Mini-rant #1

I had to go to Harrod's today. The place drips money, like a treacly semen stain on golden undies. It also oozes class in much the same way as the bridal wear does in My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.

We parked around the corner, where there was a pretty little park.  We tried to cut through same park, only to find it was locked, as it was for residents only. For me, this symbolises everything that is wrong with Harrod's, wrong with the man driving the shiny black gigantathonic Maybach in front of me, and wrong with the uber-snotty desk-monkey manning the Watch Service Centre.

Key-holding residents of Hans Place, Knightsbrige: It's a pissy little patch of grass.  It's not picturesque enough to warrant anything other than a cursory glance. You've only locked it up to show how privileged you are.  I'm coming back with a spade.

Dear Mr Li:  Thank you for sharing your name with me via the means of your number plate.  You too ooze class.  Just for the record, my name is not M799 TCW.  And, even though I was in Micra, I managed to sneak it into a tiny parking space. I bet you're still driving around looking for bay capable of taking your massive, but frankly quite ridiculous, motor vehicle.

And finally, Watch Man: whose wrinkled lip and sneer of cold disdain demonstrated clearly enough that he didn't appreciate the fact that I had chosen not to spend £360 on a watch service because, quite frankly, that's the most fucking ridiculous thing I have EVER heard. Trust me, I've spoken to Spurs fans who thought they might win the title, so I know ridiculous.  I'm at home now, drinking coffee and playing with my toys. You're still at work.  In the basement of a department store.  Handing watches to people. I can only feel pity for you.  Pity, my friend. Unadulterated, pure-blooded pity.

The Best Laid Plans

Growing up, my experiences of narrative were formed by Enid Blyton, as I voraciously ate my way through the Famous Five series, then the Secret Seven, the Mystery books, and the lesser know Super Six and Fab Four* collections.

Consequently, when I first read The Catcher in the Rye at the age of fifteen, I thought I knew how books worked. So, when Holden Caulfiled mentions ‘this madman stuff that happened that last summer’ on page one, I was set up for adventure. The twisted exhilaration that followed was, however, thwarted by the failure of Holden to be kidnapped, assaulted, abused, shot at, hit, spat at or even spoken to gently and kindly, even in passing, by any kind of psychologically deranged male.  I had to re-read the opening to make sure I hadn’t imagined the madmanness, and then feel puzzled that it was written, but it had failed to materialise. 

Sometime later I realised that ‘madman’ was slang for ‘somewhat interesting’, and possibly also a subconscious manifestation of Holden’s own precarious mental state.  At the time, though, I thought J.D. Salinger's sloppy editor had just fucked up.

All of which leads, in a prestidigious segue of Merlinesque proportions,to Fiji, where I am now sitting by a pool under the pacific blue**.  I arrived a few days ago, but actually should have been here over a week ago. However,  due to a Fiji-centred cyclone, I ended up ‘stuck’ in Sydney for a week, in transit.  Obviously, when I learned of this forced delay,  the humanitarian plight of the locals preyed on my mind, but mostly I was pissed off that my planned holiday had been curtailed. Not least because I seem to have a travel curse, which often causes my plans to be thwarted.

Several years ago I was in Lyon for New Year’s Eve***, and while all that was lovely and wonderful and other uppy-adjectives, on preparing to come home I realised that I had booked my flight a day later than my girlfriend’s flight, and the planned day of rest before my imminent return to work was now to be a day of solitude in Lyon. Not the biggest grievance, but I was really looking forward to a long Sunday lie-in, a bath and some hot chocolate. It’s the little things which make the difference in life.

My girlfriend’s flight took off without hitch (probably because I wasn't on it), and I was resigned to making the most of my situation. The very, very heavy snowfall which started as I stared out of the bus window back the hostel was seemingly a bonus, as it meant I would experience the city afresh, with its new snowy coat, the following day.

Cut to the airport, twenty four hours later.  I’d made the proverbial lemonade from my lemons of time, and had wandered around the old city lost in a wistful romanticism as the snow fell heavily, covering the town in a sea of soft icy whiteness.  I’d taken the opportunity to visit the University at which Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon, had overseen the deportation of French Jews to concentration camps, and experienced that guilty mix of horror, revulsion and touristic voyeurism that comes from going to such places.  But mostly, I’d done everything I wanted to do in Lyon, and now wanted to get back to London,  to that bath and, particularly, to that hot chocolate.

Fucking Easyjet. Four hours in departures before they confimed that the plane could not take off because of the constant snowfall. Another two hours before I was told it would be four days before there would be another flight. Another two seconds before a gush of sweary invective about the piss-poorness of the service and information. This annoyance continued throughout the bus journey to the hotel they provided, during the meal, and right up until the words ‘free bar’ were mentioned, at which point my mood and the evening took on a new complexion.

Which, once again, segues nicely into my aborted attempt to get to Fiji. Because, although I couldn’t get to Fiji, I did get stuck in Sydney, which is not the worst place in the world for an unexpected holiday****. Especially when it is technically a ‘Delayed Journey’, and the insurance company is paying for all your food and booze. This time, sipping beer under the Sydney sun, eating oysters and watching the life of the harbor pass me by, I quickly got over my sense of thwarted disappointment, and my sympathy for the flooded Fijians wasn’t perpetually overshadowed by a sense of petty unfulfillment. Sunshine and magnanimity make good bedfellows. Your journey, literally and metaphorically, might not take you where expect, but sometimes,the destination can wait*****. 

Because, since that initial Salinger-induced confusion, I’ve learned this: if you spend your life waiting to meet the madman, you lose the plot. In the immortal words of Noel Gallagher: Be here now******.  Let tomorrow be.

*I may be confusing this with watching the films Help and A Hard Days Night

** I know, sometimes it’s a hard, hard struggle.

*** I mean, it’s a sometime a really, really hard life

****Although it is riddled with Australians

***** Especially if it's flooded

******Yes, I know it's somebody else's phrase. I just can't be arsed looking it up.