Sideswipe

London is the most pavementally challenged city in the world. This can make a walk down the street incredibly frustrating, as every footpath becomes a warpath of eye rolling affront; every sidewalk a side-stepping minefield of manners.

Please, someone tell me: are you supposed to keep to the left or the right?

Perhaps it was naive think that the pedestrian rules would follow the Highway Code: in this country, you drive on the left, right? Rove down most motorways and you’ll find that the majority of Brits abide by this convention. So why is there so little consensus when it comes to travelling on foot?

I have theories.

Firstly, the puddle has been muddied by the Escalator Exception. Tube tradition demands you stand on the right of the moving stairs, leaving passage on the left for more rushed or sprightly folk. This curious anomaly (How did it start? Why?) is enshrined in signs and rigorously observed. And from staircase to street, people drift.

Secondly, this is a truly international city, embracing all comers regardless of habits formed on homeland autoroutes, bahns or strade. Thus the law of the left is diluted and London’s worldly-wise citizens adopt a more middle-of-the-road approach.

Finally, I’ve found that confusion accrues when wheels roll into the picture. As soon as people mount a bike, blade or scooter, they switch to motorway mentality and ride rigidly on the left, regardless of what the pictures on park pathways suggest. Unless the wheels happen to be on a pram, of course, in which case they weave slowly down the middle, taking as much space as possible, oblivious to everyone else trying to share the way.

Don’t get me started…

Sprung

It’s cold today, but not thrillingly so. It’s dismal with desultory rain, as if the weather couldn’t be bothered with extremes, but just wants to sit gloomily, spitefully in one place. An atmospheric manifestation of my mood.
So lovely to know that on such a day as this, I can look through the clammy kitchen window and see this:



My brave Spring bulbs offering defiant promise of fragrant days around the corner.

A handbag?

This Christmas, I spent some time with a bunch of old bags in Amsterdam. Handbags, I hasten to add, before my Dutch family and friends take offence. And purses.
I’m referring of course to the Museum of Bags. (And Purses.)
Located in a stunning house on the Herengracht, an überswank canal, the museum is the result of a 30-year obsession of one Hendrikje Ivo, collector and accessory fetishist. I suppose once you hit 3000 bags, a walk-in wardrobe just won’t cut it any more.
Despite our initial misgivings and mirth (mandatory photos outside, lips puckered, underneath the ‘Bags and Purses’ lettering), the museum turned out to be a perfectly-proportioned treat. Not nearly as camp and frivolous as feared (or hoped), it presented a fascinating slice of history from the 16th Century to present; an oblique glimpse into the lives of our ancestors. It is amazing what the contents of a handbag can tell you about the society of the time. The objects women carry with them make such eloquent statements about their status and role: from the pendulous keys, scissors and thimbles on chatelaines hanging over full-hooped skirts, to belle époque fans and dance cards; from art deco powder compacts and lipsticks, to the phones and credit-cards of today.
The bags themselves are fashioned from every conceivable material, including glomesh, which reminded me of the purse Mum had which seemed dazzlingly, impossibly glamorous for 1970s Sydney. If you still have it, Mum, maybe you should wrap it in acid-free tissue paper. Or pop it on Ebay. It’s a museum piece, don’t you know.

Remembering

Every Thursday morning, Dad would get up early to make a pot of tea. He’d put a banana on a plate, with a knife, because he always used one to make a cut at the base of the stalk to make it easier to peel. Or neater maybe. He was fastidious like that, in strange little ways. So I’d come out to find everything ready for my usual rushed breakfast, the morning after my weekly dinner and sleepover at Mum and Dad’s place, before making the trek back into the city. And because he knew I had to throw things down so quickly before running for the bus, he’d pour me a mug of hot tea, then add a dash of cold water to bring it to gulping temperature. He’d always remember.
Every morning I remember too. I make my mug of tea, then take it to the sink for a quick twist of the cold tap. It’s just one small ritual which hurts sometimes, and helps. It reminds me of the care I took for granted, and which I go on missing. Two years on, I’m learning to cherish these daily moments of memory.

The Devil Wears Lipstick

Went to see a jewel of a show last night: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by theatre company 1927. A devious blend of sinister fairy tales, peep-hole naughtiness and nonsense verse, all delivered with gallows deadpan and cut glass accents, it left me feeling utterly elated.
After a mood-setting music hall Charleston, a series of darkly comic vignettes unfolded, blending white-faced actors with scratchy film and animation in a virtuosic display of precisely-timed anarchy. Edwardian nursery stories were deliciously subverted, so that children dress up as crack whores, twin sisters torment grandmamma with sticks, and the Devil does drag. Combined with 1920s touches of silent-film piano, cabaret and black bobbed hair, it was a bit like Louise Brooks reading Grimms’ Fairy Tales on acid. A perfect nightmare before Christmas.

Noooooo!

Leaving France, I thought I'd escaped the sickening sight of finger heart. I almost spat coffee when I saw the below image in the Guardian jobs pages, at the bottom of a recruitment advert for an Associate Director, PR & Communications. I wonder if you can guess which organisation thought it appropriate and desirable to represent themselves with such a nauseating abomination...

Snugg as a bugg

The first real frost overnight! Icing sugared backyard. Wandsworth Common looks anything but as I jog around it, in full winter regalia (running gloves and triple-layered top). I zigzag delightedly from puddle to puddle, cracking the ice as I steam around the great milky field. Disgruntled ducks tread gingerly on the pond, walking winter miracles on the solid surface. It’s been months since I’ve been able to go jogging, thanks to a dicky ankle, and to ease back into it on such a morning makes me hum with pleasure.
Less humming at home, where the cold really seeps and bites. No double glazing here, just thin chilly panes sapping the central heating. I find myself doing housework just to warm up. Yesterday, finally fed up with frozen toes, I stormed into M&S and bought myself the daggiest pair of slippers I could find. Tan moccasins. Dreadfully, wonderfully lined with thick faux fur. To deal with the cold, I’ve decided, you just have to embrace your inner bogan. Manky trackie daks, ratty cardigans and layer upon layer of fashion-backward poly-fleece.
In fact it seems that bogan is the new black here in London. There is one store in the glittering new Westfield London (infinitely flashier than Fountain Lakes, it seems, and blingier even than Bondi Junction) which has had to employ door bitches (seriously) to control the velvet-roped crowds clamouring to get inside. It’s the Ugg boot shop.
So there you have it. The London look for Winter 08/09: BoBogan (Bourgeois Bogan. Or should that be Fauxgan?). Top Shop shelves are already groaning with skinny jeans and check flannel shirts. Time to complete the trend with my fake fluffy footwear, which shall now be known as the mockasin.
As showcased in the timeless stylings of Michelle and Ferret.