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?

Dusting Off The Bunting

I could not let today go by without commenting on THE announcement. Prince William and Kate Middleton, soon to be Princess Catherine, are to marry next year. This is great news. Their engagement has hardly come as a surprise. As I learnt about it, from spying rolling TV News (BBC of course) through an office window in The City yesterday, I initially smiled and walked on by. It was only after further deliberation and the media frenzy that has already gone into overdrive, I considered the true significance of the engagement and the wedding next year. The Missus and I had a good debate over whether or not we should really care. Our own frenzy was fuelled in no small part by a couple of pints of strong continental lager. 

It is inevitable comparisons are drawn between William and  Kate and Charles and Diana. The new royal couple do look very happy together and stare lovingly into each others eyes in front of the World's media. Is this any different to William's parent's announcement thirty years ago? Certainly his fiancee looks more at ease and confident than Diana did. Kate is ten years older than Diana was and the couple have been together for eight years. Even The Queen let slip her feelings that it had been a "long time" for the couple to get to this stage.  Let's hope that this modern royal couple will benefit from time spent away from media scrutiny so that they have already forged a strong bond and do not need to grow up, or worse grow apart, in front of the camera. 

William himself drew a parallel with his parent's relationship  by giving his mother's engagement ring to Kate. While some may see this as a disturbing move, invoking the sad tale of his parent's marriage and leading us to ponder Diana's tragic death, the gesture is more than that. It cleverly allows the couple a dignified nod to Diana without her memory haunting what is a happy occasion. It is, after all, not unusual for rings to be passed from generation to generation. Giving Kate an heirloom also heads off any initial criticism of extravagance in these austere times. Sometimes, it would seem, the Royal Family are just like us commoners. Indeed, Kate is a commoner, the first to marry into "The Firm" . While Diana was not a royal before marrying, she was from nobility.

Speculation is now rife as to what shape the Royal Wedding will take. The UK and the World is bracing itself for months of endless debate, sneak peeks, interviews with dress designers, discussions about the venue, the guest list, the cake, it goes on and on. I can recommend a discreet registry office in East London should William and Kate be stuck for ideas and would strongly favour a reception in The Cuckfield, though I do not think a quickie wedding and pub gastro food in a local is quite what the Royal Household has in mind. It's a pity, champagne and pie is a great way to treat your wedding guests. It certainly worked for The Missus and I. 

Inevitably there will be those who will call for a frugal wedding and republicans (for they do exist here) who will demand the House of Windsor pays for a the day, instead of the bill being sent to the taxpayer. Certainly some consider an enormo-wedding on the scale of Charles and Diana would not be appropriate. As momentum builds and the initial British cynicism gives way to support and then an outpouring of adoration (albeit understated) and excitement, we would all do well to get behind our future King and Queen. Sometimes it's wise to take a step back and look at events through the eyes of children and the BBC's Newsround broadcast today made me do just that. The wedding announcement here was presented purely for what it is. The celebration of two people very much in love who will become our future monarch. The outcome, a royal wedding which none of the target audience will have seen before. 

Let's not deny children here the excitement of this day. I remember Charles and Diana's wedding, principally because we were given a national holiday to celebrate, no school that day. Whether I watched the ceremony, I think I was outside playing on my bike, is of no importance. I remember the build up and excitement. For Prince Andrew and Sarah Fergusson's wedding there was no holiday but the wedding was shown in schools and we all in some way able to share. Royal weddings since have been muted affairs.

Let's not deny ourselves the pomp, the trumpets, the royals riding down The Mall in sparkling stage coaches. Let's not deny The Dimbleby his chance to shine again as he provides twelve hours of non-stop live narration of events as they happen. Let's not stop the souvenir teaspoon's, tea towels, mugs even the commemorative plates to hang on peoples' walls. Most of all and best of all, let's not deny ourselves the sight of the whole Royal Family appearing on the balcony of Buckingham Palace in front of thousands of people, a sea of waving Union Jacks, with the RAF flypast overhead. This is the stuff we do best so let's do it properly. 

Congratulations to William and Kate. 

Souvenir Ladybird book from 1981

A souvenir mugshot

Remember, Remember The Fifth of November

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder treason and plot
I can think of no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should never be forgot

So goes the old rhyme. These days it could be remember the third, fourth, fifth, sixth..... Like all festivals it seems that in the current age days leading up to, or soon after, the actual day are suitable to celebrate, as if the festival leaks into the surrounding calendar, and I have no objection to this. Only Christmas Day stands strong where the whole country unites and marks the occasion united.

For Guy Fawkes Night fireworks explode in the sky for the week of the fifth of November. This leakage may be down to peoples' many commitments but it means there are plenty of opportunities to rush out into the garden when yet another ASDA bought arsenal starts banging, wheezing and fizzing into the night sky.  In London, I don't doubt in many other towns in Britain, the fireworks may also be marking Diwali, Festival of Light. I love fireworks of all shape and form, from the small but interactive sparkler, to fence scorching catherine wheels to the mammoth apocalyptic pyrotechnics organised displays provide. I salute, oooh and aaaah at them all.

Early November is a transitional time of year. The weather turns cold or at least it bloody well should do. Guy Fawkes night should promise damp, chilly air. I want to see my breath as I wait for the display to begin. I want to bob up and down, with my hands in my pockets and, like all Brits, comment on the weather, "It's turned cold, hasn't it?". All hope of a warm spell, an Indian summer now passed, and thoughts turn to cosy nights at home or a charmed pub, a best kept secret where a roaring fire, pint of bitter and chat with friends, are the order of the season. Guy Fawkes Night stakes out this pivotal point, confirming to one and all it's time to forget the hedonism of the summer and start thinking of what the missus wants for Christmas.

As a child, I used to celebrate at home in the garden with a bonfire, jacket potatoes or soup to eat, and the inevitable box of fireworks from the local shop, supplemented by a few additional rockets that Dad would have sneakily bought under Mum's wise frugal radar. These days many opt for organised displays, and why not? As a staunch traditionalist this transition worried me. The death of what has always happened and the start of something new is always of great concern.  I am now thoroughly in favour of  public displays. They are often free, thank you local council and my direct debit for the council tax. More importantly, they have better fireworks than any private pyromania could possibly provide. More bang for your buck, more pzazz for your pound. The only thing I miss from the humble home display is Dad, despite all government sponsored warnings,  inevitably returning to a lit firework, lighter in hand, ready to give it another go. 

This year, Tower Hamlet's very good but ultimately pretentious "Son et Lumiere" display in Victoria Park was snubbed for a revolutionary trip south of the river, to Clapham Common. Thank you very much Lambeth Council and the good tax paying folk of the borough for the display. The fireworks were huge, lasted for a good thirty minutes and they were close, really close.  This I am sure was in part to the choice of location for watching the show. Stood near to the launch pad it felt as if each enormous explosion would, given any mild deviation off course, melt our faces. Or at  the very least, leave us without eyebrows

To add to the danger most of us brought sparklers and, being "we have money, we can pay" Londoners, bought quite a few, of varying sizes and quality. I particularly enjoyed the extra smokey ones waved around by some members of the group. As if it weren't enough that after a couple of pints we all happily forgot that we were stood in a crowd and waggling giant burny sticks in the air, the fog created by some of the incendiaries made it near impossible for innocent bystanders to see where the next sparkly attack might come from.

In safer times, posing for the camera

So, this is Guy Fawkes Night 2010 for Londoners. Four hundred and five years after Catholic Guy Fawkes and his conspirators were caught in their attempt to blow up Parliament and kill Protestant King James I, we continue to commemorate this occasion. There is not always a bonfire which means no guy to burn, the guy usually being an effigy of some disliked or mocked public figure of the day. This means no calls of "penny for the guy" from children on the street asking for money for their effigy. A friend of mine, Guy, himself a Catholic, does not mourn the passing of this part of the tradition. Guy Fawkes Night is a uniquely British celebration and captures the imagination of most and so it stands alone as something special for this country and long may it continue.

Lunch and Circumstance

I’ve been lucky to have some caring loved ones take me out to lunch to places that are that little bit special, the two places appealing to my patriotism and pride and fascination with the history of tradition.  Both lunches have been more about the venue than the food itself and, for the record, about spending time with people very dear to me. 

It struck me that though both lunches were in two very different institutions the similarities between them were marked. This could all be true or I could just have been wearing my proud Englishman glasses again, tinted as they are with the red white and blue stain of British pride.

The first lunch was in the Terrace Cafeteria in the Houses of Parliament where I sat, overlooking the mighty Thames, eating fish and chips on Parliament’s “Chip Shop Friday”; the second lunch at the HAC (Honourable Artillery Corps) in The City. Perhaps it is because they’re both part of the establishment they feel similar, but as I ate in dining halls decorated with forest loads of dark wood panelling, I was a happy Englishman indeed. Though parliament on a Friday has wafts of a high street chip shop floating down its miles of corridors, and the HAC has that familiar sponge pudding and custard sweetness drifting out of the restaurant, both venues have an undeniable similar smell of history, as if Mr Sheen produces a special “18^th Century Must” spray just for these buildings.  

I love walking into these places not least because I like going into anywhere that is restricted. Passing security guards bolsters my confidence and appeals to my inner snob. Who, except die-hard communists, does not like to feel the thrill of entering somewhere exclusive.  Let’s be clear this is a social thrill only, being on the guest side of the red rope at a club is the same or sitting on the other side of the curtain on an plane, but simply being allowed passed the front desk at work, is not.  

One of the great things about the HAC is it’s a large complex tucked away in the middle of The City.  Take a sharp turn in the right place just off Moorgate and you veer away from the suited workers, the Boots sandwiches and London buses into a completely different world of military precision, perfect lawns and deference to The Queen. All of this is fantastically overlooked by the city types in their steel and glass offices , powering Britain’s economy. Who knows that underneath the perfect green grass lies the even darker camouflage green of tanks, Land Rovers, lorries and yes the odd artillery. In the days after London’s 7^th July bombings, this area was commandeered as a temporary morgue for the fifty innocent victims of the attacks and the lawn returned to its splendour by the City Police once the investigations were laid to rest.

"Attention" Outside the HAC

Walking into Parliament, with a smug spring in my step as I pass the tourists and onlookers, is awe inspiring. Westminster Hall dates back to William the Conqueror and has stood as not just London but England, Britain, Great Britain, The Empire, the United Kingdom and Commonwealth grew, changed and was reborn. It’s as if Westminster Hall, through its great doors, gave birth to the country  we know today and has nurtured it ever since.  

The Clock Tower aka St Stephen's Tower

There’s a sense of occasion, a sense of Britishness about both of these places and I was overflowing with patriotism.  Even the food reflected British history, authentically harking back to the days when Britain was not known for its culinary expertise. Not that the food was bad but, that had neither have been subsidized, an eyebrow would have been raised. Let it be on record however that the HAC’s puddings, quite literally “old school”, are heart warming and melancholic, invoking my happy days of education. 

So with rib sticking pudding and a large slab of fish and hillock of chips both places meant I had afternoons of wobbling around with a very full belly. As both dining halls had large portraits of The Queen overseeing the experience it was as if Her Majesty herself willed her subjects to be heartily fed. A royal matriarch demanding that plates are clear before anyone can get down from the table. Quite right too.

Staircase at the HAC

Medal Room at the HAC