Yes, I was an Olympic cynic...

...but I bloody love the Olympics. 

London, GBR, Ennis, the cyclists, the rowers, Danny Boyle's opening ceremony – just superb. GO GBR! 

I am immensely proud.

Everybody – wave your flags and feel united!

There are Union Jack flags everywhere: on products sold in Ikea, Marks and Spencer, Poundland, Waitrose, House of Fraser... every shop has something to offer. Shop awnings, street furniture, my front room... all are festooned with the red, white and blue.

Strangely, my Victorian home looks even older with the small doubled row of bunting that is tied to the top of the window (safe from little hands). It feels more, er, Victorian... OK, so I know we are about to celebrate an Elizabethan event (followed by the European football and London Olympics), but the flag flying so freely feels like something has been reeled in from the past. I suppose part of the reason is that the Union Jack was hijacked so successfully by nationalists and racists not so many years ago; yes, it is good to see it being flown for the right reasons again (though there are obviously still pockets where it is flown for dubious significance).

I'm not a royalist and I'm not a republican but I am quite patriotic. I remember the 1977 Silver Jubilee (yes, I am that old) – I was an excited schoolgirl at the time and I had a commemorative mug and everything. Perhaps we did have all the other paraphernalia around then, too. L says 'Jubilee!' every time she sees a Union Jack, and she is thrilled that 'we are going to the Jubilee'. She knows it is all to do with the Queen, and wants to wear a crown herself. 

There are hundreds of celebratory events on locally this coming weekend – parties, picnics, street events, concerts and private functions in people's homes. There is, of course, the Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant, which will involve more than 1,000 boats traversing London's beautiful and powerful river. I don't know about L, but I am ridiculously eager to witness it. This old winding river, around which this massive, diverse, intense, green, strong, characterful, inspiring, cultured city has grown, is surely a fitting focus for the Diamond Jubilee. Of course, living a five minute walk away from its leafy banks (and having worked and socialised near it for many years in the past) may have something to do with my love for the Thames. Let's raise a glass of Pimm's, dispense with any cynicism, and wholeheartedly enjoy!

April showers (and drought, obviously)...

A very high tide © Mellifluous Dark

There has been talk of drought in these here parts. And, since the hosepipe ban that started at the beginning of April, it has rained and showered and been sharply sunny in London. We have had thunder, lightning, hail, pelting rain, drizzle, sunshine, wind, stillness, blue skies, soft breezes and blankets of grey cloud – all in the space of two days. L has had a crash course in British weather; happily, she is fascinated by storms, as am I. There is nothing quite like the majesty of a dark grey cloud that comes hurtling across the sky to make you remember that we are just the equivalent of little ants on this planet. Thunderstorms and the sea quickly convey our vulnerability and create (in me at any rate) a longing for tea and hot, buttered toast, or full-bodied red wine depending on the time of day. Oh, and let's not forget the Thames, which is a short distance from where I sit. Soon, the tide will be high; it will destroy unwary car-parkers, seep through some doorways and cut off roads and pathways. The spring tides are quite dramatic and strangely hypnotic – you just stare and stare at the water swelling and creeping higher. Only a fool would underestimate the strength and quiet power of this winding river. It is not a safe place for a quick dip.

(Pic: guardian.co.uk)

I recall the drought of 1976 though I was but a youngster at primary school. Normally damp southern English earth was covered in cracks like the patterns on a giraffe. The heat was searing. My mum took a trip to South America to visit some of our family and dad painted the outside of the garage, his skin growing darker by the hour. It was hotter, on occasion, back here. The plants were dehyrated and water was reserved for drinking, washing dishes and clothes, and bathing. This year's drought, so far, sees a perfect concoction of a fledgling plant's needs met, what with the sun and water alternating that makes getting ready in the morning confusing – and even more time consuming.

The changeability of British weather – where I live, at any rate – gives me an excuse for my dozens of pairs of shoes and boots, my many coats and clothes for all seasons that bulge in a minimalist's nightmare of a wardrobe. Who are these people who can be so confident of the seasons in England that they manage to vacuum pack their winter/summer clothes away once the relevant season has supposedly passed? I've given up my longing for a capsule wardrobe. Why introduce more stress into your life? It's fun to have to take an umbrella and coat, and wear at least five layers in case the weather changes. Isn't it? L has several little coats and jackets piled on to the banister, and a small selection of footwear of varying permeability. Even if it is fiercely sunny, I'll shove a waterproof thing in my bag, because, well, who am I to know, eh? All those summer days where people have gone to work wearing flip-flops and come home with stains where the rain has bled the dye and washed their feet with London pavement water, just wouldn't be the same (just one of many reasons why flip-flops should be banned on the commute to work/at work). And, what on earth would we talk about? The economy? Nah. Too predictable by half (or three-and-a-half per cent – if we want to bring inflation into it!).

Olympic effort

Is it wrong that I am not in the slightest excited about the Olympics? With each flash of the digital Olympic countdown clock, my sigh deepens, my eyes roll that bit more dramatically and eventually I glaze over. Or feel slightly annoyed. 

I feel bad about this negativity but I am fed up when leaflets come through the door telling me I won't be able to go here and there, and am expected to not use the bloody transport system in case visitors want to travel in July/August, in my home town. (To make myself feel a bit better, I'll go to one of the free events, just so my child can witness history or whatever, partly because we'll be trapped where we live for a few days and won't be able to go anywhere.) I want to feel elated, excited and eager but it all seems so removed from me (apart from the 'you must not go here/there' stuff), that I struggle to feel genuinely moved.

What troubles me most is the amount of money we have thrown at this event, and continue to throw at it. Billions of pounds at a time where I am in the red on the second of the month, where people talk of child poverty, where we are being screwed with tax and VAT, and no pay rises. We have one child because a) we can't afford a bigger place to live,  b) we work for a living (rather than depend on the state) – and living is f*cking hard at the moment – for many people, and c) April sees a raft of bills come in and I am juggling like crazy to ensure the fridge is stocked, the car legal, the amenities paid for, etc etc etc.  

The whole "it will be an investment for the future" also riles me. Where is the extra money coming from – the cash that will have to manifest to turn the Olympic Village into habitable homes? Who will buy these homes? Who will give them mortgages? Who will cycle in the velodrome? No – wait – that's being converted at a cost of, er, how much, into... what exactly? Why do the executives have to stay in hotels on Park Lane? 

I am a proud Briton and a passionate Londoner, and I value human endeavour and achievement; none of my moaning here is anything to do with that. Please let us win more gold than ever. Please. I was happy when we won the bid – I walked around Trafalgar Square with a good friend on the evening July 6 that year. The wind blew the ticker tape that was left on the ground from the celebrations and we were both smiling and excited as the sun faded from the sky. (The next day was 7/7.) 

Methinks the emperor's new clothes are so shiny, so shimmery and glitzy, that they have blinded many to the cost of this relatively short sporting event. Is anyone holding the purse strings? Are there any strings on the purse? I bloody doubt it. The original budget was £2.4 billion. It is now forecast to be £24 billion. 

SIGH...

William and Catherine, and all that

They tied the knot on April 29, 2011, sparking many a street party

I feel I should write something about the wedding of Prince William to Catherine Middleton. If I had written a post about it a few weeks ago, I'd have peppered it with more than a touch of cynicism, forcing an attempt to make myself take note, in the interests of being a journalist and an observer of life as we know it. But as the day approached, like a slow-moving tsunami, my excitement grew, my patriotism soared, my love of romance made my heart beat faster and my fondness of this country, with its amazing history, brilliant eccentricity and strange weather, rocketed.

I was up early on the big day with my little one; her dad was playing cricket somewhere in Sussex. She stood in front of the television as William and Kate exchanged vows and rings, wondering why Mama had a sudden, and unexpected, tear in her eye and spoke a little strangely, due to the lump in her throat. I don't know why, but I was moved by the ceremony and by the hopeful faces. I was surprised that I cared. Perhaps it was the cumulative goodwill. Perhaps it was witnessing history. Perhaps I am just an old romantic fool.

I told my little girl that the man in scarlet uniform would be king one day, and that, in all likelihood, her generation would see at least three monarchs, if not four, in its members' lifetimes. She listened, carried on playing with her yellow and red plastic toy giraffe and again stood between me and the television talking to me in toddler-speak, but I nevertheless caught the main bits and pieces of the proceedings.

Later, we went for a walk and passed several street parties in full swing. The fluttering of Union flags, bunting, and the sound of chatting and laughter were wonderful. Something that could elicit so much positivity, and (republicans aside) be devoid of the cynicism that taints just about everything else we encounter these days, can surely only be a good thing...

The new Duchess of Cambridge

That's when good neighbours become...

Really. I mean. How long can a cold last?

Still, S and I had a superb afternoon and evening at our friends' home yesterday (they are our next-door neighbours). They cooked a delicious three-course Sunday lunch that started at 2pm and finished at about 10.30pm for us and the couple who live opposite. I was dosed up with various remedies, as I was determined that, having missed out on three social occasions due to mister virus, I would not make it four no-shows. And it was only next door.

The great thing is that the hostess wants to cook for us all again. "Let's do this once a month at least," she said. She is a very good cook. Her scallops were delicately browned, the lamb was tender, the frozen berries with hot white chocolate sauce... Mmm. All washed down with some red wine, prosecco, champagne, and eventually, water and coffee. I have to say, though, I slept not. I think it might have been due to the coffee, which I had weaned myself off while on my sleep programme. I will not be touching the stuff again. I don't even really like coffee. Tea, all the way. And water. Plenty of water...

It was one of those afternoons where I realised how much I love the area I live in – it's a part of London where there is a definite sense of community and friendliness (OK, except for GFG, obviously, who has incidentally ceased her noise after I knocked on the door one night and told them to quit the idiocy). So, anyway, six of us sat around the dinner table and laughed and talked about this and that and nothing in particular. When I stayed with my good friend R recently, she said that 'proper' socialising would not occur in the part of north London she lives in; she knows a few people to say hello to, but there would be no lunches and laughs. It did feel different there. It was different. More transient and hurried, somehow. But London is like that: there are pockets of friendliness, and darker places, where you wouldn't want to stop for too long. Of course, there are in-between places and the ones that are constantly changing, changing, changing. These strands keep the city youthful and interesting. I've had tasters of all of these; they make the capital what it is. I think back to the area in which I last lived (near to where I grew up) and recall hearing a scream down the street, which I later found out was a knifepoint attack. I had no idea; I was in bed, it was just a scream; it was not unusual. Then there was the gunman in the house next door. Oh, and the gangsters who left a man viciously dead in a house-cum-marijuana factory nearby. I also recall when the place I grew up in was all dairies and rag and bone men, sweet shops and bakeries and leather goods sellers. It's changed beyond recognition, some would say for the worse.

Most people I know have moved away from where I grew up. Many don't like it any more. I don't know if I will ever go back there, especially to the road I lived in. My memories are too powerful. The one time I did peek down 'my' road and saw my old front garden, I sat in my car and cried at the sight of concreted-over flowerbeds where stunning red roses, bluebells, tulips, snapdragons, stocks, dahlias, crocuses and marigolds had been tended by my parents. There had been flowers everywhere. So cared for, and now: nothing. Just cars, ugly cars, and concrete. Everyone had flowers in their gardens back then and made time to stop and say hello. We knew all our neighbours, which is why my current fellow road-dwellers are so important to me. If you can talk to, and relate to – and like – the people who share your space albeit a house or two along from your own abode, you feel you are home long before your key turns in your lock...

Spooks

Anyone here watch Spooks? It's the BBC drama based on MI5. And it is absolutely fabulous. It manages to be topical to a degree that makes me wonder when on earth they make the show – do they add scenes or dialogue in at the last minute?! It's slick and sharp, set in London, and is unfailingly gripping.

I watched the new episode that was aired on BBC3 last night and, without giving anything away, was sat there in silence as my heart thudded, skin grew clammy and my stomach swam. Sounds like flu, I know, but this was the Spooks effect. The writers are not afraid to lose characters, and this is what makes the show all the more visceral.

Hermione Norris, who plays the ruthless but razor-sharp Ros Myers, was quoted in an interview complaining about the programme's lack of budget. She said it was 'obvious', but I don't think it is. So, the sets are not all that exciting but in a backdrop of one amazing 'set' – London – it's not so bad.

Mmmm, I love it.

Where are the Mexicans?

Two men on a London bus. One on my right, one on my left.

The one on my right is very loud as he shouts into his phone. I have to turn my head away because his voice hurts as he bellows to the woman on the end of the line. I can hear her, high-pitched, trying to be heard. The man, who is about 20, says lots of things ending with, "Yes, but that's not what I had planned. It doesn't fit with my plans." And then she, thankfully, speaks for a while, which gives my ears respite. I think he is talking to his mum. I exchange the universal look (eyebrows raised, lips slightly pursed, slightly smiling) with my fellow passengers and see that they, too, think he should pipe down. They are all wearing the look.

The man on the left is asking whether there are any Mexicans on the bus. He says: "Where are the Mexicans? You can't tell me we are all British on this bus. We ain't all Brits. Are we? We are meant to be multicult. Multicult, innit? Mexicans!" Then he laughs gently. He smells of lager and his teeth are shades of yellow and black.

Biker chick reflection

I sometimes cycle on the path that runs alongside the river. I can cover two miles in about ten minutes, which isn't bad. Yesterday, I had a ride on my slightly rusty bike (the poor bike was unused for about two years after I bought it because I hated the saddle, but it's been serviced, re-saddled and runs well now).

When I've made it from my home to the river, I feel relieved. I enjoy seeing what's going on on the Thames and relish the shade provided by trees some of the way. Also, you only have to worry about other cyclists, joggers and dog walkers instead of car doors and lorries (but there are a few midges and mosquitoes that bite). I reckon I smile as I cycle, as people seem to smile at me and I'm never sure why. I probably trundle along grinning like a loon. I do this sometimes. If something good has happened, I smile (this can be as mundane as bagging a bargain in a sale or as important as having something positive happen to do with loved ones or work). If I am unhappy about something, I kid myself that I have a normal face but it doesn't fool people who know me remotely well.

However, sometimes, I wear a distant air (so I've been told). And when tired I can lose perspective as well as seem preoccupied. That happened frequently when I was bastardly exhausted while I was on the sleep programme and medication. I have fallen out with a friend who failed to understand why I was on planet la la and was acting oddly. I've re-read emails that we exchanged (she was angry, I was frustrated)... we haven't communicated for nine months. One thing she said, in response to my telling her what had been up with me, was 'Why didn't you tell me those things were happening? I'm not a mind reader'. Hmm. Good point. I chatted to S about this and he agreed that I sometimes didn't tell the whole story to people who really should know. Old habits.

So, my friend perhaps did have a point. Maybe I was guilty of being difficult to understand at times. Goodness knows, there have been days, weeks, months, when I had no idea whether I was coming or going. It was horrendous. I've decided to contact her. I'm not looking for reconciliation (though I hope for it) but I think it can only help her to perhaps not feel so bad if I (finally) tell her what was going on, in as much detail as possible, and it may help me to set the record straight, too. I'll give it a go, come what may.

Sex and the City

Today's sunny in London. The sky has been (and still is) blue with a few fluffy, white clouds here and there. People are walking around with their coats draped over their arms; after all, yesterday was coldish.

I timed my half-day off well. I did some work-work this morning, plus some housework, then took myself off to the nearest Odeon cinema to catch the matinée of Sex and the City. I was meant to see it with my friend, H, in a week or so, but I have heard so much about it that I couldn't wait. I shall go along with her when she's free – it was a very good film and I'd happily watch it again.


Having watched the entire series, and bought the (shoe) box set of DVDs, it just had to be done. I feared there would be a bit of shmaltz. There was a bit. Just a bit. But it was balanced out by a good storyline, great dialogue, fab acting and the lovely clothes. Mmm, and the shoes. Mmmmm. The red heels of Christian Louboutains flashed at the audience frequently.

I went to the cinema alone, which didn't bother me. The cinema was only one-third full at that time of day and it was nice to just lose myself in NYC for a while. I felt nostalgic remembering discussions and laughter in my late 20s and early 30s following episodes. There would be long phone calls and much mirth. I have similar chats with the same friends these days – the closeness is very much there – but the topics have moved on, as was the case in the film.

It was great. Really good, in fact. Abso-fucking-lutely fabulous, as Big would say.

London people

I was sitting on the bus, a packed bus, and looked at the people spilling out from Holborn Station during rush hour. And I thought: how wonderful, all those people in my city, helping to make it run, living here.

No agenda

Am not entirely sure what to do today. And that is a good thing.

I've worked and worked and worked and worked over the past few months. Oh, and been ill (probably as a consequence of aforementioned work).

I could go on a guided walk in the City, have tea at the National Gallery, or at the top of Waterstone's in Piccadilly, go to London Zoo, take a book to one of the parks, watch a film, go to a matinée, potter around Covent Garden, sit in my back garden, or several of the above.

I like having no agenda – for a change. There is a chance that I may receive work phone calls, but they can wait for an answer.

Get on yer bike!

I've had a bicycle, a proper adult bike I mean, for two years. I remember buying it, all shiny, and riding it a bit. The saddle was uncomfortable and after riding it about five times, I locked it up, with S's bike. And then we lost the key.

I occasionally guiltily looked at the bike, as it gathered rust and dirt from being left outside, but I didn't have any strong desire to free it. And, anyway, it was trapped, locked by a seriously hardcore chain, until S's dad came along with a chainsaw.

Eventually, this week, I took the bike to a large bike store and had it serviced. I spent a fair bit on a helmet, lock, lights, new grips and a comfortable saddle. S sprayed some WD40 on the chains of his bicycle. We went for what must have been a seven-mile cycle ride along the riverbank today. It was warm outside – the forecast is for good weather all week – but wasn't too sunny, which is good when you get sunburned as easily as I do.

The Thames was low when we set out and was lapping over the top of the bank as we rode back (having stopped in a pub for a very tasty lunch). All in all, we were out for about four-and-a-half hours. It was a relaxed day but energising and tiring, too. My legs ache. But in a good way. I've been told to strengthen my legs, and this seems to be a good way to do it.

By the river of London

It was beautiful yesterday. The sun shone (but not too hotly); it was the weekend (but not full of chores) and I had a new book to read (but was not limited time-wise).

So, I went to the riverbank and sat on a bench with my new book. A large group of sixteen year olds gathered nearby to celebrate one of the party's birthday. They weren't as noisy as some teenagers could be, and seemed to have plenty of fun without acting like fools. They tidied up as they went, too. It was nice to see.

People trailed up and down the riverbank in their dozens. Rowers drifted by, children were bought ice creams and drinkers took drinks from the nearby pubs to sit on the grass and steps.

I started on my book and, after a couple of hours, S called me and came to meet me. By this time, the antibiotics I have been taking for the horrible food poisoning had really kicked in and I felt spaced out and unwell. He suggested we go home. Not quite the day out I had in mind but it was the first time I'd been out (beyond the chemist) in two weeks, and was a bit much, perhaps.

In any case, we went home and I settled in the bright room upstairs, complete with fresh fruit smoothie, sunshine, an open window and the book. Home, sweet home...

Shirking from home?

When I tell people I am working at home, there are two main responses. Some people tell me how they'd never have the discipline to work from home. Others say "God, you are so lucky, sitting watching TV all day".

Hmm.

Well, in response to the first lot – yes, it can be difficult to motivate oneself at times. But I am my own boss. If I work quickly, I have more free time. If I don't, bang go my weekends and evenings. Also, if I don't motivate myself, no one else will, and I risk going bankrupt. Professional pride, a strong work ethic (inherited from my parents) and a love for what I do – as well as the need to earn a living – are reasons to not spend the day on the sofa.

Yes, there are times when cleaning the bathroom is attractive, or I feel a desire to go to Sainsbury's, just for a change of scene. But on the whole, I love what I do. As for the people who think I sit in my underwear, drinking cans of Stella and eating chips while watching Jeremy Kyle (who is he?) well, no. It's not like that. My days start early, they end late. I don't have anyone around to chat to (thank God for email and phones)... So, it's tough. Often, I work nine-hour days, everyday. But it's my choice and I love it.

Sometimes, I do need to see the whites of people's eyes, though. This happened yesterday afternoon. It was late in the day, and freezing outside. But I got ready (well, I disguised my casual top with a smart woollen top) and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and boots that I can wear without upsetting my knee problem, and set off for the other side of London.

My quick stop turned into a two-hour circuit of two floors, as I caught up with some people for work, and with others for a chat. It was lovely. I could have had conversations on the phone but this was good – this was proper interaction – in a shortish dose, and it was extremely valuable. At times, people need to see you to realise that the email you sent was not sent in annoyance but was simply firm and factual. And they need to know, through all the non-verbal communication that's sacrificed in email, that you are smiling, happy and are working with them. And that it's going to be OK. I left there feeling uplifted and lucky to be working with such a fine bunch of people.

S joined me after my trip to the office. We used to go out for meals in Covent Garden, central London, when we first met. I decided we needed to do so last night, just because it had been a while since we'd been to a particular, favoured restaurant. We had a lovely evening, eating, drinking prosecco and talking. I don't know whether it was the influence of yesterday's full moon or eclipse, but I found ways to unfurl feelings and turn them into plain speak (in a positive sense). Somehow, I found words to express things that I had previously failed to comprehend (these are things relating to my insomnia, things that are deep-rooted but are being eased out).

Last night, I slept like a dream. Bliss.

Sweeney Todd, hmm...

I wasn't impressed with Sweeney Todd. Maybe it's my own fault. I don't like many musicals but I thought the combination of Johnny Depp, Alan Rickman and Helena Bonham-Carter et al would do the trick and make the annoying enjoyable (and, yes, the songs were very annoying).

Most people will know the plot (I didn't) but suffice to say, I was not convinced that Depp conveyed enough madness to successfully portray a man who'd lost his wife – and was about to lose his daughter for good – and behaved so amorally as a result.

Take Hannibal Lecter. You admire him in some way. He is intelligent – fiercely so. And he snaps with humour that doesn't spring from softness. Hopkins's flashing eyes, his thin smile: a proper demon. But Depp? Well, his performance reminded me of Russell Brand, Captain Jack Sparrow, Amy Winehouse, Mick Jagger and other glottally-stoppered folk who were simply in a terribly bad mood. He was flat, I thought. There was no menace there. I didn't like to look straight at the screen during the killing scenes but it wasn't through suspense, it was just that I don't like gore.

The film is literally colourless and the CGI made it flatter yet. London, referred to in the opening song (cringe) was wasted as a character. It's a gloomy film, left me wondering what all the fuss was about, and that was that. Average: C+. Could do better.

Anyway, en route to the cinema, S and I went into a tiny pub that was so small it was like being in someone's front room. A real fire burned. We had enough time to have a drink before Sweeney Todd started – a lovely forty minutes or so that helped to make the film worthwhile. And, on our way home, we both talked non-stop, agreeing with each other and with all of the above.

London: another kiss

I love London. Love, like you could love a person. It has its faults, benefits, beauty, ugliness, character, style, brittleness, warmth and can either bring you down or inspire you.

I know which bits of London inspire me, and, as a Londoner, I know them well. Their pavements and parks have the imprint of my heels at some molecular level. I go to them sometimes serendipitously because my bus takes me past – or to – them depending on where I am working. Other places involve a short or long drive at the weekend. And there is the part of London in which I live – it has pockets of beauty that may inspire me to buy a new camera soon, seeing as my current one no longer works. The formerly trusty Canon now takes pictures that are criminally underexposed, leaving me with the hint of an interesting photograph. I couldn't live in a concrete-dominated area with no trees, parks, waterways or space to breathe.

Last week, I had so much to do that I worked on Saturday, but I don't mind doing so now and again because there is always something to do in the evening: a sweet carrot. I went with two friends to watch a third friend take part in a comedy competition. S was still away, or he would definitely have come along. We used to go to live comedy frequently when we first met – The Comedy Store in the West End was a particular favourite, and we also went to smaller, more intimate venues around the capital. We've found a couple of places close enough to where we live that we can walk there and back, which means we can drink beer (or in my case, Guinness) while we watch. The comedy contest was a good night. We complained about the standard of some of the acts and sat back with surprised laughter when some of these fledgling acts managed to make the room chuckle in a good, rather than embarrassed manner.

The night before that, I went to the cinema – the film was good but the price to get in and the cost of popcorn these days is madness (something not-so-good about London, though this may just be the case with Odeon cinemas everywhere). On Sunday, having slept pretty badly (partly due to work stress, partly due to the pain in my rib), I drove to Kings Road, Chelsea, to wander with no agenda and no one to meet – exactly what I needed.

Chelsea is fantastic. Not just because it has shops, no, but it is not crowded and feels spacious for a main street, has little cafés where you need not spend more than a fiver on lunch, and is head and shoulders above its nearby cousin, Kensington High Street. Also, I discovered a road where you can park free on Sundays – a huge bonus that is going to remain secret.

I did buy a few clothes, one of which was a jacket that had an extra forty quid slashed off the price tag at the till, rendering it bargainous. Then, I had a slow lunch while I read a magazine and people-watched before going for a walk and then driving home. There was some traffic but I didn't mind too much – the route home was fairly scenic, and once on the main road, it was very quick.

Back at my castle, I flumped on to the warm sofa with M, the rabbit, by my side and watched a DVD. Maybe you can do similar things anywhere, but in London there is a lot of what I like on offer with little effort involved to enjoy it. Maybe it is that I know where to find what I like. This city is vast. Rivers, yes rivers, incredible history, a plethora of entertainment, wide green parks, good food, style, art, culture, views, and most of all? Home.

Happy New Year

To you all, I wish health, peace, prosperity and happiness in 2008 and beyond.




If you have a talent, use it in every which way possible. Don't hoard it. Don't dole it out like a miser. Spend it lavishly, like a millionaire intent on going broke – Brenda Francis.

Compare and contrast

I was going to call this post 'art or fart?', as it seemed most appropriate when discussing the merits of modern 'art', such as many of the exhibits at the Tate Modern. After visiting the Museum of London, which was interesting and engaging, S and I spent the remainder of our day at the nearby Tate Modern, an imposing building on the banks of the Thames. We spent most of the time muttering about the 'emperor's new clothes'. People stood and stared at a plethora of paint splatterings and blocks of colour, or sat gormlessly watching poor-quality animation or short films about absolutely nothing. They looked blank and bored. Hmm.

There were some – a few pieces – that provided intellectual stimulation and hit synaptic goals, but on the whole, well, anyone could have produced some of the rubbish in there. I say rubbish because, frankly, my rabbit could have arranged her pellets in a more meaningful form. It's an old criticism that is met by cries of 'Philistine' but it's true. And it's not because I don't get it; it's that I cannot respect and cannot recognise 'art' that is in fact no step above what Joe or Joanne Bloggs could produce given some crayons and an egg box.

Yes, at the risk of being called a raging Philistine, I have to say that on this, my third visit, I again found the contents of the Tate Modern insulting, patronising and empty. You shouldn't have to (pretend to) have an existential crisis to appreciate art. You shouldn't have to dissect something to have it say something to you, or worse, try to decide what the creator of the piece was thinking! No, art should be above such theorising. When you see a rosebud, the sea, a formation of clouds, or the flowers in someone's irises, you just understand. Art should be like that, not some elite, hidden 'style' that can only be appreciated by those who have spent two years learning other people's theories at art school or elsewhere.

All that pretentious 'what was the artist trying to say?' angst leaves me cringing. Often, he or she was saying bugger all, as demonstrated very clearly by the explanations proffered by most of the artists in the Tate Modern's very own video clips of people explaining their art. It was like watching sixth-formers having crises. Painful.

It would have been funny had it not been so up its own behind, and so utterly vague. Artists saying things like: 'Well, uhm, I create these things because I like them,' and 'I, erm, like just seeing what happens when I throw colours together'. Well, that's fine: they are having fun expressing themselves through paint or balancing toilet rolls or whatever, but to read into such simple desires humanity's place in the cosmos is seeing a fine arrangement of regal clothes when the king is in fact walking around with his nadgers hanging out in the breeze.

Art turns me on when the creative work that has gone into it is relatively obvious, when you can speak about it without resorting to psychobabble, and it shows skills that leave you in awe, knowing that someone blessed with gifts that can't be reproduced, and who can fashion originality that doesn't reek of pretension, has produced beauty.


Walking out of the Tate, on to the Millennium Bridge, seeing the majesty of the glittering Thames, St Paul's Cathedral, the other bridges spanning the artery of London, and the blue lights twinkling on trees – Christmas and otherwise – was infinitely more delicious to the senses than most of what was on display the Tate Modern. Such a vista needed no labels.

The smelly man

I was lucky enough to get a seat on my bus to work this morning. I put my bag down and a woman plonked her wet umbrella on it. I wasn't pleased. As I settled down, an oldish man using two sticks as an aid embarked the double decker. As the bus passed the river, I stood up and offered him my seat, and stood nearby. He said thanks and sat down, seemingly amazed.

As he passed me to get to the seat, I smelled the stench of one who has lived on the streets. The woman who had placed her wet brolly on my bag glowered at me as he took his place next to her. The man played with what looked like a toy mobile phone as the stink of urine seeped from his very being. But he was just a man. What difference does it make that he was a down-and-out? He had more manners than the woman had with her frosty features and stony glare. It made me smile.

Eventually, the wet-umbrella-woman got off the bus and the man tapped me on the shoulder to offer me a chance to sit. I was getting off soon, so refused, thanking him. His blue eyes sparkled.

I wondered what he had looked like when he was a baby and his mother had held him close and breathed the very skin of him. I wondered if anyone did anything these days but simply walk away.