3/7 & 4/7

This one will not surprise many. It is perhaps one of the primary incentives for my push to the green and pleasant land: my preference for colder climes. As a child I yearned for that "rainy day" which almost never came. This is, in my mind, the most likely reason for my inability to save anything. Least of all  - nay, especially - money.

I adore a frosty morning, one so cold as to make the thought of leaving the bed quite abhorrent. To sit by the fire, pot of tea (or glass of sherry) and good book in hand. Or perhaps even a very good film to watch. My pleasures are generally the indoor pursuits. But equally too, I love Winter walks. Rugging up and stomping about in Wellington boots - such fun. The sunny Summers sadly do not suit me. I burn very easily, my hay fever is quite debilitating and I do not suit swim-wear. Or shorts. Not that I think they suit many people any way. But mostly, I dislike the heat. I cannot stay cool. In the Winter it's fine, one dresses appropriately - and rather more smartly - and there you are, quickly warmed up.

Not so in Summer, particularly when one lives without the luxury of air conditioning. At it's worst, I cannot sleep. This was rather brought home to me the previous week, on a Balinese sejour. A family holiday, all rather lovely in theory. Escaping the Wintry "depths" for heat and humidity, endless pools, food, cocktails and shopping, it sounded rather wonderful on paper. However I had forgotten how little much of the previous list suits me. I didn't even want to drink the cocktails, such was my misery. Oh dear that does sound oh so pathetic. A free holiday and such was my attitude. I hope my behaviour wasn't too ungrateful, especially as I insisted on cutting my time there short by a week. I simply couldn't have faced two weeks of the place, when all I wanted was my own warm bed, my protector from the winds and the rain. (Yes there was actual precipitation).

Some like it hot...

Linked, but quite worthy of being in its own category, is snow. I just adore snow. Cannot get enough of it. I may have mentioned I grew up in a warm climate, somewhere along the line. Shocking, I know. So I imagine my lack of experience with cold and precipitation has had some influence here. In fact I didn't see snow until I was fourteen. It was on a rather gormless school trip to the nation's capital - a city built by bureaucrats for bureaucrats, it is a civil servant's wet dream (do excuse the vulgarity). To encourage the students to engage with the historical and political bent of the tour, we were also treated to a spot of skiing, which is of course where the introduction to snow came in.

I could perhaps describe our meeting as something along the lines of falling in love. It was certainly an immediate infatuation, one which lingers to this day. There is something about snow's ability to transform a landscape entirely, to silence, to cleanse, to purify. It was also the source of a great deal of fun. A hopeless skier, I am nonetheless enthusiastic and devour the slopes rather like the cheese boards and mulled wine I enjoy afterwards. Perhaps not the mulled wine when I was fourteen, I think it was most likely a very strong hot chocolate.

The mere sight of snow will reduce me to a level of giddiness, silliness and frivolity not known since nursery. It is like seeing a long lost friend, and much like all good friends, one can pick things up exactly where they were left off. I was blessed to experience some of the snowiest English Winters known for years, for which I'm too grateful. Of course, I pretended to tire of the disruption it would always cause. But secretly I was always very amused and rather pleased. The Christmas I spent in Sweden was something else, in terms of the volume of snow, the level of cold and a remarkable ability for a long-suffering population to soldier on. A myth Mr Fry once debunked, was the nonsense that the Swedes suicide abnormally more than anybody else. If you cross the Baltic to Lithuania, well then yes, it is unusually high, but I rather hope my good friend the snow is not a contributing factor.

So there you are; the cold and the snow are two things I like. Good.

Ms Welch and Mr Chips

Thanks again to Mrs Trefusis for a fabulous exhibition recommendation (Beauty Through A Lens). This lady's intimate knowledge on all things to do and see in London is too enviable, but equally she removes all the hard work for the philistines, such as myself. 

It is a wonderful exhibition of the work of Terry O'Neill, one of Britain’s most popular photographers at the Chris Beetles Art Gallery in St James's. Some of the images are quite breathtaking, such is their intimacy.

I was also rather struck by how very seamlessly the subjects would fit into a modern context of fashion and beauty. Such people are so extraordinary timeless, the magic translates across the decades, the generations. Or perhaps it is cyclical? To me, the people in the photographs could not merely be limited to the London of yesteryear, but could be quite easily seen promenading the streets of my London.

O'Neill is a wonderful photographer because he truly knew his subjects. As such, he had no trouble capturing that very human sense of vulnerability. Something so intimate could only be offered to a friend.

One such human was Raquel Welch. At one point she was the most famous and desired woman on the planet, but it was only at home that I was treated to a lovely tale featuring Ms Welch. (Such an hilarious name, it reminds me of Wellington boots.) My friend's grandfather spent a long time as headmaster of one of England's public boys' schools, Sherborne. During his leadership, the musical film Goodbye, Mr Chips, starring Peter O'Toole and Petula Clarke was filmed at Sherborne. As headmaster, he was quite involved with the production and often O'Toole would join him for lunch.

The American production team decided to ship the headmaster and his wife to America to help with promoting the film. His role I presume, was to be the stereotypical Englishman that Americans would consider quaint and charming and therefore spend money at the cinema on the film. While not so commercially successful, the film was nominated for Academy Awards and O'Toole won the Golden Globe that year (1970) for his role. It is the Academy Awards that brings me to Ms Welch. This wonderfully innocent and very English headmaster was sat right next to this American deity. Naturally, he had absolutely no idea who the woman to his right was. The photographs show him animatedly discussing something, which my friend tells me was most like something meta-philosophical or some such thing. Despite much of the world's press snapping away at them, he seems oblivious. And Raquel, for her part, seems genuinely interested. Perhaps for the first time in years, somebody was speaking to her without any idea - nor care - of who she was. And about something other than her films, or Hollywood in general. I rather love this.

Breaths of fresh air, physical and metaphorical can be wonderful. They energise with vigour and give us the impetus to carry on, somehow renewed. Both the film Goodbye, Mr Chips and the photographer Terry O'Neill reward us with such a feeling, so go; do!

Images: copyright Terry O'Neill.

Whatever do you Meme?

From the Taxi...
 
A very highly ranked member of the Bloggerati, and incidentally one of my idoles, has sent forth a meme from her Taxi. I shall do my utmost to live up to her immensely kind words.

What is always so difficult with such exercises is the degree of emotional self-examination required. It is in much the same way as my relationship with mirrors; sometimes the reflection is rather terrifying. The next day I may be Narcissus incarnate. Thankfully, I have always found the strength to turn away from the looking glass and unlike Narcissus, have not - thus far - perished. Today is more an example of the former than anything else. Lack of sleep, travel, aeroplanes and Heathrow do not a good mixture make, and this is before I even look at my face. However, ten things it is and will be...

1: I am Australian...
Frequently I forget this, as do many of my friends. There is usually laughter, then shock when new acquaintances discover the truth. It is often quite embarrassing. In my self-important manner, I am embarrassed by my own country and heritage. In many ways it is a terrific, industrious nation, full of enterprise and opportunity. And talent. I was extremely lucky to grow up there. However. It is also severely dull and very, very hot. And I want more.

2: I am snobbish...
...To the point of obsessiveness. What is "done" and "not done" echoes in my head insufferably so. I have known myself to miss my Tube station because of this. A hierarchy exists in my mind and it tends to categorize within nanoseconds. Very bad. I have no idea where this comes from, and how I managed to exempt myself from the scrutiny. I have tried to unlearn this affliction, but it sneaks up behind me all too unexpectedly.

3: I like to be paid attention...
I dislike being invisible. My ego demands fame/infamy on any scale whatsoever, but I hope I keep this much more under control. I think I do so, in public at least. However, beware alcoholic lubrication. This is why I like acting, it is an excuse for public exhibition and the adrenaline rush is better than chocolate etc. etc. I think it was another reason to blog: another opportunity to be noticed.

4: I have embarrassing musical tastes...
I do like some "socially acceptable" music. I can't think of much though. Think Abba, which at least proves the Australian in me. 'Nough said. Just re-read that header and have visions of a choir of taste buds, with the sweet singing soprano and so forth. 

5: I am naturally pessimistic...
Certainly if the last four are anything to go by. I measure my achievements against others' and I frequently come out the lesser. Hence the snobbery, possibly. I have impossibly high standards and find it hard to compromise. This does not mix well with my sloth-like being. I would make a fabulous monarch, I just need my own nation. As these first five have invariably been negative, I shall attempt five positive notes about myself. Hmm.

6. I am kind...
Hopefully the majority would agree. It is perhaps a secular synonym for being Christian towards others. I think it is incredibly important to be kind to people. It is a lesson many seem to have lost, or perhaps they missed out on bedtime stories courtesy of Enid Blyton. Real kindness is so difficult to find, yet it is (usually) so appreciated. Small acts can make an enormous difference to people. I find that smiling, politeness and empathy can completely change the outcome of a horrid day. Naturally this need not erode the steeliness of the stiff-upper lip and nothing is more irritating than the perpetually happy chap we all avoid, but I think there is a space somewhere that more people could try to find.

7. I love the countryside...
London is a very oppressive place to be 365 days a year. I think it is the most wonderful city in the world and I have loved (very nearly) every minute of living here. But nothing beats the English countryside. In rain or shine, it is magical. The yearning for fresh air, fields and drinkable water is rather like seasickness, with the obvious difference excepted. Trudging over muddy fields in Wellington boots - bliss!

8. Snow...
I have mentioned the stuff before on here. To many, snow means miserable weather and inconvenience. All anathema to me. I love it wholly and absolutely. I become a toddler, filled with excitement and joy. It's cold! And white! And it's falling on me! Of course, as a toddler this is not actually articulated by words, merely a gabble of noises and giggles. But it must have been hilarious for all the onlooking Swedes.

9. I seek adventure...
I have been incredibly lucky in all my adventures thus far. Things happen, good and bad, but somehow, something has always come up. I don't necessarily crave jungles or desert islands, but exploring the unknown and discovering new destinations, people, foods are all things I truly enjoy. That said, I do have a low comfort threshold. Pickled herring or Västerbottenspaj is one thing, but fried cockroaches? I think not. Ditto walks on the moors versus climbing Mont Blanc.

10. I am not afraid to be myself...
One thing that has struck me is how many people have said they like me because of this. Particularly in Sweden. Do they like "me" or do they just like this trait in others and wish they had it as well? Or both? Overall, I do like myself. I also care about how others perceive me. Which I then juxtapose by not caring so much about what others think. Perhaps I should be allowed to hold two contradictory ideas in my head... I'm not afraid to! I think moving to London has allowed me this freedom. There are infinite opportunities to meet people and equally to forget them. It's too exhausting to remember who one was on that particular day, when one met Whatshisname.

All the blogs on my list I have enjoyed at some stage or another, though I have sadly not kept so up-to-date with all of them. Here are some, an eclectic mix, I think:

Psynopsis
An intriguing mixture of fashion and health, Teutonic style.

Reality Strikes Back
One of my irritatingly brilliant peers. An ongoing story of his charity work in East African refugee camps. Did I mention he established the charity by himself?

Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Why stop at six? So this blogger says, and rightfully so. If you enjoy books, but wish you read more.

The Tea Appreciation Society
I love tea. So do they.

Go Fug Yourself
Because the voice in my head as I read makes me laugh out loud. I can be frivolous too!

Un Vieux Vélo
As a fellow city cycling enthusiast, I must recommend this one.

Miriam Levine
A wise poetess from across the pond.

Mrs Trefusis Takes A Taxi
An extra one, simply because I wouldn't have commenced writing in the first place without her.

Ich hocke...

Since arriving at the Hill of Crouch, I think I have begun to settle. It is quite fun exploring a completely foreign area, learning the best walks, cafes, restaurants - the all important familiarity and all that. Certainly yesterday I was enchanted by the season as I wandered along the Parkland Walk. Though a sign indicating Richmond Bridge 26 miles away did bring on a wave of nostalgia. Through a gate in the garden of my new home, I could walk all the way to Ally Pally, or Alexandra Palace as most non-staff would call it. Quite, quite magical. Like a secret, very long garden in the middle of London that is practically deserted. A very good Wellington boot opportunity, particularly with all the mushy leaves underfoot. And some giant puddles! Such fun. Splish splosh!

To be perfectly honest that remains the bulk of my achievement. Rather pathetic really, a 3-mile "trek". The problem is my frequent procrastination. I am so dreadful that I don't think I will ever manage to do much with this life. Which is utterly silly as the next is hardly confirmed. Very well I see your point, the joy of tomorrow.

Today, at least, I was productive. I had lunch at Borough Market, which involved a delicious selection of Tapas. I think the tapas fad is long dead, so I hope people will not think me painfully behind, though I rather skipped it before. I am just not so keen on it for some inexplicable reason. It has lots of elements that on paper I should like. Yet I avoid all things Spanish regardless. Perhaps I am just suspicious, being such a franco/italophile. And I'm purely speaking culinarily. Which I do pronounce correctly. Even if it makes me sound archaic, I don't care. The "u" is as in "moon". Orrright?

I so rarely go to London Bridge area, it has such glorious views and makes one feel quite the tourist. Well me, at least. It is such an industrious centre, the smell, the wind, the cranes overhead, St Paul's, The Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Tate Modern... The energy is so strong, so invigorating. One feels so insignificant, yet enormously empowered. I am currently working on a business plan for a new bank. Recessions are the best time to begin them, and I am sure I could compete with the likes of Barclays and Lloyd's.My only problem is the lack of capital, so if anybody would like to invest, do please let me know. I would reward well with shares in the company! And I think with the sale of parts of Lloyd's coming up soon, there's space to capitalise. Name also open to suggestions.

I then spent the afternoon shopping in Kensington, spending hours in Hornet's on Kensington Church Walk... Just the most incredible shop. I don't see any need to shop anywhere else now. They have everything one could possibly need, and nothing outrageously expensive. By everything I do mean in a very conservative, Balmoral-esque way. But frankly I feel very on trend in tweed and velvet jackets, and dearly wish my head would fit hats properly. Alas mine is outrageously small, suited to visors and a plastic fedora I once danced in for a school performance. And I didn't even get to keep it. The problem was all the bags. I forgot how impossible navigating London with lots of shopping bags is and in particular at peak-hour on the tube. Thankfully I stumbled upon Ottolenghi, which I had never heard of before. What stunning food. My mouth is still watering, and it certainly hungered on this tube journey for a most delicious white chocolate cheese cake with raspberry coulis I decided I couldn't leave unsold. Pool little thing, he did need a home. Apparently my choice was a very male one, as in a common male choice. I did point out that biologically this would ring true. Unfortunately my helpful assistor was not of Anglo heritage and any vague humour was lost. Shame, I know. But it was delicious.

And now long gone.