It's Hard Being Thrifty

The hard bit is over now it's time to kit out this new pad. You'd think that would be easy and fun, wouldn't you? For the most part it is, but in America, where there is so much choice, filling an empty space is mind boggling. When a lovely new apartment has nothing except a cooker and a fridge freezer in it, a home literally has to be furnished from scratch. The choice is harder than going to any restaurant here and ploughing through The Bible like menu. At least a wrong choice when eating out lasts only an evening.

Having done the same thing in London, but over four years, creating a new home for the second time is an odd place to find ourselves in. So this weekend, The Missus and I set off to numerous furniture shops, end of line sales and some utterly bizarre shops that only San Francisco could have. Purple fluffy sofa anyone? No, I didn't think so. Even the most tripped out hippy would draw the line at that. Actually, having seen numerous garish Grateful Dead T-Shirts adorning people that really should have known better thirty years ago, perhaps not. 

In no way a source of interior design inspiration

So, yet more crawling of Craigslist and racing around the City on Saturday and Sunday was on the agenda. This would have been far more entertaining had I not been a physical wreck all weekend, ashamedly reminding anyone who cared to listen, of my the current health. Think tweeting medical status updates. 

On Friday I was put through my paces by a trainer at the gym who had me trying to build leg muscles no downhill skier would need. The result, I spent the weekend hobbling, bow legged around San Francisco as if I had just left myself a warm sludgy present in my pants. On top of that, instead of warding the start of a cold, I decided instead to get convincingly, steamingly and riotously pissed on Friday night at an English ex-pat meet up. This allowed the cold virus, I say cold virus, more like man-death-viral-killer bug, to reek having around my already aching body. Things I have learnt from this, American tissues are ridiculously thin, incapable of withstanding my cold onslaught and it's probably wiser not to sober up after such a binge. At least not until the cold goes. Oh and don't try to walk up and down San Franciso's hills if you've messed yourself. Not that, let me be absolutely clear, I had.

Yet despite this, a rather plush microfiber three seater sofa has been ordered as well as a bed frame. Neither of which I can take much credit for, my input being mainly the driving and appropriately timed nodding of approval. Today however I have been on a mono-hunt for mattresses. 

I had no idea how expensive mattresses are in this country. My friends this may sound mundane to you but be warned, for should you ever move out here, bring your own bloody mattress. At home The Missus and I slept on a much loved Tempur mattress. A NASA mattress if you will. Snug, body shaping and most importantly, a damn sight cheaper in the UK than here. Four times cheaper as a matter of fact. Well I have looked at mattresses and now retreated to my favoured cocoon of Cup-A-Joes for a CHEAP drink and a blog entry. After seeing those prices, I need to calm my nerves. Where is the Mattress King when you need him? Another new learning of mine today, a box spring mattress. Apparently I need not only a mattress but a box spring as well to go under said mattress. Says who?

Being royally ripped off

There's a lot more to buy though in my mind, we have sofa being delivered on Friday and I can pick up a TV immediately in any shop. What more is needed? So far we have failed to pick up any bargains from second hand shops or Craigslist persuading ourselves that we draw the line at a used bed or sofa. On the good side though, at least The Missus and I are doing our bit to continue the US consumer spending recovery. May be it's time to apply for a sub-prime mortgage?

It's Tomorrow

I would never has guessed that "May be tomorrow" would ring true. As a test, perhaps I should start posting wishes here that I wish to become reality. For  the next update, I shall write, "May be tomorrow I'll win  The Lottery." Here's hoping.

50% True. Flat's rented but I'm not sorry

This is a brief post for any one on tenderhooks so, from a down day, where the flats were tosh and I felt spurned, unloved by landlords, today I feel embraced by America. The flat The Missus and I wanted is ours. I've signed, sealed and they've delivered the keys to our new home on Broadway. A newly refurbished flat with hardwood floors, granite work surfaces and almost ample storage, is ours. 

I can't say how relieved I am to have somewhere to put our swag when,  and God alone knows when, it arrives off the boat. I say God alone because neither the shippers in the UK, the transfer agents nor the google ship tracking app have any idea. Worringly, the UK shippers have actually given us two different ships sailing with all our worldly goods. All I can thing is, at least Duck and Sam chose to fly and neither ships are Titanic II.

Let's stick with the postives. The next, and far more exciting task, is to kit out our unfurnished quarters for right now, there's but a cooker,  a fridge freezer and a bit of a view. I would love to take photos to share but I shall save it for the time being and wait until the furniture is in place. What am I saying, I know I shall be able to hold out for only for a few days before convincing myself that I need to share before and after pictures. Changing Rooms, San Francisco style. 

I fear however, I should give The Missus a chance to post some pictures to her facebook. She works hard all day while I wander up and down hills and return, as if catapulted back by a digitally enhanced elastic umbilical cord, to facebook, ready to update a status and pray that someone, somewhere, has done something interesting for me to comment, like or forward on. 

SF can be surprisingly chintzy

But I leave you now, happy and looking forward to the future, making a new home with all that that will bring. As I've said before, our door is always open. This is so much easier now that we actually have a door.

Come on by, you'll know it's me

Maybe Tomorrow

The English Hobo

I have a home, I have a house. It's a great little London house. It's well cared for and  for over five years The Missus and I have renovated it to what we like to think is a good standard. It's tasteful too, though I am sure everyone considers their own taste to be well, "All in the best possible taste".

Now before The Missus and I took the plunge and bought our home, we were exemplary tenants in several flats in London. I am not just saying that, we truly were.  For our last rental, a one bedroom semi-open plan affair in "Queen of the Suburbs" Ealing, we had a great relationship with the landlords. We rented their home from them when they had to leave London to have their first child. The relationship was so good that they even visited and brought the nipper to see us. This status was even maintained  despite one or two ill-advised hard house after parties, complete with decks and banging music that went on far, too far, into Sundays. Renting a flat, piece of affordable, organic cake.

Now I find myself back as a helpless rentee, looking for a rentor. America is a great place. It pains me sometimes to say it, but it is. Not as great as Great Britain, that goes without saying. If it were, it'd be called the Great United States of America, but the USA does have so much to offer. In turn though, America expects you to work. Work hard for everything.  I suppose there's some subconscious Protestant work ethic moral ever so thinly hidden in the American psyche, and this ethic is not shy when looking for a place to live.

A professional couple with significant funds, good income and strong English accents would,  you'd have thought, have set The Missus and I up for an easy path to bay view, hardwood floor, granite surface, open plan, with parking, laundry in building, close to all amenities....living. Not so. We are just one of many applicants for every half decent apartment in this city.

If only he'd answer the bloody phone

Just what is this application business anyway? I have filled out lighter job applications. Just who does keep a record of every landlord they've had the misfortune to do business with over the last decade? Seeing as The Missus and I have owned our own place in London since 2006, are we really expected to remember the details of our previous landlords, as lovely as they were? Apparently, yes we are. For a forward thinking country, America does like its bureaucracy and paperwork. May be the lack of actual history means that whatever history does exist, should be laminated, filed, bound and backed up. Perhaps every tenant on leaving a premises should bury a time capsule outside to preserve any records that may, on a whim, be necessary. For this I mean payslips, phone numbers, preferred TV stations, favourite toothpaste.  The list could be endless but in no way more nor less interesting than whatever dross Blue Peter continue to insist kids bury in their gardens for future generations to dig up. At least the Romans had the decency to leave just "series of small walls" and leave the rest to our imaginations. 

Well I write this post because my legs ache from walking up hills, and back down them again, visiting potential flats. My fingers hurt from constantly clicking on Craigslist hoping for an update to the listings. My anger grows ever redder because some prick in an agency keeps spamming Craigslist with the same over priced pokey apartment that no one wants to rent, yet raises my hopes up each time one of his new, ever so slightly differently written, listings appear. Daniel, you know who you are, do it one more time and I shall lamp you.

It's a rollercoaster ride this flat hunting malarky. One day a plethora of good flats, whilst the next is dross. I am hurt that for a flat I loved I didn't even get a call back. Don't they even know who I am?

Yet all is not lost. The Missus and I have a plan and we work as a team. So, San Francisco landlords, we shall move into a flat here soon and it may bloody well be yours.

....somewhere to live

Oh and if anyone in SF reading does have a flat to rent, do get in touch. We'd be dream tenants. It's not a case of may be tomorrow I want to settle down, it's right now.

Down The Social

One week into the new life and the serious business of living here has started. For me there's still an element of holiday thrown in. This is in no small part down to not having to go to work each day. Curse the US immigration rules that say I have to be here for three months before I can get a job. Well, in the scale of curses, this is more of a British mutter and a barely audible tut. I must suffer this sentence stoically. The glorious sunshine and perfect temperatures over the last three days has also had its fair part to play in my ease at adjusting to the stereotypical California lifestyle. Now just where did I pack that Beach Boys CD?

Yet even for an aspiring "bum" like me, there are tasks to be achieved, to-do lists to be written and plenty of hill walking to achieve my set goals. One of these is to get a social security number. Now I know my UK National Insurance number off by heart. In an element of unparalleled British government efficiency, it was automatically posted to me on a handy 80s coloured credit card, on or around my sixteenth birthday. Umpteen student job applications have drilled the unique combination of numbers and letters into my brain. Sadly, being an "alien", no such ease for me here in the United States. So bright an early on Tuesday morning, The Missus and I pitched up at the San Mateo Social Security Offices. Some excellent advice from a friend of The Missus, avoid  the equivalent office, the "zoo", in downtown San Francisco.  I do like the idea of monkeys and giraffes gaggling about in government buildings, but somehow I don't think this is what he had in mind.

Joey Boswell from the BBC's Bread

On Tuesday I felt like Joey Boswell as I took a ticket and sat patiently with my forms, for I was surprised to learn that there is a benefit system in the USA. I do not yet know how extensive it is and I am sure, and hope, that I will never encounter the need for it, however it does exist. We Brits do like to mock the Americans whenever possible, and a snipe at their Welfare State, or lack thereof, is an easy target. I shall not go into this detail, mainly because I have no idea what I am talking about, but there are many reasons be so very proud of the our state handouts and of course the mighty NHS back home. Search online for the hoo haa surrounding Daniel Hannan's criticism of the National Health Service during Obama's race for presidency and you'll see the depth of patriotism the UK free healthcare system evokes.

So there I sat, for a tolerable hour and half facing a wall while people were indiscriminately called to the, on average, one out of six counters that were actually manned. For here lies a charming similarity between the UK and US faces of government. Take a ticket. Wait. Wait some more. Read a leaflet or two, but spend most of your time pondering why on Earth are there so many counters and only one or at best two staffed. Yet San Mateo is clever for they make the waitees (sic) face the wall thereby denying them any easy observation of the queuing system, lack of staff or quite frankly, LSD fired  numbering system. For, if you have ticket number 212 and the previous calls have been for 209, 210 and 211 don't sit contentedly, assuming you'll be next. That would be foolish for out of nowhere, G47 may appear. 

Do not despair. Not only have officials provided plenty of  the aforemention leaflets as reading material to rifle through but they have also proudly mounted leaflet campaigns throughout the decades onto the walls for you to peruse and admire. Not only this, but a flatscreen TV provides handy information about how to apply for Medicare, benefits and all your social security needs....online. Online. Online? It's a little bit late now I am sitting in this industrial estate to be told I could do this from the comfort of my rather nice, centrally situated flat. 

Yet again though any frustration is tempered by the fantastic soap-style comedy-drama that is re-played on the screen. This is a sort of Golden Girls come Hollyoaks omnibus that would no doubt exist should the UKs T4 be transported to Florida, 1989. I was transfixed. Sitcom type settings in comfortable middle class houses, old people confused by filling in forms with the same old people double upped (liking any rubbish Eddie Murphy film you may think of) filling in the same forms online, using the worlds largest and surely most antiquated laptop. TV gold.

When ticket 212 was called we politely shuffled up to the admin clerk and explained our situation. An extremely polite bloke helped us through, and with regret advised that without either our marriage certificate or work permit I would not be able to get a social security number.  This was quite in contast to the sour faced attitude I was expecting. No po-faced Liverpudlian denying The Boswells today. I now hope that said certificate is safely packed in one of the many boxes currently chugging through the Panama Canal.  I should be more organised with these things. I should follow the lead of the lady before us who had, most impressively, filed and laminated every important document since the Domesday Book.  Fortunately the wife was able to submit her application and so we wait for the number to come through. One more step towards actually existing in the USA and after all this excitement of government interaction, I need a cup of tea and a biscuit.

The Boswells at the DSS

A New Life, Day One

It's a new dawn

It's a new day

It's a new life

And I'm feeling good

Years of planning, literally years of planning have gone into this moment. It still does not seem real sitting in a flat in Pacific Heights, San Francisco. I've left friends and family, truly beloved friends and beloved family. Not only that but my devoted cat remains in that green and pleasant land while I try something new. After deliberation, planning, negotiation, excitement, tough and sometimes heart wrenching decisions, The Missus and I have moved to California. What the bloody hell are we doing?

Let's leave aside being one rather large continent and a not inconsiderable sized ocean away from all those people that I love, has anyone seen the terrible selection of crisp flavours the United States of America has to offer. I'll accept it's better than the poor and rank (call themselves gastronomes) attempts vomited up by France but where's the cheese and onion, salt and vinegar or worcestershire sauce? God help me, but has anyone here heard of Monster Munch? There's not even a Hula Hoop nor a Scampi Fry to rub together.

Yet here I sit starting a new life in California and as Nina Simone sang, "I'm feeling good". This feeling is, without doubt bolstered by the warm sunshine gently stroking my pasty English skin. It's been such a long time since I saw The Sun I had to google "What is that big yellow thing in the sky?", swiftly followed by, "Why is the sky blue?" and "Is this the nuclear winter?". Joking aside, I had braced myself for rain and English drizzle which, I insisted, would be a good thing because it would ease the transition and allow for a gradual acclimatisation. As luck would have it the ten day forecast changed on arrival from rain and cloud to partly cloudy in the morning and sunny in the afternoon with top temperatures of 67 that's 20c in real money.

The Missus and I have moved into a charming and very San Franciscan "Victorian". An old Victorian building in Pacific Heights, one of the most desirable neighbourhoods in the city and, it would seem, the hilliest. I wish I'd packed my crampons because at times, the road is so steep, my nose touches the concrete. This is not a complaint, we both decided if we were going to up sticks we were going to through ourselves into San Francisco hook, line and sinker. So as I sit here, on the porch, watching the world go by, life is not bad, not bad at all. 

Home for the next four weeks, the brown Victorian

There are so many things to do that right now, there is no time to be homesick. Seeing as this is day one, homesickness would be daft. I am sure there will be plenty of times where the thought that this is not a holiday hits home and that parents, friends and family are no longer a quick journey away. However with the wonder of the interworldwidecyberweb staying in touch has never been easier. If Bob Hoskins was still doing his BT adverts he'd say "It's good to talk [on Skype]", "It's good to type".

Living in a flat (I am resolutely refusing to use that word beginning with 'apart..') over one and half times the size of my London house certainly helps with the feeling of having made the right decision but The Missus very cleverly sweet talked her UK office to fast ship two boxes filled with niceties from home, while most of our property slowly chugs its way across the Atlantic, through the Panama Canal and up the West Coast. Her ingenious forward planning meant that as we arrived, so did two large boxes holding our towels, cookbooks, duvet, Ipod dock, some other homely swag but most heartwarming of all Duck and Sam. Duck and Sam, The Missus' and my stuffed toys from when we were nippers, came with us at the first opportunity. OK we're both in our thirties but I can't tell you how much of a smile it put on both of our faces to unpack these two. Compared to the boat, this was their first class travel experience. I am not ashamed of course to admit this, but neither am I brave enough to have put them in my hand luggage. The thought of having either inspected in public at security would not be something I'd readily endure. So they now sit guarding our bedroom and both thoroughly approving of their new surroundings.

Now they're what I call parcels

Well from here on in, this blog will I suppose take the tone of an Englishman in San Francisco and being here I will become, I am sure, more English than anyone can possibly imagine. I have already perfected by best Hugh Grantesque fumbling and muttering. 

Aside from Englishing it up, I am on a quest to find Marmite, my local PG Tips supply is already secured. I have joined a gym and I have started putting feelers out to find a permanent home. There is so much to do in the next three months whilst I wait for a my work permit. Aside from finding a place to live, buy a car and of course work out what I want to do while I am here, then chase that dream. For now though I leave you. Getting here was easier than any Steinbeck novel but making it work could require just as much hard work. Therein lies the adventure. 

I am off to get stuck into the city of hills and dogs, of which there are oh so many. Oh, and like a true Brit, it's Friday night and the pub is calling.

Duck and Sam adapting to their new lives

Flying The Flag

Once in a lifetime experiences can sometimes come twice, even three times. When these miracles happens you have to enjoy it three times as much after all you've learnt from the previous two. This was how I felt as The Missus ran the idea of paying a little extra to get two British Airways first class returns to San Francisco. "Why are you even asking me if it's a good idea?" sums up my feelings. After all, I could easily drink the extra money spent in free champagne, it's a no brainer.

So three days ago I found myself yet again striding towards the first class check-in area in Heathrow's spanking new and cavernous T5. From the moment you step passed the gatekeeper at the check-in area to the moment you disembark this is the kind of flying experience only dreamt of when sitting on "the other side of the curtain". Quiet decadence is what British Airways are striving for, with a touch of  Mayfair club glam thrown in. The check-in area has leather sofas to relax on while the tiresome registration process is completed, though for the third time I wondered what numpty would waste time there when there's a near endless list of lounge based perks to enjoy . Still, the rich and the blaggers alike must endure.

Once, without so much as a raised eyebrow our ridiculously heavy bags were checked-in,  owing to The Missus having packed every conceivable shoe combination and I had yet again over optimistically packed to allow gym clothes for every day of the stay, we fast walked whilst trying to maintain an element of cool towards security and onto the heavenly Concorde Lounge. 

Let me tell you some things about The Concorde Lounge. It's accessed by a small door after security, guarded by yet another gatekeeper who opens the door to a splendour of the chandeliers, plush carpets and an all you can eat guzzle-gluttony. Now there are some who choose to have their complimentary sustenance pre-flight, thus allowing for maximum sleep time onboard. There are those who starve themselves before heading to the airport to cram in as much as possible before, during and after the flight. No prizes for guessing which camp I happily and unashamedly subscribe to. I am of course a blagger, not a payer of the lottery win destroying ticket price of £10,400. No, that is not a typo. That's how much this little jolly costs , per person, had each per person been paying.

So we're into the lounge but before champagne can be drunk a momentary exercise of restraint. Here's where having travelled before comes in handy. We head straight to the Elemis Spa to book our treatments, knowing that there is often a wait for an appointment. Once this is done, I opt for the massage chair with accompanying facial (my first ever) and The Missus opts for just "The Chair". Now let the champagne flow. 

Glass No1 is  a zingy white brut Lanson for me and the rose for The Missus. The rose proves to be a little less dry, not sweet and importantly significantly more knock-backable than the white. It is duly noted. Glass No.2 is rose for both me and The Missus but before we should be accused of alcoholism this is accompanied by a sadly disappointing "deli sandwich" for her and a reasonable antipasti misti for him. The sandwich was lacking in care in its preparation with a poor pickle supplied, white instead of the billed red onion, and some limp pastrami. My mixed olives and cured meats were fair but the bread dry and underbaked. We have a strike there for The Concorde Lounge but there was no time to dwell as we buzzed to the spa. 

Now let me tell you, I have never had a facial before, and the smutty references are not lost on me, nor am I unaware of the metrosexual suggestion of such an indulgence, but I am always happy to try new things. As the receptionist has suggested it, and assured me that many men have them, I was in for the penny in for the £10,400. Well I now know that a facial is a glorified wash of the face performed by a  pretty girl. It's a thorough face wash, I grant that, but  not really anything more.  Perhaps my enjoyment was marred by the chair, which insisted on pummeling my spine as if a minor rock fall was happening below me, taking a swipe at each vertebrae as it fell, but more so because whilst it did that, The Chair insisted on tickling my feet in only a way that my Dad, when I was a child knew how. My relaxation was impeded by fits of laughter and wriggling. Who knows what the person in the next cubicle was thinking, "I'll have what he's having"?


As I left, with a cleaner face no man has had before, champagne time was nearing its end but not before three more things had to occur. 1 - More champagne 2 - A look at the planes 3 -  Pay respect to the life size horse lamps. Yes, horse lamps. A life size horse with a lampshade on its head. These beautiful beasts are spread across the BA lounges like the fallen at the first fence of the Grand National.  They are charming, ridiculous and surreal. I want one. As a plane spotting geek T5 offers fantastic views of the runways which is rare for Heathrow, which is normally akin to being stuck in a tramp filled subway. 

These three final indulgences completed, we headed off to board with a fond, final farewell to The Concorde Lounge, for our brief and loving affair was over. After so much fun it's easy to forget that there's a flight to catch and going to the plane is, for once, tinged with sadness. The sadness does not not last long when I note the faint mood lighting glow of blue from the front of the 747 parked up at the gate. We've struck it lucky again, and the plane has the newly launched 1st class cabin refurbishment. Skipping into the cabin may be unusual for 1st class passengers, but I knew what was instore.


The new cabin is where understated elegance and club glamour continues. Mood lighting changes to reflect the daylight of the final destination thereby reducing the effects of jet lag. That may very well be the case but given the amount of booze consumed, and yet to be consumed, this effect is negated, although it does look pretty.


The "suite", the seat, bed, entertainment system, two person table, double window and now cupboard mini room that each passenger gets has been completely re-engineered. What is more, I have never been more excited about a cupboard. Not only do the crew take your coats as normal and hang then in the full sized closet at the front of the plane, but there is also a cupboard for a coat with  an ingenious foot locker in the suite to boot. This a master stroke. In fact there are so many places to conveniently store your in flight swag, that everything you may need is always in easy reach yet stowed away. No more clamboring over cables, juggling books or wondering where on Earth your shoes went. 

The in-flight entertainment system remains the same but the TV is a much bigger  and a flat screen. It folds away neatly and, being neat in every way, even allows an ipod connection to watch your own films. The seat controls have a nifty wheel control so that the confusing maze of the old buttons is replaced with a simple to use and fun to play with console. This console also allows you to move the electric blind over the two port-holes up and down and the window over the two adds to the sense of large personal space. Finally the hotel style reading lamp, with dimmer switch, adds an extra touch of in flight decadence and really does make night time reading so much easier than the old spotlights.

Once onboard and served with yet more drink, as you can see from the above photo I opted for G&T, saving the BA signature cocktail, a kir royal, until airbourne,  The Missus and I settled into our suites for the next ten hours. Ten hours which, please excuse me, fly by. We chose to have our meal two hours in, asking for the table to be made up so that we could dine together. This is an amazing touch unique to BA. The suite converts so that two people can sit opposite each other  across a table, complete with linen table cloth, bone china and real, full size, cutlery. All of which feel overwhelmingly luxurious at 35,000 ft.  As does the amuse bouche, served before our four course, cooked to order meal. I will not dwell however on the meal itself for, no matter what, it is hard to cook decent food in a microwave or when the food is simply heated. The food is not bad but only in comparison to what is normally served. Now if BA could have an actual kitchen and chef below deck, that really would be something. 


The only thing left to mention is sleeping. Having the ability to sleep properly on a flight is the real and only way to minimise jetlag. Here BA again try to give the best. Egyptian cotton pyjamas are  handed out to each passenger and, while you change into these, in a toilet that comes with a special changing seat pulled down over the toilet itself, the crew make the bed. 


So there you have it. Flying the flag in British style. BA's flair and subtle service, while may be not royal, is certainly upper-middle class standard. I've missed out further detail, the cheeseboard with vintage port, the beautiful fresh flowers in the cabin and even roses in the toilets but I think the message is here. I doubt I shall ever have the chance to fly like this again but it makes me proud that it's possible to be British 35,000 ft up in the air. Is there a better and more quintessentially English way to finish off the flight than to have an afternoon cream tea before the final descent?