My weekend in London starts with a practical session at work on Friday afternoon, focusing on product innovation. Pleased with my own input, my colleagues and I made our way to Lautasaari, an island west of downtown Helsinki, for an evening at a cooking school run by two Irishmen and one Scotsman. Sixteen of my colleagues separated into groups, our task to create a six course French-themed meal which included mushroom cappuccino, Salmon chervice, mint sorbet, fillet mignon, strawberries and cream, and chocolate mousse. What an ordeal it was! Not the preparation, but the stuffing-if-it-all-into-the-stomach!
I was relieved when Bree came to collect me just after 10pm, by which time I was already woozy, my belly close to bursting. After a restless night, no doubt due to too many calories humming through my very being, I woke up at 6am, bound for Helsinki airport. Recently, the weather in Helsinki has been absolutely awful, raining for what feels like forever.
At the airport, I quickly check-in, pass security and start shopping; I had recently received some Finnair tax-free shopping vouchers as compensation, after biting onto something sharp, which I found on an in-flight meal. During the flight to London Heathrow, I doze, although I was surprisingly ravenous even after last night’s feast. I quickly – and gladly - gulped down a ‘processed’ breakfast of tasteless sausages and rubbery potatoes, accompanied by a rich, dish-saving tomato sauce.
The plane landed just before 9am, and the plane did a couple of laps around the humongous airport, desperately trying to find a space. As usual, the luggage took ages to emerge at the reclaim area, but I think it is slightly forgivable at the world’s largest airport, which serves millions of passengers each year.
On the Underground, shuttling towards London, it starts to get interesting. Already at Heathrow Airport, a family of dregs board the train; the parents are dressed in tracksuits, with three teenage kids trailing them like monkeys, their shoulders slouched, their boredom apparent. The eldest kid is wearing a shell suit, her complexion indicative of adolescence, dotted with spots. She reminds me of
Little Britain character Vicky Pollard. In fact, she has a matching demeanour, dominating her siblings and bellowing “
whatever!” more than once.
At Hatton Cross, two guys hop on the train, and sit down opposite me. They are gay; you can tell by how carefully they sit down. At the same time, however, they are quite masculine and the guy on the left catches my eye; he’s tall, broad, wearing a rugby shirt and a sports cap, all the hallmarks of someone who works out and is in medium-to-good shape. He smiles, I politely smile back.
Well, it would be rude not to! I sense that the guys are ‘together’, but whenever the guy on the right is looking away or fidgeting with stuff in his rucksack, the other guy is checking me out.
Really, he is arching his eyebrows at me. I blush, but find it hard to ignore the guy’s advances. Several stops later, the guy on the right stands up and walks away to the right, his back facing whom I suppose to be his partner. The guy on the left – the flirter – stands up, leans towards me and whispers in my ear: “You’re handsome, but it can’t happen!”, gesturing towards his boyfriend still making his way towards the exit.
The minute the gay guys left the train at South Ealing, I felt my heart finally release a load of blood that had been suspended somewhere, a result from the stranger’s shockingly, overt openness. I guess I was in a state of shock for, as the train started to move again, I could feel my head pulse, gradually dissipating down my neck and arms.
What a hot experience! That has never happened to me in a public place before.
A couple of stops later, a young black girl hops on, somewhat overdressed in furry boots and black gloves, sporting a funky, camouflaged-styled cap. Bopping away to the music on her i-Pod (you can tell it’s one of them because of the prominent white cables trailing from her jacket towards each ear), she is rapidly making her way through a bumper book of Sudoku puzzles.
To my left, a girl in her mid-twenties is flicking rapidly through a stack of Christmas gift-related catalogues she has accumulated in such a way as if to convey that there is just simply no time to waste! When I arrive at Green Park, I make my way to the Victoria line and board an empty Victoria Line carriage. Within minutes, I arrive at Victoria station with seven minutes to spare before my train leaves. A thought enters my mind: seven minutes to spare would be just enough to capture some photos for my photography course. I take an escalator one-floor up above the crowd of passengers rushing to-and-fro.
I quickly start to snap away, capturing movement with a slow shutter speed, passengers scuttling beneath the soaring ceiling of the old, monumental station. Within a minute, unbeknownst to me, three guards had assembled behind me. Passengers who were happily chatting on my left and right suddenly became silent, standing still, grabbing my attention. I slowly turned round to face the guards. I was told that photography was forbidden, for security reasons. I huffed and put away my camera, the compliant and non-provocative type.
As I made my way towards my waiting train, I began to wonder if it will be a security risk to pick your nose in public in England one day in the not-too-distant future. I quickly boarded my train and, not able to wait until my arrival, I called my friend Nick to tell him what had happened. He is actually surprised, but then he is not. In hindsight, neither am I given the way this bloody country is run! Photography is an art and, in a democracy, the arts are not suppressed in any way. It reeks of the Hitler book-burning of books written by Jews.
After a brief glance at the day’s newspaper, I have arrived. I make my way, on foot, towards Nick’s place. On the way, I notice a Newsagents which is advertising Polish bread for 99p, no doubt an indication of the ever-increasing population of Poles in Britain. Bizarre! At Nick’s, I am greeted with tea and, to my delight, pork pies. English pork pies! I savour the not-so-health pies, much to the distaste of Nick’s German and Czech flatmates who, enjoying the fruits of Britain’s economy, seem to actually dislike anything English. While Herman the German finishes some work, Nick and I talk about the state of the world (hark at us!), before the three of us head to London’s West End.
We head to Warren Street and make our way down Tottenham Court Road until we reach Oxford Street. In true German style, Herman thinks nothing of Nick and I waiting around for him to complete his slow-as-a-snail shopping. After a while in Virgin Megastore - where I saw a petit, Asian guy buy next year’s Cliff Richard calendar! - we head towards Old Compton Street, a retreat for gays in the heart of London’s tourist district. We end up skinhead-infested Comptons, a bar for men who sport that hard, skinhead look. As usual, no one notices me and I notice no one. As it were, we were just three more baldies among a mass of baldies.
As I downed my Smirnoff Ice, I suddenly wonder if Cliff Richard has died yet. I’m too embarrassed to ask the boys so I just listen in on their chatter, tiredness slowly engulfing me. Already, darkness was approaching and we made our way back home, stopping briefly at Marks & Spencers at Victoria Station to buy some ready-made food for dinner. On the train, Nick kindly offered M&S chocolate to passengers, an innocent gesture proving what a diamond he is.
Dinner consisted of M&S jumbo chicken with coleslaw, downed with a glass of New Zealand white wine while watching the long-waited The Kylie Show. Over the course of an hour, the petit princess of pop showcased some of the songs from her forthcoming album, ‘X’, whilst participating in comedy sketches during which Jason Donovan pretended not to recognize her, and she and younger sister, Dannii, engage in a Dynasty-esque catfight to counteract, using humour, any public belief that bitterness exists between the two sisters. Later, we watched the movie, Perfume, but I felt asleep halfway through sometime around midnight.
I wake up the next morning, and it is Remembrance Sunday, a solemn yet important day to commemorate all citizens in the Commonwealth who have died in battle. While I don’t personally mark the day in any way, it’s a vital opportunity to take a few minutes out to be thankful for those who have fought on our behalf and helped shape our modern, peaceful and relatively harmonious way of life.
After a breakfast of tea of biscuits, Nick and I take a bus to Waterloo where we have Burger King before setting off along the River Thames towards the Tate Modern on the South Bank. On the way, we pass masses of tourists, locals on a Sunday run, regulars walking their dogs. At the Tate Modern, we head towards the seventh floor where a café affords visitors with a marvelous view of St. Paul’s Cathedral on the North Bank, the pedestrian-only Millennium Bridge linking the South with the North. We grab some coffee and share the only seat we can find, half an arse on either side of a bright white, arty-fartily moulded chair, which clashes with the rich, dark brown wooden floor.
We marvel at Columbian-born Doris Salcedo’s Shibboleth in the Turbine Hall which graces the Tate Modern’s main area. A long, snaking crack stretches the vast length of the Hall. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a ‘shibboleth’ is a word used as a test for detecting people from another district or country by their pronunciation. In retrospect, it is a way of separating one people from another.
Apparently, according to the pamphlet handed out to visitors, the supposed work of art ‘might well prompt a broader consideration of power’s divisive operations as encoded in the brutal narratives of colonialism, their unhappy aftermaths in postcolonial nations, and in the stand-off between rich and poor, northern and southern hemisphere’. I am thinking: go back to Columbia and stop spouting a load of old bollocks!
Back outside, we pass the impressive spider-like sculpture by an artist whom I can’t remember and make our away across the Millennium Bridge. Nick has never walked across is before. It’s windy, it’s grey and, before us, stands the humongous St. Paul’s Cathedral.
I remember coming here with my Grandmother as a child. She used to drag me all over the city and I used to beg for a break, not wanting to continue. As an adult, however, my Grandmother has installed an appreciation in me of one of most internationally, instantly recognizable cities in the world.
We hop on the tube on the Central line, hopping back off again at Tottenham Court Road for a quick drink at Comptons once again. The crowd is smaller today, the usual patrons no doubt sleeping off last night’s partying. Later on, we make our way to Victoria and, from there, take the train to Streatham. At the local Odeon, we meet up with Herman and the Czech and the four of us watch Elizabeth: The Golden Age, starring Cate Blanchett who reprises her role as the tudor queen, Elizabeth I.
I am a fan of that period, but as I watched the film, I couldn’t help but think I have seen this before. After all, how many movies have been made about Elizabeth now? Having said that, it had a unique angle for the movie depicted the Virgin Queen’s relationship with adventurer Sir Walter Raleigh before, during and after the Spanish invasion which would see the defeat of Phillip II of Spain’s Armada.
Later, we went for dinner in Slurp, a canteen-like restaurant on the High Street, which gave you a choice of Chinese, Japanese or Thai food. I opted for a House Special, a mix of prawns, chicken and beef, which I downed gladly. I noticed a very retro yet simplistic, multi-coloured painting on the wall and complemented the waiter on the piece. He debated its meaning with me and, as we left the restaurant, Herman pointed out, somewhat astonished, that he thought the waiter liked me. “And why shouldn’t he?” I retorted. Herman has a very black-and-white, strict-as-hell view on what is right and what is wrong and he thought that the waiter’s engagement in conversation was somewhat wrong. Bear in mind that this is after he insinuated that I was with an older man, Bree, merely for his money. Why are some people so rude? What can’t people maintain a degree of decorum like Nick and I?!! Back at the house, we watched old episodes of Absolutely Fabulous and I delighted in watching Edie propose a ‘Stupidity tax to tax the stupid people’!
Monday morning came rather quickly. Too quickly for my liking, actually. Rather than feeling rested, I woke up after 9am, somewhat grumpy. Nick and I said our goodbyes – he had to go to work and I had a hospital appointment to attend to. I left shortly the house shortly after Nick, towing my suitcase behind me as I walked to the station. When I arrived at Victoria, I saw two guys lugging matching luggage featuring Dalmatian-style print. It was a bit of a scene, which attracted the attention of a lot of people! At Marks & Spencer’s, I bought a Christmas Pudding (to take back to Finland) and a packet of Wine Gums for my Mum. As I waited in the queue to pay, a girl in front of me anxiously fidgeted with a pie, anxious to pay and eat, seemingly on the bring of starvation. She noticed my stare, and confirmed what I was thinking by telling me she was bloody starving.
At Green Park, I walked towards Virgin in Piccadilly where I bought Kylie Minogue’s new single, 2 Hearts, as well as Catherine Tate’s new DVD. At the Trocadero in Leicester Square, I bought little cardboard boxes in the shape of a red double decker London bus, which I filled with sweets for my niece and Bree’s nephews. At Café Nero in Old Compton street, I settled down with a black coffee and watched The Kylie Show on DVD, which Nick had kindly created for me. I watched Kylie give Dannii a big wallop once again, with Dannii throwing Kylie across the room. Hilarious stuff! As I momentarily looked away from the screen, another star walked in the room: actor James Nesbitt from Cold Feet. My sister fancies him like hell, but he looks just as bad in real life as he does on screen in my opinion!
I moved on, heading to Blackwells book store in Tottenham Court Road. My mission was to check out Beowulf, which was being promoted at the next big movie blockbuster all over London. Curiosity had got the better of me and I went to check it out. Within minutes, I found out that Beowulf has been adapted from what is a Medieval poem. I totally lost interest. Like I said, curiosity – rather than genuine interest - had got the better of me. '
In hindsight, I think my visit to Blackwells served a deeper purpose because I got talking to a colored girl there. I know it’s political incorrect to refer to someone primarily by their colour, but there’s a context: she is from South Africa and is returning there in a matter of weeks. Even more significantly, she will be back in Cape Town just when Bree and I will be visiting there from the middle of December. We had a really deep chat about cultures, living abroad, life in South Africa and England. She was a lovely girl, but I sensed that she looking forward to the no-doubt-better-weather of South Africa. We swapped contact info after I indicated that I may visit Stellenbosch, South Africa’s second oldest town which is also in the heart of the winelands.
It was time for me to rush. Time was passing by very quickly and I had to get to King’s Cross for a 2 o’clock appointment. I took the Piccadilly Line tube from Leicester Square to Kings Cross, getting to the Royal National Throat, Nose and Ear hospital in plenty of time. I settled down in the reception area, conscious of the fact that I had my large suitcase resting beside me. I got out my Photography Course book and did some studying while I waited, which wasn’t for long. My appointment was rather straightforward. Basically, because of my inability to adopt to Advanced Bionics’ new software, Harmony, an effort was made to replicate my old program in the new device so that I could benefit from the firm’s device which boasted better aesthetics and battery life. After a brief hearing test and a re-mapping session, I was good to go. And go I did, bound for my parents in North Hertfordshire.
I lugged my luggage back to Kings Cross once again, boarding the train just two minutes before departure. I listened to music as the train made its way out of the city and into the countryside – the music sounded wonderful once again. The sun was heading towards the horizon, casting a warm glow on the faces of the passengers. I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths ahead of my arrival at the family home.
When I arrived, my father pulled into the station car park at exactly the same moment. On the ten-mnute journey to the house, we rapidly updated each other on family news and life’s happenings. All seemed fine and, later, my Mum would give me a blow-by-blow account of who, in the family, had done what, who had been where, what had happened to who and lot’s of other gossip. I saw my niece, just four years old, and growing up nicely – she’s so much easier to chat with now. My sisters were there, and so was my brother-in-law. Together, we ate Steak & Kidney pie with vegetables and lashings of gravy. Yummy!
One-by-one, those who didn’t live in the house left and, eventually, it was just myself and my parents. Within an hour or two, everything that needed saying had been said so I read the paper, took a bath (god, I love bathtubs) and went to bed.
When I woke up the next morning, my mother and I visited some local stores; there were some goodies I wanted to take back to Finland. When we return back to the house, my Dad had prepared a fried breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, beans, toast and jam! When I stood up, I was stuffed, but I looked at my watch and realized that it was time to leave. My father rushed me to the station, but not before my mother grabbed my hand and asked if I was truly happy. She always does this and yes, I said, I am happy!
Before long, I was back on the train, the ninety-minute journey to Heathrow over in a flash. On the Underground, there was no man flirting with me, no-one proving what a whiz they were at Sudoku nor were there any Vicky Pollard look-alikes. I busied myself by reading the headlines of the day’s newspaper. This is what the media had to say on Tuesday, 13th November:
Gordon Brown gets touch in Iran threatening sanctions (not before time either!); Bird Flu returns to England resulting in the culling of 5,000 Christmas turkeys; 24 hour drinking continues (boringly) to be condemned; Acne treatment (the same medicine I took in the late 90's scarily enough) has been proven to cause depression and has, so far, resulted in 19 suicides and 31 suicide attempts; the debate continues on whether overweight women should continue to get IVF treatment on the NHS (why should taxpayers pay for fat people to get pregnant?); 22 year-old Formula 1 driver, Lewis Hamilton, is writing an autobiography (soon, primary schools kids will be writing autobiographies); Britain declared the ‘dustbin of Europe’ and running out of Landfill space; Chelsy Davy (who?) splits from Prince Harry (do I care?); Britons have the worst state pension in Europe with an estimated 30% of average working pay to look forward to at 65; and, meanwhile, 2.5m pensioners will struggle to stay warm this year due to the increasing cost of energy. I’m thinking: nothing ever changes!
By now, I am on the plane and I’m heading back ‘home’ again. I am given a complimentary copy of the Daily Mail and I refuse to even look at it. I mean, why would I? It’s full of and depressing news. So, what do I? I watched Kylie on DVD again, and the gloom falls away!
