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).

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.

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.

Peas, sir (and ma'am)...would you like some more?

Dearest readers, I am pleased to present my first article for Peasoup Magazine!

While I must confess a long-standing dislike of pea soup the foodstuff, Peasoup the magazine is rather fabulous. Each month, Peasoup aim to cut through the fog surrounding a different issue of importance to Londoners, sans celebrity gossip and general rubbishness, but with plenty of wit and responsible journalism. Do visit and enjoy the many excellent articles. I am very excited about this new venture as it means that I get to write about clothes from a socio-political perspective. If you like what you see, make it official via Facebook.

Ode to the Humble School Bus

With the mayoral election and Olympics looming, it seems that everyone has an idea for improving life in London. Catchily-named cures for various social ills are the new black. The Evening Standard seems particularly into this, with its Get London Reading Campaign and Fund for the Dispossessed - speaking of which, does anyone else find that a highly problematic title? Dispossessed by whom, as a result of what? The branding seems perfectly engineered to avoid any suggestion of causality - social inequality just exists, sui generis. Ah, the guilt-avoiding merits of the passive tense, beloved of responsible politicians the world over, including a certain George W. Be careful, my friends...this bodes not well.

Despite my skepticism (this is one North American spelling I shall never abandon, by the way), I thought I'd get into the spirit by offering my own suggestion for improving Londoners' quality of life. I am under no illusions that it is in any way profound - I'm not even going to come up with a catchy, alliterative and subtly manipulative title - but here it is, one thing that would undoubtedly make me a happier person:

Ah, the humble school bus! Willing conveyor of the hordes of school children who are currently storming London's bus system and exploding commuters' eardrums with a vitally important continuation of some playground catastrophe. I've never had much time for London buses, but since moving up north, I've discovered a few pleasant routes. There is the W7, possibly the most obscenely chichi bus in London, which shuttles back and forth between Muswell Hill and Finsbury Park. There is the W5, which winds its way from Crouch End to Archway through a leafy "hail and ride" section, during which you can flag it down like a taxi. Finally, there is the 91, which snakes its way to Trafalgar Square via the British Library and UCL. The 91 pleases me for reasons both practical (less carrying of book- and laptop-laden bags) and esoteric (its route seems designed to confirm North London's reputation as the historic home of the intelligentsia) and all would be well between us but for the influx of school children that are wont to invade, like swarms of identically-clad locusts, at any point between 3 and 6pm. I try to avoid travelling at these times, leaving the BL a bit early or delaying my departure to an evening seminar for as long as possible, yet there's nearly always a group (or more) to contend with.

A school bus network would render such encounters a thing of the past and provide London school children with valuable life experiences. I can't imagine my school years without buses. There was the eagerly-awaited annual bus evacuation drill, during which we interrupted our studies for half an hour to clamber onto a bus, learn the location of the first aid kit and crow bar, and then evacuacte by jumping (in an orderly manner!!!) out the back while a disinterested PE teacher looked on. What 12-16 year old doesn't live for such diversions?

Admittedly, I have phrased the problem (and my solution) in such flippant tones that it can scarcely be taken seriously. There's also the argument that large cities rarely have school buses, that it would be expensive to set up such a network and that complainers like yours truly should just get on the tube and be done with it. All that makes perfectly good sense, but a school bus network in London might be more achievable then one thinks:

Surely there are quite a few of these knocking around at the moment? In these tight economic times, it would be a shame to let them go to waste...

I take a lot of flak for my love of Starbucks. I've never really understood why the humble Seattle coffee house-gone-global inspires such profound hatred. Its product is no more environmentally damaging than Costa's or Cafe Nero's (neither of which I particularly enjoy) and if you want to hate an American multinational for the sheer hell of it, then surely McDonald's or KFC would be better choices? If in-store signage is to be believed, the beans are reasonably fair trade. Then there's the love to the employees. Admittedly this is a US-specific issue, but one really must commend a company that provides health insurance to its part-time employees.

I've also never really understood the argument that Starbucks hurts local coffee shops. As a terrible caffeine addict, I interact with the sacred bean and its purveyors in a number of different contexts in a given day. If I want to have a meeting in a coffee house, I will almost never chose Starbucks, opting instead for one of the quiet, quirkily-decorated, fully-staffed coffee shops that abound in my neighbourhood. Likewise, I will not dash manically into a quiet cafe en route to the bus stop and demand my daily fix to go. This is the role of Starbucks: efficient, reliable coffee on the run. There is nothing more frustrating for the time-strapped, under-caffeinated commuter than a barista's close (and painstakingly slow) attention to the design possibilities presented by the subtle interplay of foamed milk and chocolate flakes. The morning coffee is like petrol - fill 'er up, as quickly as possible. Starbucks understands this. Their outlet in Victoria Station is beautiful to behold - a perfectly calibrated machine.

Despite Starbucks' many virtues, I may need to reassess my on-going patronage as a result of the horror I encountered upon venturing in today for my morning latte. The old menu board had been replaced by a new one, which included the caloric value of everything on offer. I hate this practice, which I first encountered on a December afternoon in Manhattan. On that occasion I wandered haphazardly, lost, between various branches of Pret-a-Manger and Au Bon Pain, unable to actually order anything. It's not that the calorie information generally changes my order - I figure that if I've been eating/drinking it for months/years (and I do have quite extreme loyalties where convenience food is concerned) without weight gain, full knowledge of the nutritional information is unlikely to alter matters. What bothers me is the breaking of the sacred bond between customer and restaurant, the refusal of the suspension of disbelief that accompanies dining out of one's home. Twice in December, I had occasion to eat exquisite French meals, including glorious desserts. How horrifying to have had these experiences accompanied by nutritional information. Who, in the act of dining out, even for something as minor as coffee, cares? Calorie-counting is for the home, or the grocery store, when debating between breakfast cereals or fresh soups. It is most certainly not for coffee. Do we really need to be told that an Americano is much better for us than a chocolate frappucino with whipped cream and caramel sauce?

I have no objection to the information being made available for those dedicated, for reasons of vanity or health, to extreme calorie counting; Starbucks publishes a brochure with this information and I'm reliably told that there is an app for that. Surely this can suffice? At least until I've had my morning coffee...

Stalinist Bloomsbury...or the manifestations of unrealized wanderlust.

Last week, I submitted a visa application to UK Borders which involved surrendering my passport. The passport and I have never been parted for more then about 72 hours and I am not, to put it mildly, enjoying our estrangement. Even if I have no tickets booked, I love the possibility of travel, the sense that movement may be immanent. This in part explains my affection for central Europe, where you can train rapidly around Germany, Austria and Czech Republic at a moment's notice and the destination board at your local train station includes places like Moscow, Bucharest, Sarajevo...Sans passport and stranded on this island for the foreseeable future, I've developed a passing melancholia that seems to involve burning candles, drinking red wine, listening to endless Leonard Cohen (thank you, Spotify) and thinking dreamily about my former cities. It was in just such a mood that I noticed the following similarity.

This is the Palace of Culture, Warsaw:

And this, is Senate House Library at the University of London...

Both are massive and impossible to capture in a single photograph without inducing vertigo. The more I think about this comparison, the more apt it seems. Both take an eternity to walk around - P and I once spent 20 minutes circumnavigating the PoC and taking the wrong exit from the library can easily add 10 minutes to your journey home. Both have strange internal layouts and you have to go outside to get from one part of the building to another. I've been semi-lost in both and each time I was filled with a sense of unease irreducible to mere spatial disorientation. They feel wrong. It seems entirely plausible that both could house a population of feral cats in their basements and/or contain offices full of staff who haven't been outside in years and think the Cold War is still in full swing. Finally, and really, what greater confirmation could there be, both make excellent surfaces for projections:

Palace of Culture, January 2011

Senate House Library, January 2012:

I rest my case, and cannot help but wonder what other bits of Europe I will discover while wandering passport-less about London. Watch this space, and, in the meantime, here's some Leonard Cohen.

Best Leg Forward...

Happy New Year!

'Tis the season for all manner of resolutions, re-evaluations and detoxification schemes. I don't promise to embark on any of the latter, moderation at all times seeming to me wiser than bursts of asceticism interrupting general debauchery, but I have resolved to try to blog more. I shall also be trying to blog less reservedly - that is, without running every thought I have through an extensive series of self-created tests designed to ensure that I give no offence to anyone, even (hypothetical) readers whose (imaginary) views I don't at all agree with (if they did, or do, exist). Not that I shall seek to be provocative for the sheer hell of it. It's more a resolution to think, write and be generally be a bit freer. All to the good, j'espère.

Now to the title of this post. Here is a photo taken of me this early this afternoon (so effectively this morning) as I returned home from my first venture into the wilds of 2012:

In addition to unwashed hair and no makeup (apart from the obligatory lipstick), I am wearing several holiday acquisitions, most notably the oversized cardigan (Whistles via P) and my new (and much loved) Chloe trousers (courtesy of me and the Harvey Nick's post-Christmas sale). I have wanted a pair of Chloe trousers for the best part of the last decade, so these represent a major acquisition. They were my last purchase of 2011 (and likely will be my last purchase for some time...), so it seemed only fitting to wear them for my first foray into 2012. Granted, that was only as far as Starbucks, but still...an auspicious start to the year, sartorially speaking. Until it began to rain, that is. Luckily, I live with a wonderful gentleman who received a very large umbrella for Christmas and is not adverse to impromptu rescue missions on behalf of his unprepared lady. Chloe and I were very grateful. After making it safely back home, it was straight back into the pjs for the laziest of New Year's Days, complete with Pirates of the Caribbean on iPlayer - tragic but lovely all the same.

Wishing you all a lovely, lazy and auspicious start to a brave new year!

207 - A Microcosm on Wheels

I feel a bit guilty writing here, as if I am being disloyal to my new moleskine, which, truth be told, I have yet to make more than about a 20-page dent. It's the full-size one, but still, it seems sad that it's been eclipsed by the arrival of my new (at)la(st!)ptop, an MSI Wind netbook. As we've only been together a week, I can't tell anyone in good conscience to run about and buy one yet, but we're off to a lovely start, my pretty little girl and I.

Today I had an interesting bus experience. I got the 207 – bus of misery – from Ealing to Home today. I nearly missed the bus upon which the incident occurred, as I was dashing across the street. I had briefly considering stopping for some Starbucks, but thank goodness I didn't, as I would have missed what transpired next…

I got on the bus in front of Sainsbury's. It was crowded in the manner of many a 207 before it, and it soon became apparent that contributing to the general malaise of the crowd were two bus inspectors. I had got on at the front of the bus, and in front of me, indeed preventing me from sitting or less obtrusively wedging myself and my stuff somewhere, stood one of them, in the process of ticketing a woman.

Woman: But I haven't got £25.

Inspector: That's okay, you don't have to pay now.

Woman: Well, that's good, because I don't have £25.

(I should mention here that the woman was British and posh-ish, in a mad cat lady, crumbling upper middle-class sort of way. The man was of an Asian persuasion, both were terribly polite.)

Inspector: Well, you can mail it in.

Woman: This is terribly unfair.

Inspector: Well, you have information to appeal the charge.

Woman: This is terribly unfair.

Pause

Woman: May I have my pass back.

Inspector: Yes.

Woman: May I have my pass now please.

Inspector: I just need to fill in a form and get a print-out.

Pause. Woman pokes Inspector in the back.

Inspector: Please don't touch my back.

Woman: Well, you're leaning against me, and it doesn't feel good.

Inspector: I'm not leaning against you.

Woman: You're crowding me out.

Inspector: You can say excuse me.

Woman: I don't have to say excuse me, you're leaning on me!

Inspector: If you'd said excuse me, I'd have moved.

Woman: Well, I'm saying it now.

Pause

Woman: May I have my pass please?

Inspector: Yes.

Woman: May I have it now, please?

Inspector: No.

Woman: Why?

Inspector: I told you that I need to write a report and get a print out. You'll get your pass back, but it does take some time.

Woman: Why don't you get on with it then?!

The two of them never struck up a conversation again, contentious or otherwise, but Woman repeated the entire escapade to the woman who sat down across from her at the next stop, who happened to be from Jamaica, which reminded Woman how much she loves Barbados. Or she did love Barbados, but she doesn't anymore because it's so expensive and too many rich people go there and she can't be asked to spend the same amount of money on food in Barbados as she does in London. And these buses – these buses are awful. They're set up so you can ride without paying – over half the people on this bus probably haven't paid. The old buses were better. The ones with conductors were better. But they'll be getting rid of these buses soon.

Woman: He ticketed me.

Jamaican Woman: What? He ticket you?

Woman: Yes.

Jamaican Woman: How much?

Woman: £25.

Jamaican Woman: I don't have 25p!

Woman: He's gone now.

Jamaican Woman: What?

Woman: He's gone.

And on and on…it wasn't her fault that she got ticketed, it was the woman in front of her – Polish, with a pushchair – and she pushed the button, but with the baby and everything it didn't work or she didn't notice…but they've given her the print out of her ticket usage and she always pays and there was money on her card. But she's not appealing, no point in appealing. There was a woman appealed, it was in the papers, and she lost the appeal and she had to pay the costs. So it's not good to appeal. But she's not paying it either.

Jamaican Woman: I don't have 25p!

Two things about the encounter struck me – first that the Woman and Inspector both used their natural politeness as a weapon. This seems to be an English thing. I was on a flight from Newark to London once. It was due to leave at 8am and all the passengers had somehow rolled out of bed and presented themselves at the airport by 6, only no one was getting checked in. We stood in a queue, waiting for instructions. Somewhere behind me was an older English lady, complaining with the sort of restrained indignation no American can truly muster, than she could not HEAR what was going ON. And REALLY, one might exPECT to be informed of any CHANGES to the SCHEDule, or if there was a PROBlem. Indeed, there was a problem, and the flight was delayed to the next morning, at which point she was in as persnickety a mood as the day before. She even managed to get upgraded to first class, complaining she was being stared at by people in the coach cabin: I don't wish to be looked at! Excuse me, sir, these BOYS are staring at me!

As an American, I have a good opinion of my ability to be righteously indignant, but no one can beat the Brits for polite aggression.