If you have read this blog more than once, you have probably figured out for yourself that I am quite proficient at moaning. Especially about my beloved London and it’s weird and wonderful cocktail of inhabitants. It is true, I like a good moan and London gives me plenty of opportunity. But since I turned 30 I think this moaning has taken a different guise. Constructive complaining. Let me explain.
A few months ago I had reason to complain to my local council (see “I Know Who I Blame” for a bit of back-story). I first made my complaint in December and was told I would receive a response within 10 days. A fortnight later I called again and left a voice message asking why I had not had a response about my complaint. A few days later I received a letter thanking me for contacting the council via email (!) and that I would receive a response within ten days.
Christmas came and went. I received a letter telling me that my case had been heard in court (despite being informed the court summons had been cancelled due to an agreement for me to pay my arrears by direct debit – long story) and a liability order had been implemented.
I wrote a snotty email.
A few days later I received a letter detailing my contact with the council, but not actually answering my complaint. I phoned the person who had written to me and was told she had been tasked with investigating the situation but not actually dealing with my complaint. I asked her if she could look at the email and respond to my questions.
Eventually, she admitted that mistakes had been made. The council admitted that I had been ill-advised at several points throughout my dealings with them over my council tax and that it was unfortunate my case had been heard in the court where I work despite me being advised this would not happen. She asked what I wanted to happen. I said I wanted an apology.
About a week later I received an email. Attached was a letter apologising for the inconvenience their mistakes had caused me. And offered me compensation of £25.
Result!
My new found hobby doesn’t stop there. A few weeks ago I went to a Blues bar for a friends’ birthday. My friend told me to get there before 8pm to prevent me having to pay. I got there shortly after 7.
“That’s ten pounds please.”
“What? My friend has booked the bar upstairs and told me it was free before 8.”
“That’s not what the manager told me.”
Slightly bewildered and a little pissed off I went up to the party, ten pounds poorer. My friend greeted me with a beer. I told him about the door fee and warned him his other guests might not be best pleased. Confused, he looked at the bar’s programme. Quite clearly it stated that entry was free before 8.
Fired up I went downstairs and showed the programme to the doorman. He shook his head.
“Sorry, I was told by the manager to charge £10 after 7.”
“But it’s here in black and white.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, can I speak to the manager?”
As I waited for him to return with the man in charge, a handful of other revellers arrived.
“That’s ten pounds please.”
“But the website says it’s free before 8.”
“Yeah my friend told me that too.”
Naturally I had to intervene and told them about my plight. Before long I had a throng of about half a dozen complainants on my side. When the door man returned and saw our protest his face fell.
“I can’t find the manager.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” I was feeling a bit cocky with a huddle of supporters behind me.
“Yeah, what are you going to do?” someone piped up behind me.
The doorman sighed. “Well, I guess I have to let you in for free.”
Elated, I held out my hand for my reimbursement and headed up to the bar for a well-earned Whiskey Sour.
The next day I was at the British Film Institute with some friends. I enthused about my new-found hobby with real passion. Then, digging into our posh dried beany bar snacks, I came across a shard of plastic.
I was in my element. “Let me handle this ladies.
Excuse me! I found this piece of plastic in our food.” I gave the bar man a knowing look. “I could have eaten it.”
The bar man took the cup of dehydrated pulses apologetically.
“I wonder what we will get for free for that one.” I was almost giddy with anticipation.
A few minutes later the barman returned. With a fresh cup of beans. No freebie or reimbursement, just more beans. I was a little disappointed.
But don’t despair reader. I am not going to give up my right to complain. Only two days ago I filled in a complaint form after being stranded just outside Stevenage on an over-crowded train for over four hours (it made page 9 of the Evening Standard on Monday if you are interested). And today...I got my letter of apology from the council. Along with a check for 25 pounds.
You see; constructive complaining pays. Give it a go. Who knows what you might get out of it.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Spring Cleaning
Okay, I admit it. Last Thursday night I was in a bad mood. Really bad. Foul even. Why? I can’t even remember. But whatever it was, something needed to be done about it. A friend had invited me to the Porchester Turkish Bath the next day, but so deep was my funk, even the thought of lounging about in steam rooms could not tempt me away from the shadow of my own personal black cloud. I needed solitude. I needed space. I needed to be alone.
In London, these conditions are very hard to find. Unless you are stupidly rich the chances of you having more than four rooms in your flat are slim (unless you flat-share, squat or are one of those lucky sods who bought a place before the property price boom). In a vain attempt to ignore the fact that Him Indoors was within ten feet of me I hid behind my glossy mag. Its pages chirped to me about happiness, how to find contentment, and where to find it. Women wrote about where they went to escape from the stresses and strains of life; Italy, France, Cornwall. Descriptions of rugged cliff tops and windy beaches made me ache with longing. That was what I needed, and I needed it yesterday. Cornwall being a good 6 hours away by a car that I did not have, I knew this was not going to happen any time soon. Then I had a flash of inspiration. The Heath.
Thank God for Hampstead’s answer to the Yorkshire Moors. A haven for North Londoners (and probably popular for those south of the river too) it offers not only an expanse of greenery, but if you venture deep enough into its muddy, uneven, almost rustic terrain, you can find yourself situated in what has to be one of the very few places within the M25 where you cannot hear traffic or see a high rise. Instead you see trees. Grass. Squirrels. You hear birds that are not pigeons calling to each other. People smile at each other, even if they have never seen each other before, let alone become friends on Facebook.
So, by the time I retired to bed, I had a plan for the next day. Get up. Have breakfast. Get dressed. Maybe make up a flask. Then go. In the morning, Him Indoors watched me as I pulled out my London Walks book, pulled on my boots and rooted around for a suitably woolly hat.
“I thought you were going to that spa?” He enquired cautiously, aware of my unpredictable state.
“No. Don’t fancy it. Going to Hampstead Heath.”
He looked at me. “But it’s been raining. And it’s cold.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, convinced I had finally lost the plot.
“I need to clear my head.”
With that, I stuck my head phones in my ears and headed out to the bus stop. The Prodigy thudded into my ears, propelling me forwards on my mission (yes, The Prodigy. I told you I was in a bad mood). On the bus, I stared out of the window, glad of the barrier of sound between myself and the rest of the world. Then, I was there.
Dodgy nineties dance still drumming into my skull, I consulted my book and plunged in. Walking past the local secondary school, my pace slowed as I spotted some Snowbells. I stopped, slightly calmed by their simple charm. I decided to take a photo. Satisfied with my snap, I soldiered on. On the outskirts of the heath, a huddle of seagulls paddled in the mud, sheltered by a withered yet masterful tree. My pace slowed once more. Again I felt compelled to utilise my phone’s camera. Another fifty yards passed and I came across the first pond along my walk. Framed by a bench commemorating the life of a loved one and another majestic oak, I stared at the natural beauty. My eyes drank it in like a thirsty alcoholic as I trudged along.
As I approached my first incline a couple of dog walkers crossed paths, their dog’s natural curiosity turning boisterous. Through my music I heard words being exchanged. Head down, I headed deeper into my sanctuary and solitude. Following the map in my book became harder so I let my path stray whilst keeping easy landmarks within sight so as to prevent from becoming completely lost.
By the time I approached Kenwood House, I was feeling better. My eyes and nose were streaming from the cold, but my head was clearing from the cobwebs that had clouded it for too long. Grateful for the public toilets provided I helped myself to a wad of tissue and headed back south towards Gospel Oak. The album I had been listening to reached its conclusion. I decided to see how I got on without artificial intervention. It was quiet. Okay, not completely silent, but the hum of traffic was only a hum peppered with birdsong.
It started to rain when I got to the muddiest, most precarious part of my walk. Starting out as a shower it quickly accelerated into a fully fledged downpour. The pages of my book curled and mud splashed up my jeans. Him Indoors was right, the weather was not ideal for my endeavour. But I didn’t care. Memories of walking through the dales of Derbyshire with my dad every Easter flooded back. I decided, with a smile, that getting cold, wet and muddy was much more fun when it was your own stupid idea.
Towards the end of my walk I reached one of the highest points of the Heath. A few benches and a map lined the path, allowing walkers to rest and admire the city below. Through the veil of drizzle I ticked off the sights; the BT Tower, the London Eye, Canary Wharf. Satisfied I had taken in the view I headed back to Highgate Road and caught the bus down to Camden for a well earned coffee.
On the bus, I looked at my watch. It was two hours since I had left my flat. The equivalent to four episodes of Friends, a movie, a chat with a friend followed by a soak in the tub. But it had been worth every second. You see, sometimes you need to escape from city life in order to fully appreciate it, to clear your head from smog and information overload, the noise, the constant bombardment of people, cars, buildings. An investment, if you like, to prevent London burnout.
By the time I got home I was feeling much perkier. Him Indoors eyed me suspiciously.
“So, how was the Heath?”
“Good. I needed that.”
He nodded, clearly not sure what it was that I had needed, but equally relieved that I had come back refreshed, repaired and raring to go again. Next time he’s got London Fever, though, I know what I shall be recommending.
In London, these conditions are very hard to find. Unless you are stupidly rich the chances of you having more than four rooms in your flat are slim (unless you flat-share, squat or are one of those lucky sods who bought a place before the property price boom). In a vain attempt to ignore the fact that Him Indoors was within ten feet of me I hid behind my glossy mag. Its pages chirped to me about happiness, how to find contentment, and where to find it. Women wrote about where they went to escape from the stresses and strains of life; Italy, France, Cornwall. Descriptions of rugged cliff tops and windy beaches made me ache with longing. That was what I needed, and I needed it yesterday. Cornwall being a good 6 hours away by a car that I did not have, I knew this was not going to happen any time soon. Then I had a flash of inspiration. The Heath.
Thank God for Hampstead’s answer to the Yorkshire Moors. A haven for North Londoners (and probably popular for those south of the river too) it offers not only an expanse of greenery, but if you venture deep enough into its muddy, uneven, almost rustic terrain, you can find yourself situated in what has to be one of the very few places within the M25 where you cannot hear traffic or see a high rise. Instead you see trees. Grass. Squirrels. You hear birds that are not pigeons calling to each other. People smile at each other, even if they have never seen each other before, let alone become friends on Facebook.
So, by the time I retired to bed, I had a plan for the next day. Get up. Have breakfast. Get dressed. Maybe make up a flask. Then go. In the morning, Him Indoors watched me as I pulled out my London Walks book, pulled on my boots and rooted around for a suitably woolly hat.
“I thought you were going to that spa?” He enquired cautiously, aware of my unpredictable state.
“No. Don’t fancy it. Going to Hampstead Heath.”
He looked at me. “But it’s been raining. And it’s cold.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, convinced I had finally lost the plot.
“I need to clear my head.”
With that, I stuck my head phones in my ears and headed out to the bus stop. The Prodigy thudded into my ears, propelling me forwards on my mission (yes, The Prodigy. I told you I was in a bad mood). On the bus, I stared out of the window, glad of the barrier of sound between myself and the rest of the world. Then, I was there.
Dodgy nineties dance still drumming into my skull, I consulted my book and plunged in. Walking past the local secondary school, my pace slowed as I spotted some Snowbells. I stopped, slightly calmed by their simple charm. I decided to take a photo. Satisfied with my snap, I soldiered on. On the outskirts of the heath, a huddle of seagulls paddled in the mud, sheltered by a withered yet masterful tree. My pace slowed once more. Again I felt compelled to utilise my phone’s camera. Another fifty yards passed and I came across the first pond along my walk. Framed by a bench commemorating the life of a loved one and another majestic oak, I stared at the natural beauty. My eyes drank it in like a thirsty alcoholic as I trudged along.
As I approached my first incline a couple of dog walkers crossed paths, their dog’s natural curiosity turning boisterous. Through my music I heard words being exchanged. Head down, I headed deeper into my sanctuary and solitude. Following the map in my book became harder so I let my path stray whilst keeping easy landmarks within sight so as to prevent from becoming completely lost.
By the time I approached Kenwood House, I was feeling better. My eyes and nose were streaming from the cold, but my head was clearing from the cobwebs that had clouded it for too long. Grateful for the public toilets provided I helped myself to a wad of tissue and headed back south towards Gospel Oak. The album I had been listening to reached its conclusion. I decided to see how I got on without artificial intervention. It was quiet. Okay, not completely silent, but the hum of traffic was only a hum peppered with birdsong.
It started to rain when I got to the muddiest, most precarious part of my walk. Starting out as a shower it quickly accelerated into a fully fledged downpour. The pages of my book curled and mud splashed up my jeans. Him Indoors was right, the weather was not ideal for my endeavour. But I didn’t care. Memories of walking through the dales of Derbyshire with my dad every Easter flooded back. I decided, with a smile, that getting cold, wet and muddy was much more fun when it was your own stupid idea.
Towards the end of my walk I reached one of the highest points of the Heath. A few benches and a map lined the path, allowing walkers to rest and admire the city below. Through the veil of drizzle I ticked off the sights; the BT Tower, the London Eye, Canary Wharf. Satisfied I had taken in the view I headed back to Highgate Road and caught the bus down to Camden for a well earned coffee.
On the bus, I looked at my watch. It was two hours since I had left my flat. The equivalent to four episodes of Friends, a movie, a chat with a friend followed by a soak in the tub. But it had been worth every second. You see, sometimes you need to escape from city life in order to fully appreciate it, to clear your head from smog and information overload, the noise, the constant bombardment of people, cars, buildings. An investment, if you like, to prevent London burnout.
By the time I got home I was feeling much perkier. Him Indoors eyed me suspiciously.
“So, how was the Heath?”
“Good. I needed that.”
He nodded, clearly not sure what it was that I had needed, but equally relieved that I had come back refreshed, repaired and raring to go again. Next time he’s got London Fever, though, I know what I shall be recommending.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Acting Up
Last week I went to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with Him Indoors. I’d been lucky enough to get half price tickets (see January Sales blog) and managed to persuade Him Indoors to come along as Darth Vader man James Earl Jones was playing Big Daddy. I was a little nervous in case it turned out he didn’t like Tennessee Williams and moaned all the way home, but to my delight he really enjoyed it. I now have the challenge of finding a production of Streetcar Named Desire starring another member of the Star Wars cast. I will see what I can do.
I too really enjoyed the show. I’ve seen the play before and thought that this was a much better production. But, alas, I cannot say that the night did not go without an example of human ignorance.
Okay, so I imagine a vast majority of the audience got cheap tickets. But that does not take away the fact that a group of people are stood on that stage in the West End performing live. I thank them for their labours and have the deepest respect for their craft. It would seem, however, that not everyone thinks the same.
Point number one. When the music gets suddenly louder and the lights go down, this is your cue that the performance is about to start. This means shut up. It also means that if you are not already in your seats, get in them damn quickly so you don’t disturb the rest of the audience once the performance has started.
Point number two. During the performance, stay quiet. That means turn your mobile phone off – yes, really! And no, don’t just put it on silent, as when you check it during the performance your little blinking screen can be quite distracting to the people sat near you. And if you really need to eat sweets, for God’s sake go for a variety in a box rather than a rustley bag that are not individually wrapped.
Point number three. Once the performance has finished, do not get up to leave whilst the cast are taking their bow. This is not the cinema. These are not credits rolling. The actors are stood right there in front of you after performing a play that is about two and a half hours long! In short; don’t you think that it just a tad rude?
Okay. I think I have made my point. Just remember that actors, singers and musicians who perform live work bloody hard to make their performance as flawless as possible. If you can’t be bothered to show them just a little courtesy and appreciation, I suggest you just stay at home and switch on your telly. That way no-one will be offended whilst you gas on the phone and chomp though a box of Quality Street during the show. And you won’t be disturbing the rest of the audience whilst you’re at it.
I too really enjoyed the show. I’ve seen the play before and thought that this was a much better production. But, alas, I cannot say that the night did not go without an example of human ignorance.
Okay, so I imagine a vast majority of the audience got cheap tickets. But that does not take away the fact that a group of people are stood on that stage in the West End performing live. I thank them for their labours and have the deepest respect for their craft. It would seem, however, that not everyone thinks the same.
Point number one. When the music gets suddenly louder and the lights go down, this is your cue that the performance is about to start. This means shut up. It also means that if you are not already in your seats, get in them damn quickly so you don’t disturb the rest of the audience once the performance has started.
Point number two. During the performance, stay quiet. That means turn your mobile phone off – yes, really! And no, don’t just put it on silent, as when you check it during the performance your little blinking screen can be quite distracting to the people sat near you. And if you really need to eat sweets, for God’s sake go for a variety in a box rather than a rustley bag that are not individually wrapped.
Point number three. Once the performance has finished, do not get up to leave whilst the cast are taking their bow. This is not the cinema. These are not credits rolling. The actors are stood right there in front of you after performing a play that is about two and a half hours long! In short; don’t you think that it just a tad rude?
Okay. I think I have made my point. Just remember that actors, singers and musicians who perform live work bloody hard to make their performance as flawless as possible. If you can’t be bothered to show them just a little courtesy and appreciation, I suggest you just stay at home and switch on your telly. That way no-one will be offended whilst you gas on the phone and chomp though a box of Quality Street during the show. And you won’t be disturbing the rest of the audience whilst you’re at it.
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Tubular Hells
From the age of about 15 I wanted to live in London. Its energy, its eclecticism, its anonymity, it all drew me in. And then there was the tube. I thought it was fantastic! You jump on at a station at one end of London and it whisks you off through the underbelly of that smoky beast to deliver you wherever you desire. Not quite a jet pack, but pretty impressive for a girl who has always relied on rickety old buses getting stuck behind tractors rumbling through the town centre.
For the first couple of years of living in London I was lucky enough to live close enough to my workplace to be able to walk. The tube was still reserved for excursions out to see sights, meet friends, shop, party – and at times that avoided the crush of the rush hour. It wasn’t until I moved north of the river that I discovered the true Hell of the underground.
Luckily my first few months of my new commute were over the winter. Although the northern line still resembled that annoying advert about grape juice, it was bearable. Okay, so you had to strip off layers as you descended on the escalator to prevent a mid-December sauna in your wool coat, which in turn took up more precious space in the bulging carriage. But, unless you were unfortunate enough to have an armpit hanging over your nose or a newspaper poking your ear, it was doable. But the summer was another matter. Although I only had to travel on the tube for about ten minutes, by the time I reached work I started to wonder why I bothered to shower in the mornings.
When I changed jobs I was relieved to find that my new place of work was once more in walking distance. Again I was free to stroll to work every morning, headphones in, head held high, my only worry being whether the pedestrian crossing will go in my favour of not. Life is sweet.
Having said that, over the last few weeks I have been using the tube more often to attend work appointments. And I’ve actually quite enjoyed it. Not only does it give you an opportunity to read your stars and the funnies, but having wandered around in the icy cold for 20 minutes or so, its stuffy heat becomes a real comfort.
I discussed this with some friends the other night. We came to the conclusion that London would not cope without the underground and it was therefore a necessary evil. However, by heading out to work just five minutes earlier (or later, if your boss is the understanding type), you can avoid the crush and travel to work in relevant comfort.
As for me, I will relish my tube-free journey for as long as I can. And when it becomes necessary once more... well I will have to try to avoid the rush hour as much as possible. Failing that... I guess I will have to just suck it up.
For the first couple of years of living in London I was lucky enough to live close enough to my workplace to be able to walk. The tube was still reserved for excursions out to see sights, meet friends, shop, party – and at times that avoided the crush of the rush hour. It wasn’t until I moved north of the river that I discovered the true Hell of the underground.
Luckily my first few months of my new commute were over the winter. Although the northern line still resembled that annoying advert about grape juice, it was bearable. Okay, so you had to strip off layers as you descended on the escalator to prevent a mid-December sauna in your wool coat, which in turn took up more precious space in the bulging carriage. But, unless you were unfortunate enough to have an armpit hanging over your nose or a newspaper poking your ear, it was doable. But the summer was another matter. Although I only had to travel on the tube for about ten minutes, by the time I reached work I started to wonder why I bothered to shower in the mornings.
When I changed jobs I was relieved to find that my new place of work was once more in walking distance. Again I was free to stroll to work every morning, headphones in, head held high, my only worry being whether the pedestrian crossing will go in my favour of not. Life is sweet.
Having said that, over the last few weeks I have been using the tube more often to attend work appointments. And I’ve actually quite enjoyed it. Not only does it give you an opportunity to read your stars and the funnies, but having wandered around in the icy cold for 20 minutes or so, its stuffy heat becomes a real comfort.
I discussed this with some friends the other night. We came to the conclusion that London would not cope without the underground and it was therefore a necessary evil. However, by heading out to work just five minutes earlier (or later, if your boss is the understanding type), you can avoid the crush and travel to work in relevant comfort.
As for me, I will relish my tube-free journey for as long as I can. And when it becomes necessary once more... well I will have to try to avoid the rush hour as much as possible. Failing that... I guess I will have to just suck it up.
Monday, 18 January 2010
January Sales
A lot of people complain that London is an expensive place to live. Of course they are right – the rent I pay for a one bed flat could pay for a mortgage on a three be house in some parts of the country and if I find a pub that charges less than £3 for a pint I get a bit excited. But there are bargains to be had if you know where to look. Even the occasional freebie.
Take this last week, if you will. On Thursday, I went to a free workshop at a Traid charity shop. I took along an old t-shirt and was shown how to customise it into something a bit more funky. Not only did I get a new top out of it, but I got to spend an evening with a group of people who also enjoyed making stuff and learnt a bit about a worthwhile cause at the same time. Not to mention a handful of inspiration for the pile of clothes hiding under my bed that I don’t wear.
On Friday I went to Hampstead to see a play. For free. It wasn’t a play I would have seen otherwise but it was certainly entertaining. Even my boyfriend enjoyed it, despite the occasional interjection of dancing and cross dressing. Okay, so we had dinner beforehand, but with a bit of forward planning I could have got us half price pizza too with a voucher I was emailed by Pizza Express.
It didn’t stop there. In the post last week I received a free trial voucher for Love Film. I decided to give it a go. I have no intention of continuing our subscription once the free trial runs out, but watched a DVD for free on Saturday night and look forward to another one once I’ve returned it in the post. All gratis.
I’m hoping to introduce my boyfriend to the work of Tennessee Williams in the coming weeks. The main carrot I am using it that one of the actors was the voice of Darth Vader in Star Wars. The other is that I can get half price tickets for West End shows over the next couple of weeks – another email offer. £15 for seats in the stalls of a West End production? Okay, not free, but surely that competes with the offerings the rest of the country has to offer?
Let’s put it this way. I certainly intend to take full advantage of any offers out there.
Take this last week, if you will. On Thursday, I went to a free workshop at a Traid charity shop. I took along an old t-shirt and was shown how to customise it into something a bit more funky. Not only did I get a new top out of it, but I got to spend an evening with a group of people who also enjoyed making stuff and learnt a bit about a worthwhile cause at the same time. Not to mention a handful of inspiration for the pile of clothes hiding under my bed that I don’t wear.
On Friday I went to Hampstead to see a play. For free. It wasn’t a play I would have seen otherwise but it was certainly entertaining. Even my boyfriend enjoyed it, despite the occasional interjection of dancing and cross dressing. Okay, so we had dinner beforehand, but with a bit of forward planning I could have got us half price pizza too with a voucher I was emailed by Pizza Express.
It didn’t stop there. In the post last week I received a free trial voucher for Love Film. I decided to give it a go. I have no intention of continuing our subscription once the free trial runs out, but watched a DVD for free on Saturday night and look forward to another one once I’ve returned it in the post. All gratis.
I’m hoping to introduce my boyfriend to the work of Tennessee Williams in the coming weeks. The main carrot I am using it that one of the actors was the voice of Darth Vader in Star Wars. The other is that I can get half price tickets for West End shows over the next couple of weeks – another email offer. £15 for seats in the stalls of a West End production? Okay, not free, but surely that competes with the offerings the rest of the country has to offer?
Let’s put it this way. I certainly intend to take full advantage of any offers out there.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Chill Out
London is finally loosening itself from the grip of the big freeze. According to the BBC by Thursday we could be experiencing temperatures as high as 5 degrees. Heatwave! Again we might be able to pop to the corner shop without worrying about frostbite if we forget to put our gloves on. I can’t wait, and am even contemplating a walk on the heath over the weekend in celebration.
So, have the harsh weather conditions warmed the hearts of Londoners? Has community spirit returned to London after being absent since the last world war? Not likely. A colleague told me the Metro reported last week that Londoners were happy to blame the council for the shortage of grit for our pavements. Rather than taking the bull by its horns and sprinkling a bit of salt outside their front doors, they’d rather slip slide all the way to the bus stop. Besides, why should they bother salting their share of the pavement without guarantee that their neighbours will do the same?
I’m not a religious person, but there is a line from the bible that I often find myself referring to. To paraphrase; Do to others as you would have them do to you. If more people lived with this sentiment in mind, the world would be much nicer place. People would throw a bit of salt outside their houses to help prevent their elderly neighbours from falling and breaking their hips. They would move their bags off the seat next to them on the bus to allow other passengers to sit down (the three people on the upper deck of the 91 bus this morning, you have been observed) and even stand up for those less able to stand. And, you never know, when the situation is reversed, you might find that someone treats you with the same consideration. Those young people who we are so quick to criticize might pick up on the idea and think twice before putting their feet on the seats opposite them on the train and playing their music on loudspeaker. People might start to smile more. Violent crime could drop. Drug and alcohol misuse could be eradicated, just because people feel that other people care. Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but you get my drift. Just because it’s cold outside doesn’t mean we have to be cold to each other.
So, have I sprinkled salt outside my front door over the last week? Of course not. I rent. Surely it’s the responsibility of my landlord...
So, have the harsh weather conditions warmed the hearts of Londoners? Has community spirit returned to London after being absent since the last world war? Not likely. A colleague told me the Metro reported last week that Londoners were happy to blame the council for the shortage of grit for our pavements. Rather than taking the bull by its horns and sprinkling a bit of salt outside their front doors, they’d rather slip slide all the way to the bus stop. Besides, why should they bother salting their share of the pavement without guarantee that their neighbours will do the same?
I’m not a religious person, but there is a line from the bible that I often find myself referring to. To paraphrase; Do to others as you would have them do to you. If more people lived with this sentiment in mind, the world would be much nicer place. People would throw a bit of salt outside their houses to help prevent their elderly neighbours from falling and breaking their hips. They would move their bags off the seat next to them on the bus to allow other passengers to sit down (the three people on the upper deck of the 91 bus this morning, you have been observed) and even stand up for those less able to stand. And, you never know, when the situation is reversed, you might find that someone treats you with the same consideration. Those young people who we are so quick to criticize might pick up on the idea and think twice before putting their feet on the seats opposite them on the train and playing their music on loudspeaker. People might start to smile more. Violent crime could drop. Drug and alcohol misuse could be eradicated, just because people feel that other people care. Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but you get my drift. Just because it’s cold outside doesn’t mean we have to be cold to each other.
So, have I sprinkled salt outside my front door over the last week? Of course not. I rent. Surely it’s the responsibility of my landlord...
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Supermarket Sweep
Happy New Year everyone! Tis the time of year to set New Years Resolutions. In recent years I have decided to focus on little things that will improve my life rather than huge goals like get a new job/lose a stone/give up alcohol. This year they consist of watching more movies and going out dancing more often. Last year they were to visit my cousin Up North (never happened - but not technically my fault!) and to try doing my grocery shopping online.
It has been a year now and the chosen supermarket has done me proud. Yes, on occasion they don’t get their substitutions quite right and recently they forgot my hot chocolate (fear not - I had some left) but all in all the meat is not too fatty and the veg looks fresh and healthy.
The main reason I made this resolution was because Him Indoors and I had come to dread Sunday afternoons, aka Shopping Day. Not that we particularly hate shopping for groceries, but because we hate supermarkets. I like to think that I am a reasonably calm person, but as soon as I step into our local I feel my blood pressure rise. I don’t know whether it’s the dizzying array of special offers, the lighting or the cringe-worthy soundtrack, but something happens to people in supermarkets. They stand in the middle of the aisles with a huge trolley sideways on, blocking the entire aisle, or leave their trolley in front of the shelves preventing anyone else from getting their baked beans whilst they spend half an hour choosing their chopped tomatoes. They bring their entire extended family and scream at each other across the shop. They bash into you with their baskets. They get in the way.
I have to admit this does not happen in all supermarkets. However our two other local stores are a little on the pricey side, and although we sometimes pop in to get the odd treat, shopping there on a weekly basis would slowly render us bankrupt. Hence why we turned to the web for salvation.
Unfortunately this week when I returned to London after Christmas, I had not planned ahead enough to have a delivery on its way when we arrived home. So the inevitable happened.
I tried to convince myself that it would be okay. But okay it was not. It was New Years Eve and it seemed that everyone was expecting Armageddon at the stroke of midnight and were desperately stocking up just in case. My friend and I have a fairly short shopping list, but we were in there for at least an hour. By the end of the experience, I made a mental note to continue with my pledge from 2009.
You would think that was the end of it. But oh no. A couple of days late the same friend and I had run out of beer. I suggested one of the posher stores. But the local hell-hole was closer, and it was cold…
Let’s put it this way, we needed the beer when we got home.
It has been a year now and the chosen supermarket has done me proud. Yes, on occasion they don’t get their substitutions quite right and recently they forgot my hot chocolate (fear not - I had some left) but all in all the meat is not too fatty and the veg looks fresh and healthy.
The main reason I made this resolution was because Him Indoors and I had come to dread Sunday afternoons, aka Shopping Day. Not that we particularly hate shopping for groceries, but because we hate supermarkets. I like to think that I am a reasonably calm person, but as soon as I step into our local I feel my blood pressure rise. I don’t know whether it’s the dizzying array of special offers, the lighting or the cringe-worthy soundtrack, but something happens to people in supermarkets. They stand in the middle of the aisles with a huge trolley sideways on, blocking the entire aisle, or leave their trolley in front of the shelves preventing anyone else from getting their baked beans whilst they spend half an hour choosing their chopped tomatoes. They bring their entire extended family and scream at each other across the shop. They bash into you with their baskets. They get in the way.
I have to admit this does not happen in all supermarkets. However our two other local stores are a little on the pricey side, and although we sometimes pop in to get the odd treat, shopping there on a weekly basis would slowly render us bankrupt. Hence why we turned to the web for salvation.
Unfortunately this week when I returned to London after Christmas, I had not planned ahead enough to have a delivery on its way when we arrived home. So the inevitable happened.
I tried to convince myself that it would be okay. But okay it was not. It was New Years Eve and it seemed that everyone was expecting Armageddon at the stroke of midnight and were desperately stocking up just in case. My friend and I have a fairly short shopping list, but we were in there for at least an hour. By the end of the experience, I made a mental note to continue with my pledge from 2009.
You would think that was the end of it. But oh no. A couple of days late the same friend and I had run out of beer. I suggested one of the posher stores. But the local hell-hole was closer, and it was cold…
Let’s put it this way, we needed the beer when we got home.
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