Tag: london living

Mannequin

Damjan and I were on a mission. We were at Kensington High Street on the hunt for Damjan’s rejuvenated summer wardrobe. The targets were:

  • Linen 3/4 length trousers
  • Short sleeved shirts
  • Sandals

Marks & Spencers was a gold mine. Within 15 minutes of browsing, we had bundled together six items and were heading to the change rooms so that Damjan could try them on.

‘That’s quite nice,’ I said, spotting a mannequin reclining on a high podium in the middle of the men’s department. The mannequin was sporting a light blue chequered short sleeved shirt. It looked chilled out, the very essence of summer.

Damjan went up to the mannequin and reached up to inspect the fabric. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I like it too. Let’s find it.’

For three minutes, we dashed around the podium. There were a few similar shirts but nothing quite the same.

We found someone at the change room to help us.

‘Excuse me,’ Damjan said. ‘I’m interested in a shirt that a mannequin is wearing but I can’t find it.’

‘I’ll come and have a look for it,’ the assistant said, ‘but it might be out of stock.’

‘Well, the shirt on the mannequin is my size… If it is the last one, can we buy it?’

‘I think so but I’ll have to ask the floor manager.’

Damjan arrived at the podium where I was waiting, bringing with him the shop assistant, the floor manager and someone who happened to be nearby inspecting M&S stock.

Before I knew it, they had wheeled over a ladder and were trying to undress the mannequin.

‘I can’t get it off,’ the floor manager said, struggling with the sleeve.

‘Trying twisting his arm backwards,’ said the inspector.

‘Lift him up off the display,’ suggested the shop assistant.

‘All this for a shirt,’ the floor manager grumbled with a smile. ‘I’ll bet he’s worn this one for weeks… Got it!’

With a flourish, she removed the top, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. The blue shirt was passed down the chain of people to Damjan.

‘Great! I’ll try it on now.’ he said.

Thankfully, after all that trouble, it does fit. Damjan looks rather fetching in it. It complements his dark hair.

Killer instinct

After work on Thursdays, I sometimes go to women’s football training. The training sessions are organised by volunteers from work. It’s a thoroughly nice bunch of people. If they weren’t jolly and forgiving, I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I have. I’ve never played team sports before so I don’t yet have that knack of knowing where I should be and how I can help out my team mates.

I do have the advantage of being fit and, as they said to me, ‘It’s good that you’re not afraid of the ball.’ So you’ll see me chasing the ball wherever it goes. When I am after the ball, I feel a bubble rising inside me that can only be released by heckling my opponent and shouting them down. I don’t think this is the ‘done’ thing, though, so I have to suppress my more violent instincts.

In one exercise, we were trying to score a goal with our coach, Joel, as the goal keeper. My team mate Kate did a massive kick that flew straight towards the goal. Joel dived and deflected it past me.

As he lay there, splayed on the grass, I swerved past him and yelled, ‘Kick hiiiiim!’

He leaped up and stared at me. ‘Wow, Joan. You are scary!’

Microwave refugees

At work, they’re refurbishing the office one floor at a time. I used to work on level 5. They moved me up to level 6 to refurbish level 5. Now I’ve moved back to level 5 while they do up level 6. When level 6 is finished, I’ll move back up.

The company’s done its best to minimise disruption. For each move, we pack our things into boxes, then over a weekend they move the boxes and our computers to our new desks.

However, a rumble of discontent has been growing louder. An unexpected trade-off has revealed itself. With refurbishment, we gain shiny new desks and decor — but we lose the microwave.

After a few days in our new digs, it became clear that no one would be reinstalling the absent microwave in the kitchen. People became very upset. I was upset too. I love cooking and bringing my food in. I look forward to my tasty hot lunches.

‘Why?’ we cried. ‘Why no microwave?’

Estate management emailed a company wide reply, saying that some people ‘misused’ the microwave. With further probing, we found out that two of the board directors had decided that the smell of hot food in the office was ‘unprofessional’.

Cue widespread fury. My team mate, Juhi, is spearheading the campaign. She opened up a survey and within the first day, half of the group has responded with comments like:

  • ‘It’s them versus us now. Unlike board directors, some of us can’t afford to buy hot lunches.’
  • ‘So, I guess they’ll be giving us lunch vouchers for shops around the office, right?”
  • ‘If they don’t sort it out by winter, there will be riots.’
  • ‘I don’t come from a culture that eats sandwiches and salads. If you provide prayer rooms for some people, then why don’t you give us a microwave?’
  • ‘I don’t want to work for a fascist company!’

There is still a microwave on level 3, which is next to be refurbished. At lunch time, microwave refugees from level 4 and 5, as well as our office across the road (which had microwaves taken away last year) line up in front of the level 3 microwave.

‘Your microwave will be taken away too,’ I warned the level 3 natives.

They seemed bemused, not realising the seriousness of the situation. ‘Maybe we can charge a pound for people to use the microwave,’ they joke.

Now, you might be wondering what happens if people buy hot food from outside and bring it in. Wouldn’t that cause smells anyway? Well (and this is rather shocking), they’ve banned this exact practice in the new office across the road. I once bought a pie and sat in the company cafe in the new office. One of the serving staff immediately came over and told me to take the food outside.

‘No hot food in this building,’ she said.

Juhi reports that she has met with estate management, who seem genuinely surprised at the depth outrage. Supposedly, something will be ‘sorted’ by September.

In the mean time, I’m experimenting with sandwiches. This week, I’m making pumpkin and sunflower seed batch slices with hommous, caramelised onion, roast aubergine (eggplant), red pepper (capsicum) and courgette (zucchini). It’s very yummy, but I’m looking forward to going back to hot lunches.

Riding the endolphins

Today I joined the 22 mile (35 km) ride around Camden, a large borough of London.

I am the queen! I rule! I went up all the hills, even as people around me were dismounting and wheeling their bikes.

I had so much fun. At 10am, I arrived at Camden town hall, one cyclist amongst 80. There were road bikes, a chopper bike (a pedal-powered low riding Harley-style bike), a Swedish army bike (red and built like a tank), a beautiful Dutch-style Bobbin cycle, two Bromptons, and four other Dahons. Over the course of the ride, I sped up or dropped back to chat with my fellow Dahon owners about the model of their bike, if they liked their wheel size, if they took their bikes on the train, how heavy the bikes were…

A lot of people rode up to admire my bike. ‘Yes, she’s shiny because she’s new,’ I say. ‘She has hub gears and I can change gear without pedalling.’

When you’re in a mass of 80 cyclists, you own the road. We had around ten stewards, fast and nimble cycle instructors in bright yellow who shepherded the group like sheep. They stopped traffic for us. We ran red lights. People on the street cheered. Some got angry. I didn’t care.

‘What are you campaigning for?’ bystanders shouted.

‘Cycling!’ we said. ‘Hooray for bikes!’

The ride took five hours, with one rest at Regent’s Park and another at the the British Museum. We had lunch at Golder’s Hill and ended at Hampstead Town Hall. We went through all my favourite places: Covent Garden, Holborn, Charlotte Street, Hampstead Heath, Kilburn High Street, Camden Town…

I almost gave up at the 20 mile mark. I was thirsty, my rear end was (still is) very sore, and we were coming up to my home. I resisted temptation and pushed through the final steep hill to coast into Hampstead village.

I am the queen, queen of the road! I fear nothing, no red buses, no roundabout can defeat me now!

Pho to the rescue

A funny thing about tomatoes. I think they’re a wonderful fruit/veg but sometimes I hit a wall, and the thought of eating tomato-based foods makes me feel ill. Tomato-based food includes many of my pasta dishes, casseroles and stews.

I hit this tomato wall a few days back. I had a tupperware box of mushroom spaghetti bolognese waiting for me at home. There is no easier dinner. However, I just couldn’t eat it.

This is how I ended up by myself in a tiny Vietnamese restaurant, giving my order of pho to the waiter. I’ve never eaten by myself in a restaurant. I don’t think I like it. I spent a lot of time avoiding eye contact with the restaurant host and his mother. We were the only people in the room.

The rice noodle soup was delicious, though. Oh! So good! I LOVE VIETNAMESE FOOD. It was as good as what we get in Melbourne, although it did have the drawback of being twice as costly.

Psyched for cycling

I thought that maybe I was ready to cycle to work. After all, I had taken my baby steps on the new bike. Then two weeks ago, I had proper test ride in the safe environment of Hampstead Heath. It really was time to take it to the jungle that is London traffic.

Today was the designated day. When I woke up, almost hopefully I ran through every one of my excuses for not riding to work. Wet weather. Not enough morning time to sort things out. Unwieldy bag. Awkward clothing.

Today, though, all those excuses melted away. I was prepped. I psyched myself up. ‘You’re gonna do it, Joan. Today’s the day. The day is today.’

And before I knew it, I found myself on the road curb, bike unfolded, helmet adjusted, trouser leg tucked in with a reflective clip. Then I pushed off and I was back on the road again.

The whole exercise of bringing my bike downstairs, unfolding it, riding slowly (to avoid catching up to buses and having to overtake them) and locking up my bike at work, it all took as long I normally take to walk to work. I’m not saving much (if any) time. But it sure is fun.

Transport for London‘s journey planner has even mapped out a route for me that uses dedicated bike lanes. I took that on the way home this evening, stopping only three times to check my map print out.

Now that I’ve proven that I can cycle to work, I’ll probably go back to walking most days. I’m sure, though, I’ll try the cycle again next week.

Folding bike spotter

I have become a folding bike spotter. I look at all bikes passing me by and this newfound attention has yielded a rich landscape of folding bikes.

Yesterday, I spotted:

  • A full sized city bike (26 inch wheels) with a tell-tale knobbly bit in the middle of the frame — it was a folding bike!
  • Someone wheeling into the office a completely flat folded bike. I think it was a Wobbegong.
  • Two Strida-style cycles with tiny wheels at the bottom vertices of the triangular frame

And, of course, Bromptons everywhere!

Damjan and I took my bike up to Hampstead Heath on the weekend. It was frustrating that the paths mostly had ‘no bicycles’ emblazoned on them. Then we found one bike path and that led to another. I was so happy to be zooming around. Hooray for bikes!

Wailing man

There is a man who wails in the evening. He wails for hours at a time. It’s not every night but it’s often enough that I started thinking that he must be doing a kind of ritual.

At first, I was curious. Then it got a bit annoying. Even though he lives in another building, I could clearly hear him from the kitchen and the bathroom. I wondered what would happen if I shouted, ‘Shut up! Some of us are trying to relax here!’

It wasn’t the way to go, though. In London, people have been verbally abused and physically attacked for telling others off. And at least this wailing man has a decent voice. It would have been really grating otherwise.

I eventually asked my flat mate Aoife about it. She smiled knowingly.

‘The wailing man? Yes, I hear him. I think he has a mental problem and his mother looks after him. Last year, they had the window open and I could hear him all the time.’

‘Oh, your room is on that side of the building!’ I exclaimed. ‘It would have driven you nuts.’

Aoife said, ‘I went over twice to ask them to close the window. I’m sorry about the kid but all I wanted was for them to close the window. Eventually, I called the Council and someone came to speak to the family. Since then, the window has been closed.’

I want to ride my bicycle

I have been dreaming about riding a bike. In my dreams, I can feel my legs working at the peddles and my hair flying back as I tear through Regent’s Park.

I blame the dreams on the warm weather. And even though I know this springtime sunshine won’t last, I can’t get the cycling dreams out of my head.

Well, then. Maybe it’s time to buy a bike.

Because I live in a flat with no garden or storage space, this bike would need to be a folding bike.

The premier folding bike is the Brompton. Ah, the Brompton — so cute yet elegant! So compact yet functional! So desirable… yet expensive. A new Brompton would set me back at least £570.

(I also discovered that there is a good chance that a second-hand Brompton bought via Gumtree would be stolen goods. I can’t bear the idea of profiting from the heartbreak of a former Brompton owner out there.)

‘Damjan,’ I said. ‘I think I want to buy a Brompton.’

‘Great idea!’ Damjan said supportively. ‘You’ve been thinking about it for ages.’

I was taken aback. ‘No, I haven’t! I just thought of it yesterday!’

Damjan hmphed knowingly. ‘I’ve seen you perving at them. Every time one goes past, you stare.’

I conceded that, yes, I do indeed perve at Bromptons.

After days of obsessing over folding bikes, I eventually convinced myself that I didn’t need one. I walk to work. I’m away most weekends. When would I have time to ride a £600 bike?

Just as I had made my decision, I spotted this online: the Dahon Mu XL Sport. I had read about this bike and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Normally £800+, a sports shop in Devon was selling the 2008 model for £450.

Dahon folding bikes aren’t as elegant as Bromptons but they have other advantages. This bike has 20 inch wheels, bigger than the 16 inch Brompton wheels. The parts are standard components compared to Brompton’s specialised ones. This means that when I take the Dahon to Australia, I can repair and replace parts easily. The Mu XL is around a kilogram heavier than the standard Brompton but for the extra weight I get not only bigger wheels, but also eight gears instead of three.

I agonised for all of twenty minutes.

Then I clicked ‘Buy it now’.

Dahon Mu XL Sport
Dahon Mu XL Sport

Isn’t it beautiful? It arrived within two days. All I had to do was take it out of the box, unfold it and pump up the tyres.

I rode it for the first time today and I felt giddy. I was so excited I could feel my heart pounding. Riding this bike today felt exactly how it was like when I was riding my dreams.

(I have already bought a ‘f*** off, thieves’ lock. Everyone I know has had a bike stolen and there’s no way any Gumtree or Brick Lane merchant is going to get their hands on this one!)

Every little helps

I was proud of myself. Even though I was late for work, I still managed to make my own lunch by throwing together tuna, sweetcorn and yoghurt. I had this mixture for the first time last week and it was very tasty.

Only as I closed the door to my flat behind me did I realise I had forgotten a vital ingredient. Without lemon juice, my lunch would taste pretty uninspiring.

So at 12:30 , I went to the local Tesco. Of course, there was a long lunch time queue. Finally, I reached the check out to hand over my lone lemon.

The check out lady scanned the lemon and said, ‘That’s 32 pence, please.’

I looked in my purse. ‘Oh no!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ve only got 30 pence.’ Indeed, in the coin compartment there was a small heptagonal 20 pence coin and the larger round 10 pence coin.

‘Oh well…’ I began, pulling out a £10 note.

The check out lady held up her hand to stop me. ‘Why don’t you bring the 2 pence next time,’ she said slowly. I could almost see her mentally winking at me.

‘Oh…! Okay. Yes,’ I stuttered.

She smiled as she took my coins. ‘I’m not allowed to do this,’ she confided softly.

Back in the office, I told my colleagues about my 2 pence windfall. They laughed and said, ‘Well, you shouldn’t feel bad about taking advantage of Tesco. Did you see the news today?’

Tesco achieves £3bn annual profit

Supermarket chain Tesco has reported underlying annual pre-tax profits of £3.13bn, an improvement of 10% on the previous year… The profits are the highest on record for a UK retailer.

I said, ‘Yes, well, you know what they say. Every little helps.’