Recent events

Usually when I come to the States, I’m good for a post or two ranting about the horrors of Fox News encountered at the gym, or the pleasure of coffee shop/restaurant /shop employees who appear, at least, to be genuinely friendly…this time, however, I’ve arrived home to a tragedy. You know what I’m talking about – the shootings in Connecticut. I haven’t said anything about them online yet. Not because I am not terribly upset by them – I am, more so than any previous shootings. I’m not especially proud of this , but my thinking about the land of my birth tends to follow Dan Savage’s island map from the 2004 Bush re-election, which pictures the coasts and certain blue “islands” (like Chicago) adrift on a sea of Republican red. While I’ve ached for the victims and families of shootings in the south or Midwest, it’s a different, less personal empathy. It’s crazy down/out there, I think.  What do you expect in a land (to my mind) filled with Guns ‘n’ Jesus bumper stickers and (seemingly) mandatory NRA/Republican Party membership (from birth). (And before someone objects, yes, I know I’m generalizing – that’s the point.) It’s not going to happen here, in the north-east, I think. Except now it has, in a state I’ve vacationed in and travelled through many times. My dad had clients in New Haven, which my twelve year-old self enjoyed mocking for its preppiness. My aunt used to have a store in Greenwich. There are photos of me and my cousins, as children, the same ages as the victims, in the Berkshires, one foot in Connecticut, the other in Massachusetts. Too close for comfort.

At the same time, comment is entirely too easy. I can’t change my profile photo, or put some sentiment up on Facebook. I don’t question the sincerity or motivations of those who do, but my attempts to follow suit feel inauthentic. Reactions to such moments are personal. Having sustained my own share of loss, I know I wouldn’t have wanted it filtered through Facebook, which seems (to me, anyway), a better place for political debate. To that end, I am vociferously liking friends’ posts calling for action on gun control. This is the best memorial we can give these children, and what we should have given to earlier victims of earlier shootings.

Seen from a distance of 3,000+ miles, many American policies look crazy. The lack of a national insurance program, for one. Gun control, for another. I am aware that these policies (or lack thereof) are generally defended with an argument for freedom – you have the freedom, in the United States, to bear arms. You have the freedom to not have health insurance. Except that’s not freedom at all. I am currently resident in a country (which, it must be acknowledged, is also capable of driving me to drink) where it’s much harder to own guns and where everyone has access to health care. These two facts manifest practically in my life as freedoms. The freedom to get on a bus, go to a concert or a busy shopping area and not worry that someone may be carrying a gun. The freedom to pursue a freelance career, safe in the knowledge that a broken bone, or random attack of appendicitis won’t leave me facing eviction. These freedoms are not insignificant.

The United States constitution is allegedly the fruit of Enlightenment thinking. I don’t have it to hand at the moment, but I’m reminded of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s writings on social responsibility. The gist is that if something benefits me, but not my family, then I must yield it for their greater good. And if it benefits my family, but not my community, then it too must be yielded. And if it benefits my community, but not my nation, and so on, and so on… The same thread exists in Jan Patočka and Václav Havel’s thinking – freedom is greatest when we speak of the freedom of societies from fear. Social freedom trumps individual freedom. In other words, the right of children to go to school unafraid trumps individual rights to own/do anything that might impede that right. That is our legacy. That is what we need to honor and respect. That is what a land of the free might look like.  Perhaps we could work towards that in 2013.

Pretty Peas...

Yes, dear readers, it's time for another helping of Pea Soup, where you can my monthly and reasonably well-researched musing on various sartorial happenings around the capital. For this month's SEX ISSUE the theme is Victoria's Secret's arrival in London - an event I personally find less heavenly than the brand's marketing campaign would desire. Take a look at the whole publication, which is full of interesting things and, if you like it (and why wouldn't you, really?) share and like it on Facebook, tweet about it and/or (if suitably impressed) marshal  on its behalf whatever social media minions are in your power, as apparently these things are important in the world of online publishing. Bon appetit!

Subliminal styling...down the rabbit hole

In my last post I took issue with a suggestion that emerged in the Jumpy panel discussion last week. Specifically, the notion that women's aesthetic choices are motivated (primarily) by a sense of insecurity, or a felt need for correction. There's lots wrong with this argument - and its absurdity shines through when similar logic is applied to other manifestations of personal style. Do you, par example, paint your walls and hang pictures on them because you wish to live admidst color and images or because you're trying to distract potential visitors from a draughty window? If, then, our sartorial and interior design choices (along with what we eat, drive, do with our leisure time, etc.) are motivated by a desire for self-expression, then they should be, largely an act of self-articulation. How then, do we make these choices? What is the anatomy of self-curation?

The easy answer might be a range of socially and commercially constituted factors. In my case, sartorially speaking adverts in Vanity Fair, mainstream fashion coverage and/or the helpful emails Topshop regularly inundates me with (I maintain my subscription because they're so much fun to deconstruct - such as this fabulous example on how to express yourself through (mass-produced) pieces inspired by (appropriated) tribal motifs). So internally incoherent is their logic that it makes me wish I was writing a PhD on the discourse and marketing of high street brands. I may take a superior attitude towards such missives, imagining they won't influence me, but is this actually true? If while consuming a great deal of fashion-related discourse, one still strives to ultimately employ sartorial items to serve an evolving sense of personal style, is s/he safe in assuming the styling choices that result are sui generis? What actually happens as you stand before your open closet, with no idea what to wear, no runway look you're striving to emulate? What leads you to combine a selection of  items you've never put together before? In other words, precisely where do outfits come from?

Let's see if we can unpack this one, which I wore to the very wonderful White Rabbit in Stoke Newington on Saturday night.

.

I had never worn these items together previously and their various provenances are quite diverse. The skirt is a Ralph Lauren blanket skirt that my mother bought for me sometime during my undergrad years. I don’t know that I truly understood it at the time, but I rediscovered it in Warsaw and it’s had periodic outings since then. The grey net sweater is from Topshop, purchased  in Prague a couple autumns ago, worn over an American Apparel leotard. The shoes are new Chelsea boots from Office and I’m wearing a lot of jewelry with both gold and silver, including new French connection earrings and a necklace I bought from a vendor at Little Paris during last month’s First Friday. In other words. completely random. Or really?

While not the best ensemble I have ever put together, it is ripe for dissection and I can identify three sources (apart from general start-of-term madness and indecisive weather) for this outfit. The first and most serendipitous was a twenty-something man I observed earlier that day at the 91 bus stop outside the British Library. He was beautiful, with dark, curly hair and wearing a floor-length black watch tartan kilt, the likes of which I had never previously seen anywhere. So striking was he, and his originally-styled girlfriend, that I nearly managed to overcome my fear of snapping strangers to ask to photograph them. I wasn't consciously thinking of him as I dressed for the evening, but I'm sure he contributed to my choice of skirt. A second factor is location - I knew I was going to an eccentric cocktail bar in North London, so felt free to play. Much of what I wear is influenced by the part of London in which I will be wearing it. This has something to do with with framing - a bit like publishing in the right journal or placing one's production in the perfect venue. There is something terribly sad about a missed opportunity to wear something delightfully odd or wasting a truly excellent creation on the wrong audience. A third influence, tragically, but perhaps inevitably, is admittedly my old friend Topshop, whose range of gothic jewelry I inspected on a recent trip to the Knightsbridge branch and blame for metal-mixing here. 

So there you go - an argument for subliminal styling (or perhaps just the existentially-inclined meanderings of an overly-taxed mind). Night night. 

Gender Tuesday

As Regina Spektor sings, "Some days aren't yours at all." Yesterday, most decidedly, was not my day, in many ways. There is the still-unresolved datagate nightmare and a whole bunch of annoying little things occurred. More interestingly, however, was that the day seemed bizarrely hijacked by gender issues of one kind or another and it is these I wish to share with you. What, dear readers, are we to conclude from the following examples?

Exhibit A. - Dear Mrs. (Mr.?) McFadden

Unsurprisingly, datagate has involved communications with the company that made the offending product. The following correspondence resulted from me filling out a tech support request on their website (long passages of technical goobledegook and incriminating contact details have been omitted).

Dear Mrs. McFadden,

Thank you for contacting . My name is Tennyson. Since the hard drive was making clicking noise initially but it's no longer recognized on your computer,  I would suggest that you try use a different cable for the connection between your hard drive and your computer. Also try connecting your hard drive to another windows computer if it would be recognized. Kindly get back to me with your findings, and I would advise on the next step to take in resolving the problem.
If you have any further questions, please reply to this email and we will be happy to assist you further.

Sincerely,
Tennyson

From: Becka McFadden [becka.mcfadden@gmail.com]
Sent: 9/24/2012 3:23 PM
Subject: Re: Device does not power up [ ref:_00DU0Jpn7._500U04lbwe:ref ]

Dear Tennyson,

First off, I am not Mrs.

Secondly, I have followed your advice and also taken the drive to be seen by a technician at the University of London, who was unable to extract any data using software-based recovery. [...]

I suggest that you forward this information to your superiors as there are clearly quality control issues in need of urgent resolution. While my device is under warranty, there is little chance I shall actually claim a replacement, given the appalling experience I have had with this one in only two months' ownership.

Regards,

Becka McFadden

Tennyson  wrote:

Dear Mr. McFadden,

Thanks for your reply. First, I'm sorry to have assumed based on your first name that I was addressing a female. I understand it's not a good experience to go through such stress , additional cost and inconveniences. We have not received reports of common issues of drive failure of this kind, but I would notify my superiors about the problem. If you would consider replacing your hard drive as it is still under warranty, you could either go to our website at and create an RMA or give us a call on , and we would create an RMA for your defective hard drive to be replaced. 
. 

Sincerely,
Tennyson
Ref#: 091812-5978349

Dear Tennyson,

Thank you for your reply and for passing on the report of the device's failure. 

I am indeed female. I am not, however, a Mrs and was not sure why a communication about a failed hard drive had to include speculation as to my marital status when Ms will do just fine.

Best,

Becka 

Sent from Samsung Mobile

Unsurprisingly, I have had no reply to this final missive. Perhaps I should cut my friend Tennyson a break - he may be working in an outsourced tech support center and English may not be his first language. Perhaps the unwarranted "Mrs." wouldn't have angered me so much if I wasn't in the midst of a data crisis. But even in the best of circumstances, is it really still socially acceptable to address half the population with titles that implicitly comment on the personal life of the woman in question? My fellow female doctoral candidates and I frequently talk about how we can't wait to be called "Dr." - how lovely to be able to effectively educate oneself out of gendered language. Perhaps all women should be awarded honorary PhDs forthwith. Or we could find a less Cold War-tastic equivalent to the gender-neutral "Comrade." Maybe championing "Ms." is enough - it's pretty hard to go wrong there. I imagine certain women will be ecstatic at adopting a Mrs. prefix and that's great, I'm happy for you. But do you really want your tech support guy to know you just got married? Isn't that a personal joy to be shared with family and friends? For the purposes of business communication with people we will never meet face-to-face, it seems quite clear to me that Ms. should be ubiquitous. Why it's not, I just don't know.

Exhibit B - @JumpythePlay

Last night, I attended a panel discussion at the Duke of York Theatre in connection with my work for Peasoup Magazine. Entitled "Has the Legacy of Feminism Been Betrayed", the panel was meant to reflect on issues raised by April DeAngelis's Jumpy, a Royal Court production now running in the West End. While I haven't seen the play myself, I'm reasonably familiar with the plot. Essentially, domesticated, ex-feminist mum has problem with her daughter's valorization of glamour models and celebrity culture, hence the panel title and consideration of multi-generational conflict. Discussing the issue before us were the playwright, dancer Immodesty Blaize, and two women whose names I didn't manage to write down - one tasked with the monumental responsibility of speaking for "the younger generation" and one an articulate professor and veteran of feminist protests in the 1980s. The whole thing was moderated by a woman of mind-boggling vapidity, who seemed to have been pre-programmed to insert tragic one-liners and defenses of the Daily Mail (why? how?) whenever the conversation dared to get interesting.

At the outset of the event, the moderating genius encouraged us to tweet throughout - thank heavens, really, as there was no other opportunity for audience engagement. I  tweeted twice over the forty-five minute discussion.

Becka McFadden ‏@BeckaMcF

Why is feminism such a hot potato? @jumpytheplay

 from Camden, London

•  Reply 
•  Delete 
•  Favorite

Becka McFadden ‏@BeckaMcF

Immodesty Blaize is really quite fabulous. @jumpytheplay

 from Camden, London

•  Reply 
•  Delete 
•  Favorite

The first was in response to the game of ideological hot potato that always ensues (again, why?) when you ask women if they consider themselves feminists, particularly in the UK. The second came later and was prompted by an observation from Immodesty (this is approximate, I wasn't transcribing) that previous generations of feminists have paved the way for her to run her career as she sees fit and to not feel as if she has to get married or have children to be a successful woman. For me, this question of social roles - women's ability to be self-determining, not determined by a set of expectations - is much more important than, say, suggesting (as occurred in the course of the discussion) that the beauty industry relies entirely on female insecurity (right...because any aesthetic choice clearly displays insecurity), or attempting to mediate one's feminism, by tacking "I am married" onto the end of a meaty consideration, a bizarre move by the otherwise fabulous DeAngelis that made me and my editor visibly flinch. Seriously?

Topics raised in the debate could be discussed for 15 more blog posts, but I shall not being doing that. Instead, I'll ask you which of my tweets the Duke of York Theatre felt compelled to share with its 700+ followers?

Becka McFadden ‏@BeckaMcF

Immodesty Blaize is really quite fabulous. @jumpytheplay

 Retweeted by Duke of York's

 from Camden, London

•  Reply 
 
•  Delete 
 
•  Favorite

Yes, indeed, the one that would look most innocuous and least feminist (read icky) when taken out of context. And so ended a day which, on the whole and with little manipulation of the evidence by yours truly, seemed a pretty compelling confirmation that institutional misogyny is, alas, still with us. 

Public Service Announcement

One of the things I very much enjoy about autumn is the first foray into each shop to encounter the first offerings of the A/W collections. I may purchase a few things, but mostly what I'm trying to do at this point is to gauge what, if any, significant acquisitions I would like to make in a given season, so that I can than employ various stalking methods in an attempt to secure them. Meet this year's front runner:

This gorgeous suit is from Kooples. I am in love with it. I am convinced, somewhat irrationally perhaps, that were I to purchase it, I would unquestionably pass my viva in flying colours and secure any job interviewed for whilst wearing it. So deep is my love, that, while I've visited it several times, I haven't yet dared to try it on, as I fear I will be compelled to immediately hand over my credit card by emotions too strong to resist. 

It transpires that my resistance to the gorgeous suit's charms has been prudent, as today I discovered that I will evidently be forking over nearly the entire price of this suit (or, in other terms, significantly more than the asking price for another early favorite, these kickass All Saints boots) on something else. No, I have not suddenly decided to attend an intensive physical theatre workshop, self-produce my own show in London for several nights or succumb to the attraction of Dries Van Noten's kimono skirts. Instead, I shall be paying to regain access to my own data. Yes, dear readers, my external hard drive has crashed.

I am not an aggressively vindictive person. Like any good Sagittarius, I have high standards and am easily disappointed. If someone or something grievously displeases me, s/he/it may struggle to get back into my good graces, but I'm far more likely to express my displeasure through silence and withdrawal of intimacy. Not for me the online diatribe. So Jerry Springer. So not chic.

However, there is a time and a place for everything, and now feels an appropriate time to publicly name and shame the companies involved in this fiasco. I say so not because I bear them any particular ill-will, but rather because I'd quite like to save anyone else from retreading my painful steps. So, here goes. What I've learned from my external hard drive debacle.

1. If your previous device fails, do not allow the company retrieving your data (Epsilon Computers on Tottenham Court Road, I'm talking to you) to randomly decide to which device they will transfer it. Conduct some research and do not let them use just any old drive they feel like. Better yet, have them transfer the data to DVD and worry about the drive later.

2. Do not, under any circumstances, purchase a device made by Western Digital. Mine was two months old to the day when it just stopped working. I didn't pound it with hammers, use it as a coaster or let the guinea pigs gnaw on it. I used is as an external hard drive is meant to be used. And it just stopped. Not a little. A lot. Dead motor, multiple bad sectors, the works.

3. Be aware that your external hard drive's warranty likely does not cover data loss, even if said data loss occurs (as mine did) due to a hardware fault. Back it up, back it up, back it up, back it up people. If you're worried you'll forget, just listen to this song, which is guaranteed to become lodged in your brain, thus functioning as a permanent reminder. 

4. Finally, brace for impact. Data recovery is expensive shit. Data recovery companies know they've got you cornered, no matter how lovely and approachable they seem at first. They will give you quotes that do not include VAT or mislabel and subsequently lose your device for several days without offering a discount for the inconvenience. They will drive you crazy and empty your bank account of money you're unsure you should part with even for something as beautiful as the Kooples suit. In return you will get a stack of DVDs containing your own thoughts, which will make you both incredibly happy/relieved and depressed at the same time. To combat, I recommend cloud backup (which I will be using a lot more from now on) and/or the establishment of a "Money for When my External Hard Drive Invariably Breaks", or MfWEHDIB fund. 

5. The only honorable mention of this escapade goes to Naved and his team at Student Computer Services, who did everything they could to sort this out for £47. He is deserving of your business, so give it to him. 

Right, folks - you have been warned. Time for a gin martini and prayers that the 70:30% statistical bias in favor of my data's recovery does not betray me. 

Why, oh why, did I buy...

So, the theme of this post is inspired by a recent Saturday's Guardian Weekend Magazine, in which various fashionistas were asked to reflect on regrettable purchases. (Attention Vice Magazine - note well the practice of citing one's inspiration, rather than just knocking it off a la Primark and last spring's Prada car textile.) While I pride myself on my shopping savvy and capacity to resist the ultimately unwearable, a certain item did spring to mind as I surveyed the list of offenses. Here is what happened.

First, there was the label.



So far, so exciting, especially when coupled with the right size and surprisingly advantageous sale price. Still, a few things should have tipped me off, really.

Like the elasticated bottom...



Or a bit too much extra material around the shoulders...



Still, enthralled to the lovely label-ness of it all, and the overall pleasing aspect, I bought it. And have hardly worn it since. While the tale of the Paul & Joe silk blouse constitutes an amusing anecdote in my sartorial history, of more concern is my failure to come to terms with a more recent purchase.

As in the P&J debacle, I love the idea of the Brompton. It's the ultimate city bike, easily foldable, goes everywhere. I have these lovely visions of myself zipping around north and east London on it, emerging from the tube, unfolding and buzzing off with an aura of independent chic that regards buses with derision. I picture myself navigating canal paths, impressing even Broadway Market hipsters with my expert folding and unfolding. I have fabulous cycling gloves, evocative of Reese Witherspoon in Vanity Fair.  Hell, though I've yet to buy it, I've even found a helmet I don't hate (thank you, Cycle Chic!). None of this matters a jot, however, if I don't ride the damn thing. Which I don't. Apart from on weekends, in the company of others, which rather defeats the point. Luckily, my partner enjoys and makes frequent use of it, which is more than can be said of the Paul & Joe shirt.

Fashion's Night Out

I love the concept of Fashion's Night Out (or FNO, apparently, to those in the know). Yes, it's possible to be a bit cynical about it - to suggest that people just go for the free drinks, or that the entire thing is a massive marketing ploy. So what? Why shouldn't an industry that consumes so much of our time and energy (not to mention cash) all year long throw us a massive party? (Though I can't help wondering if enough semi-tipsy purchases occur to make up for the for the inevitable champagne spillage on the goods.) Despite loving clothes, and living in London for 5 years, I only discovered FNO last year, by mistake (as with many good things) and en route to something else. This year, I was so excited for a repeat experience that I invited lots of lovely friends to join. It was an excellent idea - so excellent, in fact - that I appear to have been one of many to have had precisely the same thought. While we started off festively with complementary corsages at Liberty, fizz at Cos and something of a revelation concerning Anthropologie's line of hats (gorgeous!), the evening was feeling slightly dampened by the presence of lots more people than last year, rapid booze depletion (no Vivienne Westwood cocktails this year) and my useless ability to get spectacularly lost (in extremely impractical footwear, mind you) between Regent and New Bond streets, when we happened upon Kirk Originals on Conduit Street, a lovely British company from Brighton with the most delightful eyewear shop I have every seen.

Here I am in a pair of their specs:

The glasses are completely addictive - once you start, it's impossible to stop trying them on, as evidenced by this photo of the blue glittery ones:

And this one:

The staff of this shop deserve tremendous love. Not only were they featuring live music and tasty screwdrivers (and at 9pm, too!) - they also objected not at all to our impromptu photo shoot. This is what I love about FNO - the opportunity to discover small but wonderful brands and shops that you wouldn't ordinarily notice. Hands down the best experience of the night.

One more photo before parting. I haven't really established this  as a personal style blog, but, in keeping with the PhD completion-tastic relaxed regime, I may post outfits more frequently than in the past. At least for now. Besides, this is one I'm quite proud of:


Vintage high-waisted skirt (via Primrose Hill Vintage Fair), pinned by me (I used to do this a lot, but have gotten out of the habit recently. I may start doing it again - it breaks up midi-skirts in really interesting ways); H&M tank w/American Apparel bra (love this tank - wish I had bought several more, as I've worn it to death); Betsey Johnson (RIP, Floral Street boutique) pearl necklace, Topshop shoes w/American Apparel chiffon laces, vintage purse with lucite handles (via the now tragically defunct Hideaway in Lancaster, PA).

Catching Up...

It is September and the British indian summer is in full force. So, somewhat tragically for yours truly, is a case of flu I seem to have picked up from lord knows where, though, as ever, the British Library, temple of knowledge and infectious disease, remains a likely culprit. I may regret the decision to re-engage with blogging in the last three months of my PhD (cue non-stop panic attacks, police sirens and spools of caution tape falling from the sky in the manner of evil champagne party poppers), but I’m going to do so on the grounds that any writing is good writing, particularly writing I enjoy, and writing which therefore makes me feel as if I actually can write. If all goes according to plan, the knock-on effect of this will be a thesis whose fluidity, effortlessness and joie de vivre is more haute couture than overworked and auf’d Project Runway disaster (yes, I am well and truly engaged with the new season, of which there will be doubtless be more later).

Right – and now for some statistics that will convey some sense of what I have been doing with myself for the last four months.

International flights: 8

Countries visited: United States, Czech Republic, Poland

Random milestones: 1) learning to rollerblade, two days before rollerblading in a room full of people, some sitting/lying on the floor, during a performance; 2) going to Hel and back in a day (seriously, it's a city in northern Poland); 3) first swim in the Baltic Sea.

Theatre productions to which I have contributed creatively: 3

Shakespeare roles: played 2

Sold-out Camden Fringe performance (directed by me): 1

Successful arts council grants: 1

Languages spoken on stage: 3 (4 if you count directorial swearing in Italian ;-)

Terrifying Polish phonemes I have mastered-ish: endless! For instance, I can now say “ść” properly, which is inordinately satisfying.

Thesis chapters drafted: 2 (the last 2, hooray!)

Key acquisitions: new laptop (though I may be returning it – annoyingly the model I wanted, after being aggressively persuaded of its superiority to everything else in my price range, was only available if I bought the floor sample and I distrust the mouse buttons), All Saints maxi dress, various Czech and Polish earrings, a great many new friends and collaborators, far too many mosquito bites to count.

Key realizations: My body and mind  and, indeed, body-mind, much prefer theatrical to academic work. Duly noted for future reference, though sadly something I am unable to put into practice now. (Cf. horrifying thesis deadline.)

So that’s about it for now. I am not entirely sure from whence comest the sense of obligation to catch up the readership (or perhaps just myself) upon resuming service after a long absence, but it does feel necessary somehow. Duty completed, I am off for a contentious cup of my favourite brew and a great deal of Lemsip.

  

Ahoj from Praha!

Oh dear, another lapse in blog maintenance, this one down largely to the research trip I'm currently on in Prague. And a week in Yorkshire, during which I meant to write about my new hat and evil walking clothes. And I would have done, apart from the lack of internet of any description in the house we were renting. I promise, as soon as I submit my PhD next December, that I shall do a month's experiment of daily posts, just to see what happens. In the meantime, please accept my apologies and, in lieu of actual posts, two articles I wrote for Peasoup which, unlike this blog, has deadlines!

A PEAS OF THREAD: Interview with Designer Mariatu Turay

A(nother) PEAS OF THREAD: Thoughts on "Going Native" - Unpacking the trend for all things tribal

**Shameless self-promotion alert** Should either of these articles please you, click the "like" button and share with your friends. We at Peasoup have a monthly competition - the writer with the most likes receives a bottle of rather lovely wine. A certain close associate of mine is currently in the lead, and I'd love to give him a run for his money...

Signs of Spring...

After my last, admittedly surly (though not unwarranted) post, I am engaging this day in a bit of spring-time festivity. Despite the fact that this is my fifth British spring, I still make the novice's mistake of equating bright sunlight with day-long warmth, leaving the house in an outfit that feels adequate, only to find myself shivering in bus shelters once the sun goes down. This happened as recently as yesterday, when I thought I could wear a jacket with three-quarter length sleeves AND skip the tights. Bad call.

Today, however, was properly spring-y. Accordingly, after waking up early to watch Mondo win Project Runway All Stars (huzzah!), I broke out two favorite things. First the sartorial:

After spending the winter hiding under my blanket-esque All Saints scarf, I always enjoy a return to silk. This one used to belong to my Great Aunt Mary, who I have to thank for a great deal of my vintage accessories - at some point I shall have to dedicate a post to her inimitable style. I don't think she ever wore trousers. Today as I was ironing it, I discovered a little detail I'd somehow managed to overlook in the three years it's lived with me.

Apparently, Aunt M's scarf is vintage Schiaparelli. While this makes me even more distressed about an idiotic attempt to handwash it that resulted in some of the colors bleeding, I am thrilled to own a piece by the fabulous Ms. Schiaparelli, who I first discovered in Muriel Sparks' novella The Girls of Slender Means, in which the residents of a post-war London boarding house for young ladies share between them a single Schiaparelli dress that is reserved for special occasions. These tend to involve elocution recitals or young men calling for tea.

My second harbinger of warmth is musical in nature and not quite so vintage, though perhaps fast becoming so:

In addition to warm weather generally, I shall forever associate this song (really the whole album) with the spring of 2005 when I listened to it whilst driving through Manayunk en route to rehearsal on South Street. Today I listened en route, via bus, tube and foot, to another rehearsal on another continent. It was pleasant to be sure, but the fabulous song/car windows rolled down combo is hard to beat. Enjoy!

A modest proposal

I've borrowed this post's title from Jonathan Swift's essay, in which he satirically suggests that the Irish cope with food shortages by eating their babies. Like Swift, I shall be addressing the topic of society's youngest members. While I hope my thoughts will not be devoid of humor, I am however quite seriously calling for a public debate on the behavior of middle class progeny in public spaces.

Full disclosure: I do not have children. I do not want children. That said, this is not part of some rampant child-hating campaign; I have a few friends with children and I expect that number to increase with time. If having kids makes them happy and fulfilled - and it obviously does - then I'm pleased for them. The bone I wish to pick here is not about kids or parenting per se, but rather the way in which public spaces are used and shared by people with and without children. Since moving back to the UK last autumn, I've become increasingly aware of the encroachment of children, socially and spatially, on neutral and adult territory. The problem is significantly more pronounced in my new, allegedly-swanky North London hood than in my previous stomping ground of Shepherds Bush. This is not a parents v. childless adults debate - I know most people don't allow their children to behave like this and I've seen many a parent (including my own mother) outraged at the offences detailed below. Still, there are bad (or just clueless) apples in every bunch and we could clearly benefit from some guidelines to help us coexist peacefully. Accordingly, I (modestly) propose the following:

1. When in Rome: Observe the ambience of the space you're in and emulate. This works both ways: just as one shouldn't settle in with a six-pack of cider and a pack of fags at the local playground, so too should unruly toddlers steer clear of wine bars. Different venues offer different experiences. No single patron has the right to continuously disrupt the specific ambience of particular place and proprietors should be unafraid to defend their customers' rights to the experience they have chosen and are paying for.

2. No scooters on city sidewalks (or in shops): Last weekend I watched a father of twin toddlers, both with scooters. In less than 2 minutes, one of the girls fell over and smacked her head on the pavement whilst the other lost control of her scooter which rolled into the path of a (mercifully slow-moving) car. London is blessed with parks, people. Use them.

3. No kids in pubs/bars. I am told this used to go without saying in the UK, but alas that's no longer the case. Last December, I was enjoying a late Sunday afternoon drink with friends near Westbourne Grove. A bugaboo-toting couple arrived (is the bugaboo the BMW of prams?) and quickly became indignant when the publican turned them away rather than permit them to block a) the fire exit or b) the entrance to the pub's dining room. Other friends have related stories of hipster dads passing infants from mate to mate down the pub, or groups of friends with young kids who've set up impromptu playpens on pub floors, which other patrons must then navigate whilst attempting to not inadvertently baptise someone's offspring with a pint of Staropramen. Gross.

Why should these suggestions be seriously considered? Health and Safety, innit! Before branding me a heartless, childless cynic, think about the extent to which these suggestions benefit all. I don't want to drop my drink on your child, nor do I want to trip over them (or their infernal scooter). The kids marauding through my local Waitrose on bikes and scooters last week were a danger to themselves and others. Picture this chain reaction: child on scooter careens into unsteady pensioner, who subsequently grabs at shelves to steady themselves, as a result of which a can of marinara cracks open on little Tarquin's head. Meanwhile, granny slips on the pasta sauce and cracks a hip. I defy anyone to consider this a positive outcome for any concerned. Unfortunately this kind of behavior is so rampant in Crouch End that such an accident feels inevitable.

Right, off to look at flats in Hoxton now.

Time for some Peasoup...

Another bit of cross-promotion for the fabulous Peasoup Magazine, cutting through the fog surrounding one issue of importance to Londoners each month. For this month's Unemployment Issue, I interviewed Lousie Mann of Islington-based Dress for Success (pictured below) to find out how the organization styles women returning to the workplace, or entering it for the first time. You can read the full story here. If it pleases you, click the like button - the article with the most likes scores a bottle of delicious vino - and do be sure to check out the rest of the articles too!

(photo courtesy of peasoupmagazine.com)

Another post about Starbucks...

That's right, here we go again. Starbucks: fount of inspiration and moderately priced coffee. Yesterday, until noon, the price of a tall latte or cappuccino was this:

Name = complementary new 2-shot beverage. I'm a bit perplexed as to why this is happening at all. It's been common practice in the US for ages and at the Prague Starbucks branches since they opened (NB: knowledge that these exist does not imply unequivocal endorsement). Last weekend I got a latte at Liverpool Street and the barista asked my name. It's hardly revolutionary, yet it's being rolled out like it is, equipped with neighbourhood coffee house rhetoric ("come and introduce yourself!"). I've previously explained my view of the coffee market and niche Starbucks fills for me (and, I suspect, most others). It's never going to be a neighbourhood coffee house, so why bother trying? That said, despite my experience of lovely neighbourhood places in Philly and Prague, last weekend's experience of being summarily ignored by staff in two Spitalfields coffee bars (as result of which I ended up in Starbucks), has me feeling an alarmingly rightwing wave of antipathy towards local and alternative purveyors (don't even get me started on the holier-than-thou incompetence of Cafe Crema in New Cross Gate).

But back to Starbucks.

Admittedly, it's somewhat disappointing to know that my name is worth only £2.25. I also felt somewhat sorry for my barista, originally from east Asia, as she struggled to spell our names. Is this really part of her job description? On the other hand, perhaps interacting with language in this way will turn the Starbucks staff into brilliant linguists, pronouncing Greek, French and Polish names with equal aplomb. With enough time, this might even trickle up to the native population, though I wouldn't bet a latte, free or otherwise, on that one.

This strikes me as a post that should end with a slew of questions. Accordingly...Did you offer your name for a free latte? Was your local Starbucks shunned or inundated in response to the offer? Could your barista spell your name? Did you learn theirs?

(mal?)Practice as Research

Let me begin this post by saying that I am reluctant to take anything that might be perceived as a pot shot at the NHS in its current beleaguered state. I'm glad it exists. Despite its shortcomings, it remains one of the chief reasons I cannot imagine returning to the land of my birth. At the same time, it occasionally perplexes me. Today was one of those occasions.

Contrary to the belief, current among Americans, that socialized medicine results in high levels of usage, I avoid going to the doctor as much as possible. There are several reasons for this: the doctor's waiting room is a good place to get sick, mine is normally swarming with babies and children (one of which once locked the door from the inside to prevent anyone - including me - from entering the office), and it's always a bit of a crap shoot with regards to who I'm going to see. UK medical practices are complicated things. Most come with a variety of doctors, though one generally only deduces their areas of specialization on an ad hoc basis. I will resist a comparison with the Prague boutique mini-hospital (located in a historic villa) that provided me with orthopedists, internists and dermatologists to my heart's content, and instead commend myself for having deduced which of my practice's docs knows a bit more about all things muscular-skeletal.

I would have liked to see this doctor for today's complaint - a persistently sore left foot - but that would have involved prebooking and waiting and I was concerned about hurting it further as I'm doing a lot of rehearsing at the moment, so I called, dutifully, at 8.30 (aka the Appointed Hour for same day appointments) and was allocated a 10.30 slot with Dr. B.

I had never heard of Dr. B, but I was pleased not to be assigned to Dr. P., she who had once bizarrely asked me, psychologist-style, how I "understood" my persistent knee pain. Right. Dr. B. called my name at 10.30 on the dot. She appeared to be my age, possibly even a bit younger. She listened to my symptoms, examined my offending limb and then engaged in a behaviour I have only encountered with British doctors: she conducted research. In my presence. It's not the kind of research one encounters at a teaching hospital. This is "hmm, I'm not sure...let me just check"-style research.

Within the context of higher education, I'm a firm believer in practice as research. At the doctor? Not so much. On one hand, I appreciate the humility - Dr. B. wasn't pretending to know what was wrong with me. Doctors can certainly err by over-estimating their knowledge and there was no chance of her doing that. On the other hand, seriously? Surely the definition of expertise is that one carries a great deal of knowledge in his/her brain, at least enough to deal with the relatively quotidienne complaints of the day-t0-day patient. Besides, even if my left foot is particularly perplexing, it's not likely I will benefit from being told a potential diagnosis (prefaced with "this might sound scary") and then assured that I can learn more about my hypothetical malady (which might require surgery) by googling it when I get home!

Luckily, I long ago swore off the practice of googling symptoms (tingly big toe + cancer, anyone?), aided and abetted, I might add, by NHS Direct. The nurses on the 24 hour helpline might be paging maniacally through medical dictionaries, but at least I can't see them do it. And that helps.

Circular Foodstuffs, Circular Logic?

So, for a second post in a row I'm beginning with an apology - this time for my long silence. I have been adrift (sometimes paddling manically to stay afloat) on a sea of academic conferences (nebo v academické obci - at least I'm still finding time to study Czech).

It occurred to me earlier that today, being the day before Ash Wednesday, is perfect fodder for a blog that ostensibly concerns itself with national/cultural differences. As David Sedaris explores hilariously in his story "Six to Eight Black Men" (if you haven't, read it - preferably in private or people will stare as you laugh uncontrollably), holiday customs have much to say about our national differences.

Where the-day-before-Lent is concerned, nowhere is this more apparent then in Central Pennsylvania, where I grew up. Central PA was largely settled by Germans and, accordingly, maintains a number of German traditions. In addition to producing multiple types of potato salad and the best pretzels in the world (seriously, I've been to Germany and ours are better), these include the hallowed tradition of Fasnacht Day. What, you ask, quite rightly, is a fasnacht? For the uninitiated, which once upon a time included my grandmother, who hailed from the exotic land of non-German Pennsylvania, the fasnacht is a donut that looks something like this. Two fascinating things about Fasnacht Day: 1) In Pennsylvania Dutchland, donuts are donuts 364 days a year, adopting the name fasnacht, the name of southern Germany's carnival, only on Shrove Tuesday. 2) Most Pennsylvanians of German descent are Protestant, while giving up things for Lent is more popular among practicing Catholics, a paradox which calls into question the necessity of emptying one's kitchen of lard on a random day in February. But hey, let's not nitpick.

My only experience of a genuine Central European carnival happened in Prague in 2006. My friend Werner dragged me to Kino Aero in Žižkov. The Plastic People of the Universe were onstage. Fake meat was hanging from the ceiling - the name of the festival, Masopust, means, literally, something like "stop meat." Beer was flowing and the atmosphere was closer to what I imagine that of a New Orleans Mardi Gras to be, though I have never attended.

In London, Shrove Tuesday disappears into the ignominy of "Pancake Day". When I first heard of it, advertised a diner as "Pancake Week", I didn't connect it to Lent at all, suspecting it was akin to Arbor Day, International Book Day or similar...As with most British interpretations of feast days that have their roots in the Christian calendar, it feels oddly commercial and alienated from these sources. My local Waitrose went so far as to erect a special display of all the ingredients one would need to make pancakes. So much for emptying ones cupboards of comfort foods verboten during Lent - instead we were being encouraged to go out and buy them!

It's all quite Platonic, I suppose - there's the form of the thing, epitomized by Carnival in Venice or Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and then all our little local attempts to participate, via a circle of fried bread, plastic sausage or humble flapjack. One wonders, increasingly, why we bother at all, particularly in nations firmly on the path to mass atheism. What earthly pleasures will we deny ourselves for the next 40 days to justify a day of gorging on circular pastries of one kind or another? It's kind of sad, actually...though a glance at the clock tells me its now over. And I haven't eaten a single fasnacht. What would my Grandfather, descendant of fasnacht-devotees, say.

Disillusionment in three

Apologies for the somewhat pessimistic tone of this post, but I do have the flu, after all. Not just any flu, either - by far the worst flu that I have ever had in the UK. It is not as bad as my worst flu ever, which I caught in Prague, while living in Mala Strana. That was the kind of flu that makes things spin, which is quite interesting when you live in a neighborhood full of baroque architecture...but I digress.

As I have not left home for several days - indeed, I have only recently regained the ability to use my laptop - I shall beg the readers' indulgence for a post of this nature.

Disillusionment No. 1. Gig-going in Camden.

One of my resolutions upon moving back to London was to try to hear more live music, as a result of which I found myself on Thursday evening squeezed into the upper room of the Lock Tavern for the Young and Lost acoustic night. Perhaps the unbelievably pretentious faux-angsty title should have put me off, or perhaps I should have heeded A. A. Gill's warning that hanging out in Camden past a certain age is "cause for self-pity", but Stranded Horse, who I deeply love, was playing. So I had to go. And force others to accompany me. I in no sense fancy myself a music critic, but whoever curated the evening needs to have a word with themselves on multiple levels: of four acts, the first two were clearly superior, the sound engineering left much to be desired, and one band in particular beggared belief. Image a parody of a parody of 1950s Big Band with a vocalist alternative channeling Anthony Kiedis and Modest Mouse. Add dramatic hand gestures and subtract any sense of irony or humor and you begin to get a sense of the pain. Then there was the behavior of the crowd. Why go to hear live music if you're going to talk, loudly, throughout? Still, Stranded Horse was lovely (that's him, below) and the rudeness of the assembled audience proved an excellent aid to overcoming my habitual unwillingness to speak to artists - saying thank you felt quite necessary after all the loudness.

Disillusionment No. 2. Snow siege in Crouch End.

So it snowed on Saturday night, which was deeply exciting. As someone from a country with four actual seasons (though these are often reduced to summer and winter) the monotony of the UK climate tends to get me down. Snow makes me happy. Watching it fall makes this song start playing in my head. As a child, freshly fallen snow always placed me in a dilemma - I really wanted to play in it, but hated to disturb the beautiful pristine frostiness. No such quandary seems to have troubled the brave young men of Crouch End, who, upon being ejected from Kiss the Sky around 1am, proceeded to pelt my row of houses and any passing cars or pedestrians for thirty minutes. Far from being the magical substance of my youth, snow in London, as seen above, seems to be prized primarily for its efficiency in providing the local citizenry with frozen weaponry. Bless, perhaps it's all just too much for them.

Disillusionment No. 3. The elusive B359.

P and I having been stricken simultaneously by this plague (and having watched all available episodes of season 8 of House), we decided to take advantage of our housebound state to research some unsolved mysteries. Having previously determined precisely who (or what?) Peppa Pig is and source of taramasalata's high fat content, we set about locating the precise location of the B359. For the uninitiated, this the road that Hugh Grant's character misses the turning for in the first nuptials of Four Weddings and a Funeral, leading to much swearing and general hysteria. Turns out it doesn't exist. It is actually the A359. We know this because of an absurdly pedantic website about Dorset in film. Perhaps David Cameron should worry less about British cinema's financial viability than its factual accuracy, eh?

As it seems that everyone and their great aunt Beulah is sick right now, to what absurdities has the flu (or the wintry weather) driven you and yours?

Has anyone else noticed this sign on a recent tube journey?

It's surprisingly hard to take a clear photo while on a moving escalator, so I shall translate: "Are your skills in demand overseas? Visit the Emigrate show." I confess to a level of perplexity and confusion - it's quite an oddly complex piece of work, isn't it? On one hand, it feels like a recession-busting scheme, as in 'Can't find a job here? Then why not shove off and seek employment elsewhere (whilst conveniently bringing down our unemployment numbers in the process, innit)?' Then, as if that's not unsettling enough, there's the sense in which it seems to be suggesting that here is indeed a possibility (wait for it...) that life just might be as good -or better?! - outside the UK.

This second proposition is truly revolutionary stuff. I number many a critical Brit amongst my close friends and associates, but, as is the case in the States, the official rhetoric tends not to be so self-reflexive. In the 5 years I've lived in the UK, I've been queried extensively on, among other things, my qualifications, work experience, seemingly bizarre interest in the Czech Republic, disdain for fake tan, the capitalization and pronunciation of my own surname and whether I really need to see a specialist for something my GP can surely handle by flipping through an abridged medical encyclopedia. Such experienes are part of life outside one's native land and, if nothing else, provide amusing fodder for blog posts. I mention them because the implicit sense behind such challenges is the notion that the British way is the most natural and/or highly-evolved manner in which to handle whatever's at stake.

The emigration sign, then, upsets the applecart of casual, public nationalism in a quite radically shocking way when you get down to it, or so it seems to me. Indeed, it feels downright portentous. This is especially the case when coupled with a recent article in the Sunday Times Style mag in which Chav was rebranded as Chinese Accessories Victim - in honor of the Beijing fashionistas converging on New Bond Street and creating a market for shop assistants who speak their native tongue. In this brave new world, one can't help but wonder what's booking up faster: the emigration fair or City Lit's courses in introductory Mandarin.

Lessons from the European Figure Skating Championships...

Right, confession time. Back before I owned a passport, this is how I spent most of my time...

Given such photographic evidence, it should come as no surprise that the 2012 European Figure Skating Championships, held in Sheffield last weekend, proved too much for me to resist. Indeed, I have been planning to attend them since last summer. While I could go on (and on, and on) about the skating, I shall spare you the technical details (such as my outrage regarding a certain C. Kostner's pathetic jump content) and share instead cultural observations of a somewhat more general nature...

Outer London looks like Poland - or anywhere else in Northern/Central Europe.

A somewhat facile observation to be starting with, but nonetheless true. Seriously - look at it:

I took this photo in Enfield, aka outer Mongolia, whilst waiting for a lift from my friend and fellow FS (that's figure skating to insiders, one of which you can now pretend to be) aficionado. If the generic US landscape is punctuated by Wal-mart and Home Depot, then surely this is the Northern European equivalent - garden centres, tons of signs for little stall-type shops with disparate fonts, etc. I would have photographed the collection of gazebos/mini-chatas across the street, but I dropped my hat in the mud and became preoccupied with cleaning it before I got the chance. Oh well, if I don't know what Monty's does/sells, at least I know where I can go to acquire a reptile, should one ever be required.

National stereotypes are alive and well in Europe. Any Euro-skeptics bemoaning the culturally homogenizing effects of the European Union are clearly not watching enough figure skating, where kitschy nods to one's homeland apparently constitute an attempt at artistry. The Italian and French skaters seem particularly invested in reductive expressions of nationality. They appear to have conflated their styles into a single entity I shall call mediterranean-sexy, which can be further broken down into sub-types a) vintage (Breton tops, suspenders, accordian music - see Samuel Contesti) and b) Pigalle (jazzy music, revealing costumes - see Valentina Marchei and Mae Berenice Meite). On the other end of the spectrum (apart from the unfortunate, Marilyn Monroe-channeling Ksenia Makarova), are the Dramatic Russian Skaters (black costume, moody music - see Artur Gachinski and Polina Koreybinikova). Nordic Snow Princess is another clearly demarcated category, the apotheosis of which must surely be Swedish champion Viktoria Helgesson's fur-cuffed long programme dress. More disturbing manifestations of ethno-packaging include Yretha Silete's jungle-themed program, the problematic nature of which nearly merits its own post.

English audiences are a bit rubbish, really... at least when it comes to watching female athletes. Any time an attractive woman who appeared to have reached the age of consent took to the ice, she was greeted with wolf-whistling and other caveman-esque accolades. Classy, gents. I shudder to think what's going to happen at the London Olympics. Perhaps all female gymnasts should be issued earplugs.

Celebrity culture has infiltrated women's skating. This is in no way an apologia for the hooting men of Sheffield, who, to be fair, may not all have been English, but I can't help but query the decision to present oneself for athletic competition decked out like a showgirl. The International Skating Union attempted to deal with this issue in the 1980s, when Katarina Witt showed up in this outfit, the first version of which was sans feathers and cut high up the hips, Las Vegas style. A new rule was introduced, dictating that all clothing must be "modest, appropriate and suitable for athletic competition" (this also ruled out tights on men, by the way). Perhaps many of the Euro-ladies spent the off-season reading Catherine Hakim and are consciously attempting to invoke their erotic capital in pursuit of sports glory. I'm not convinced though. What child dreams of ascending to Olympic heights dressed as Marilyn Monroe? That said, as I type this, it occurs to me that perhaps I shall one day look back on KM's Monroe-themed program with nostalgia as someone attempts to land a triple-triple combination dressed as Kim Kardashian. Too horrifying to contemplate! Quick, here's something else to look at:

Eventual winner, Carolina Kostner of Italy, left, with Makarova-as-Marilyn, right, in pink. See? Not so bad...