Friday. I wake up feeling less than clever due to what should have been a quiet night out with gig included. The decisive factor that determined a change in this plan was I got a phone call in the morning which announced I would be employed again from Monday, putting two months of struggles (and several more on the verge of schizophrenia) to an end. My flatmate – who I believe secretly enjoys seeing me turning into a raging alcoholic – did the rest. So here I was, sitting on my sofa, slightly hangover and with a firm resolution to do absolutely nothing all day to make up for two months of job interviews and soul-destroying jobhunting 10am-11pm. Aforementioned flatmate was at home as well, trying to write her PhD thesis hidden behind a Macbook, a pile of photocopies and a chemistry book the size of the Lindisfarne Gospels. I, from my privileged spot on the sofa, was looking at her with pity in my eyes thinking ‘thank God academia doesn’t own my soul anymore’.
On British Men.
A few days ago I was having an interesting conversation on English language with a friend, and I was pointing out how English tends to be much shorter and concise than Italian. She then joked that, if it was an English man speaking, you wouldn’t even get an answer at all, which made my eyes roll and led the promptly reply ‘don’t even get me started on English men’. My friend suggested I’d put my thoughts on the subject down in writing for posterity to read, and here I am keeping my promise.
Pointless thoughts on men and umbrellas
Of all the completely irrelevant social behaviours I observe when I’m around, I’ve decided this one needs to be shared.
The statement
British guys seem to enjoy going around with unnecessarily big umbrellas.
Discussion
I have noticed a singular adversion for reasonably small and practical umbrellas in male specimen in this city. The tendency seems to be either not carrying umbrellas at all (it’s not raining, it is merely a mental projection of your most subconscious prejudice about England) or carrying beach-sized umbrellas I associate with my granpa when he used to bring me a sandwich every morning before going to school. Now, I have tried giving myself explanations for this, including a physics-based reasoning according to which a small umbrella, if the guy in question is very tall, might just help him to cover his head. But other than this only explanation, I remain in the dark. Is it megalomania? Is it an deeply rooted, socially shared belief that small umbrellas are just for girls because they’re pretty? Is it another manifestation of size anxities that would make Lacan and his theory of the Phallus giggle in a corner?
So far, my question remains unanswered.
Britain and food
It looks like tonight is official Diet Day on tv. After two years and a half in this country, I’m still appalled at all the ‘healthy food’ campaigns you get bombarded with – and not just right now, when new years’ resolutions are still firmly on people’s mind. Surely, you don’t need a tv programme to tell you the basic mechanism of marketing is telling you half-truths, so if you see a massive packet of butter telling you it’s good for you because it contains omega 3, you MUST know it still doesn’t make butter good for your health. I’m sure most people know this, but if they feel the need to broadcast so many programmes on the matter, then it means it really is an issue.
North London still wins.
Staying at home yesterday morning was so tempting. First, because walking all the way to the tube with snow in your face wasn’t that appealing. Secondly, because outside it all looked too beautiful to think I would have to waste a day in a dark office in Hammersmith. Stanhope Road goes down, on a very steep hill a few metres after my block, and then up again right where a little bridge crosses the road. Trees and taller buildings on one side form some sort of frame to the road itself which, normally, wouldn’t be anything worth seeing. This morning it was all completely covered in snow, a white thick layer that made me want to grab a plastic bag, put it under my bum and slide down the road as I used to do on the mountains when I was younger. I looked at the little bridge in the distance, turned and found an even more beautiful Hornsey Lane. As I was walking down the road to get to the tube, I thought I would have loved to just spend the day outside, walking up and down those roads. I wanted to take photos, but I didn’t have time to stop. I heard the familiar noise of the W5 climbing (that bus doesn’t run, it climbs, probably pulled by agonizing hamsters) the road, and promptly jumped on it because being on a bus was better than drag myself with snow up my ankles for the tortuous roads leading to the station. Like a broken record, I kept watching out of the window and think ‘this is stunning, this is stunning’, but considering the tube was running I had no excuses to stay at home or even get in late.
The disappointment of not being able to spend a day playing was partly compensated by the fact nothing, not even a light dusting was awaiting for me in Hammersmith. London has weird atmospheric phenomena.
More morning pictures:
International commuting
If today, 5 January 2010, someone still has the temptation of asking me if I had a quiet and relaxed time over Christmas holiday, I will restrain from kindly inviting them to go to a very crowded place largely known in Italy called Fanculo. Other than the usual stress of running around like a headless chicken trying to see everyone, both flights were days to forget. Flight #1 was delayed by over 3 hours because of 3 inches of snow, clearly a considerable amount which can force an international airport like Heathrow to cancel all domestic and European flights. Flight #2 was surprisingly ok in itself and only delayed by 40 minutes, but a cold and blocked ears turned the last 30 minutes of flight in a painful agony – not to mention further 24 hours of deafness.
The only good thing about last flights of the day to and from London on 22 December and 2 january respectively is the social scenario. Italians living abroad and coming back home for Christmas on the former, English coming back from holidays (and a few Italians going back to London) on the latter. Needless to say this changes completely your flying experience.
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow..
Weather forecast says it might snow tomorrow and I eagerly, fiercely hope for a relatively big snowfall like last February. Partly, because I could very nicely do with a day off playing with the snow outside again, but above all because seeing London’s reaction to snow was an experience I will treasure for the rest of my life.
I am a city girl. Born and raised in Rome, then moved to London – never lived anywhere else. I am not used to snow, and believe it or not I physically saw snow for the first time when I was 14. I started going skiing on the Alps every year then, and I suppose I saw all the snow I hadn’t seen for 14 years. Last time it snowed in Rome it was the day of my Christening (that they had to postpone as people couldn’t leave their houses, by the way), which means 25 years ago. It never, ever snows in Rome. When there’s sleet, the whole city stops, not because of actual problems, but because everyone goes out of their cars, stops in the street, comes out of houses and shops, looking up to the sky and going ‘ooooooooh’. So, this was to say I can’t deny I do sympathize with Londoners’ fascination with snow.
Now, what happened last February was fantastic. I woke up and thought ‘wow, it’s so quiet today’. Then opened the curtains and thought ‘BLOODY HELL!’.
Love
Sometimes I think my relationship with this city is, to all intents and purposes, just like a relationship I would have with a significant other. It was love at first sight, it grew over the years, I left my old life behind for it, it made me cry, laugh, smile, it changed my life and everything I was in such a deep way I will never be able to put into words. Admittedly, it is hard work: I had so much from it, but I had my disappointments as well, and sometimes you just want to scream you’ve had enough. You lose trust, but just when any scenario looks bleak and hopeless something happens, no matter how small and insignificant, and you fall in love again. My flatmate’s boyfriend once told me it doesn’t take much to make me happy, and I guess it’s true – it’s always the little things, isn’t it.
Friday
I love mornings like this.
Lunch in Old Street
Despite technically having an hour all for myself, I rarely go out of the office for lunch. It happened a few times in the past that we decided to have a post-lunch coffee at the bar down the road, or reward ourselves with a bagel or curry in Brick Lane. The truth is we used to bring our lunch from home almost every day, and eat at our desks. It makes me miss lunch breaks while I was working in London Bridge back in the day, where you could go out, take a bit of fresh air along Southbank and choose from a myriad of restaurants and take aways. The situation gets possibly more depressing in Old Street. But today I decided that, if I had to be in the office for the glory, then I would use every second of that hour I am allowed to for lunch break. I left my ham and carrots in the office and ventured out of Britannia Walk. There’s nothing around there, so I ventured towards the station. Local shops, expensive restaurants a bit further down…nope. I ended up in a Starbucks. Yes, even more depressing than eating at my desk, I know. I took my ridiculously overpriced sandwich and sat at the window with a book. Soon enough, my attention was drifted from the book to the people passing by.
People-watching must be the most popular (and often unconfessed) daily activity of a Londoner. As an Italian, I’ve always found this fascinating, probably because if you were in Italy sitting somewhere on your own watching around, there would only be two possible scenarios: someone would come and smash your face with a polite ‘what the fuck are you looking at, eh?’, no matter how discreetly you were looking around, OR they would look at you back as if you were a freak. Sometimes both. In Rome, sitting by a window in a coffee place, on your own, watching outside, would be almost socially unacceptable. However, this is London, so different scenario. The people you see around Old Street station can be divided into two categories: men in smart dresses and women in tight dresses, or musicians. Common feature is they all run, they run like mad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more fast-paced place than that bit around Old Street station, not even King’s Cross at rush hour. There is just something about the way people come and go that makes me think this is the best visual representation of London you’ll ever get. As ridiculous and cliched as it may sound, I like trying to imagine what everyone does, where they are going, what instruments they’re carrying (it isn’t always so obvious!). You get so engaged with the scene you’re looking at you forget the unbereable noise of cars, buses, trains, heels on the pavement. To me, it feels a bit like being in a bubble with jazz music in the background, drifting out of my life for a while and watching it from outside, reflected in the (ordered) chaos of the people running around and the buses – what is, in short, my and everyone’s daily life in this city.
Today, in arguably one of the ugliest places in central London, I found some sort of inner peace.
