland Revenue's self-assessment forms; and the occasional postcard from Selfridges offering me an "exclusive" X% discount on Origin's products because years ago I signed up for a promotional free sample scheme*.

But, now, in December, the postman's load should jingle and jangle with Christmas tidings, tinsel and cheer and greetings commemorating the birth of the little baby Jesus who later is promoted to Our Saviour**. I should have cards to deck my halls with seasonal joy; Christmas cards from family and friends and acquaintances who take such things as Yuletide greetings as serious gestures of reaching out.

Where are they?

*Was it worth it? Free samples for ongoing postal clutter?
**Was it worth it? Crucifixion .... for what, exactly?

Belonging

I have one of those moments of ecstatic uncertainty when I don't know whether London belongs to me or I belong to London.

Turning down the alleyway called Little Turnstile (which runs parallel between New Turnstile and Great Turnstile), I slide into the single-file line of office workers recently released for the evening. Wherever our respective paths take us (a Christmas fete, the gym, a date with our spouse, a tryst with a lover, or just plain home) for the moment we are coordinated, heading in a northerly direction confined by building walls that are close enough to be touched with outstretched arms.

Out of the little alleyway we emerge, and our formation disintegrates. Some to the left, others to the right. I go straight ahead, continuing my northerly course. I am off to have a workout before supposedly revelling at the company Christmas party.

Neither pumping iron nor seasonal cheer inspires me. Paradoxically, I feel in a funk (directionless, lonely, a not-unmanageable shade of blue) yet my insides feel as if they are going to joyfully explode all over the Smoke, explode all over the city that I am privileged to call home.

I don't know what it is about this very moment, but as I put foot to pavement I feel it:

I own this city!

Followed by:

Oh. Wait. Is it possible this city owns me?

Living Among The Famous

I might have misled when I exuberantly intimated that -- by virtue of my neighbourhood -- I rub elbows with the likes of Right Said Fred.

The absolute truth is: I only rub elbows with 1/2 of Right Said Fred. If you must be a stickler about such things, it might be that I don't actually "rub elbows with", but occasionally spot a fraction of Right Said Fred from varying distances; the distances of which depend upon my luck at the given moment.

The fraction of Right Said Fred that I spot is either 1/3 or 1/2 depending upon your point of view. You see, Right Said Fred is not 1 man. Right Said Fred is the misinforming name of a musical group that may or may not be made up of three men. Fred isn't even the name of the 'front man' of the group. It's Richard; Richard's brother is Fred. There seems to be a mysterious third (Bob) who has occasioned the group here and there. I didn't know any of this in the early 1990's (?) when the radio waves disseminated an arrogant message from a man whom I thought was called Fred and who considered himself to be too sexy for just about everything including his shirt, his cat, and his street, which just so happens to be my street also!

I only began researching Right Said Fred when proximity peaked my interest.

Hallelujah Internet! What a most friendly research tool!

The Internet informed me that the fraction of Right Said Fred with whom I "rub elbows"is the Front Man, Richard. Something the Internet might not disclose, but that I can state with a certain authority: Richard of Right Said Fred truly is too sexy for his street.

Time

tick tock tick tock tick tock

The seconds, the minutes -- they were tick-tocking away while I stood waiting for my coffee.* A man from the North** entertained himself by thinking he was entertaining the queue of coffee drinkers.

"Have you heard the one about the man who put instant coffee in the microwave?"

He (the man from the North; not the man in the joke) didn't let the silence deter him.

"He went back in time."

I didn't get it immediately.

When I did, I didn't laugh. It's a stupid joke. But, if only clawing back time were so easy. A cup of Nescafe in the microwave, and you'd have all the time in the world.

My trouble with time is much like my trouble with space: I don't have enough.

Time is a bitch, and much more difficult to tame than space.

There are only 24 hours in a day. 24 hours to shape and mold to suit my needs.

Between what I have to do and what I want to do, it's just not enough.

Sleep: 8 hours
Work: 8 hours (minimum)
Commuting: 2 hours (average)
Gym: 2 hours (includes getting there and getting back and cleaning up)
Eating: 1 hour (if I skip meals and/or stuff my face in a most unseemly fashion)

That leaves 3 hours for My Man (he is a time-consuming hobby); blogging, the reading and writing of (it is another time-consuming hobby!); television; 'normal' reading (as in books and newspapers); writing letters; reading Spanish outloud to practice my accent; PS2 (soon PS3). Have I forgotten to mention Su Dorku? And the time I spend tolerating my friends' imposition on my time?

You will note that I haven't even got kids in my list of hobbies. Imagine the state of my whinging if that weren't the case!

I suppose I must put some actual thought into Time Management if I'm to pull myself out of this funk. If you see more frequent posting, it's a likely sign that I've figured it out. Or that everything else in my life has gone horribly wrong.

*Extra credit if you can guess my order.
** Manchester, to be exact. I'm not that good with accents. He was friendly.

Space

Here is a popular stereotype:
men and women argue about money ("I want more!" "You always want more!") and sex ("I want more!" "You always want more!").

Not me and My Man. We fight about space.

"I want more!"

"You always want more!"

That's the trouble with space. I said it before; I'll say it again: I don't have enough.

I reckon I'm not alone. Big cities the world over are filled with people like me looking for that extra nook or cranny in which to smoosh, squash or otherwise make fit some worldly possession that is simply too precious to be got rid of. People the world over with different accents and different perspectives of what actually constitutes 'enough' are scratching their heads and asking, "Where am I going to put this?"

My Man harbours the misguided notion that I have too much stuff.

Bastard.

My Man has also inherited a nasty neat gene that predisposes him to value clean, streamlined space as opposed to clutter.

Bastard.

And to top it off, he's an ascetic bastard. I think he has a pair of jeans. And a couple of shirts.

Our contrarian approaches to stuff made for some interesting negotiations when we recently decided to re-outfit our flat. We bought a measuring tape. We visited (too) many furniture shops. We talked and talked about what should go, what could stay, what we'd buy and how much we'd spend. We talked and talked. Sometimes with raised voices. Then we laid down some plastic, called in a couple of handymen (one of whom was not so handy), and hid in the bedroom until the intimidating sounds of furniture* assemblage became the sounds of a handyman looking for payment.

Results and conclusions:

1. Flat screen TVs might look pretty with their fancy schmancy High Definition enabled whatever it is; but, more importantly, flat screen TVs are massive space savers! This was actually my idea to which My Man warmed relatively easily.

2. People in London take just about any old crap you leave in front of your door. We made a game of it and spied through the curtains to see who would take what. Some of that stuff literally just disappeared.

What if Right Said Fred took any of our stuff. That would be cool!

3. Scandanavians* have an uncanny knack with space.

4. I think, when I really think about it, I just might have enough space afterall. (Especially since My Man has gifted me a portion of his closet.)

Whoops! Did I call him a bastard?

The Swedes have IKEA. The Danes, BoConcept.

Space-Time Continuum

I have a picture of the space-time continuum that I was going to post as a preface to pending posts about space and time. More specifically about MY space and My time. As you may (or may not) see, there is no photo here. Not of the space-time continuum. Not of nothing. Just a little white box with a red x where a photo might have been.

Space and time are just two things to complain about. Another is Blogger (the application; not this particular blogger).

First, Blogger gave me some back-talk when I tried (and failed) to align text and photos in my last post.

It snubbed its nose at me as it taunted, "Ha ha. You can't do it. You can't do it. You can't do what you want to do. Ha ha."

I fantasized about reaching out, grabbing Blogger by the neck, and shaking it silly a la Homer Simpson.

Now Blogger censors my snapshot of the space-time continuum. I understand that the space-time continuum is heady stuff and possibly not fit for a family-friendly Internet site. But, censorship! Who would have thought?

Maybe it's not Blogger's fault. Maybe I too easily cast blame Blogger's way.

Maybe the CIA intervened. Or Putin. Or Stephen Hawking.

I'm sure I can rule out this guy who wouldn't be caught dead dedicating long and hard thoughts to space, time, or what it all means.

My original intention - prior to discovering the futility of uploading a photo of the space-time continuum - was to ask a question, this question:

Does anyone know how to use the space-time continuum in order to get more? More space, more time?