I was all of a dither. Should I miss Strictly Come Dancing to see Mark Knopfler and Bob Dylan at Hammersmith on Saturday night? And not just any old Strictly I’ll have you know – this was the gala coming from Wembley Arena. Strictly – Bob; Bob – Strictly. An agonizing choice.
“I don’t know why you want me to come anyway,” I moaned to Big-J. “Why not take someone who cares?” I continued. However much I bleated, he would not be moved. “Look” he said, “here’s the text you sent me when I managed to get Strictly tickets”. Upon inspection I saw that I’d said “Wow, thanks luv. Now I’ll love you forever.” I was well and truly hoist by my own petard. “If you really love me,” said Big-J, “you’ll come along and you’ll enjoy yourself.” Having said “never again” after I saw Bob live in Milan (2009 I think), I found myself being dragged kicking and screaming in a Westerly direction last Saturday night.
Blimey, the Hammersmith Apollo could do with a makeover. In contrast to the showy, sparkly glamour and glitz of the Strictly Come Dancing studio the previous week (and before you ask, you have to know someone really important to get those tickets), this was a real culture shock. I don’t think it’s seen a paintbrush since around 1963. But the Bob-heads didn’t care. They were six deep at the bar stacking up their sherbets in plastic cups. Really quite grubby. I ordered a bottle of water and was told that I could take it into the auditorium if they removed the cap for me. “Can I take it in if I promise not to chuck it?” I asked. The barmaid looked me up and down and clearly felt that a woman of my dress sense and seniority probably wasn’t about to indulge in nefarious activities and so, to my relief, I was given special bottle-top dispensation.
I must admit that I was secretly looking forward to seeing Mark Knopfler. I loved all those hits that were background music to my youth. Money for Nothing, Sultans of Swing, Brothers in Arms, Romeo and Juliet – yeah. Well, he didn’t play any of those. It was a real swizz and left me feeling very underwhelmed. After listening to him for an hour, I was beginning to look forward to Bob. At least I’d know some of his tunes.
Bob and his beige-suited band took to the stage, with Mark Knopfler on board for the first four numbers. Apparently, they're good friends those two and Mark is undoubtedly a genius guitarist. But Bob really must take the prize for being the worst dressed rocker ever to have graced a stage. Where does he get those clothes? A long black jacket with matching trousers featuring white satin or grosgrain facings, silver shoes and the ubiquitous black hat, he looked faintly ridiculous. But … there’s just something mesmerising about the little guy, it’s hard to take your eyes off him whilst he’s on stage. At age 70, he played around fourteen numbers, ten of which I recognised including Highway 61 Revisited, A Hard Rain, Don’t think Twice It’s All Right and Make You Feel My Love – yes, written by Bob and not by Adele. He strummed his gee-tar, he played keyboards, he even indulged in some strange and wondrous dance moves, the like of which I’d never seen before (and frankly, am not in a hurry to see again). The band was very tight, the music was great. Although his voice sounds like razor blades these days, as he growled his way through all those familiar numbers, he never missed a beat or got a word wrong. At least, of the words I could hear – he didn’t get one wrong.
I know that the die-hard fans, comprising around 98% of the audience, will want to see Bob again and again – even when he’s really on his last legs (heaven forfend) and, whilst the man can still fill a decent size venue, I suspect he’ll go on and on ... and on and on and on and on. But I’m afraid that for my money, living legend and voice of a generation that he is, I think the time may have come for a graceful exit stage left.
Friday, 25 November 2011
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Out of the mouths of babes
My New York sister and family announced they were to visit. Only problem is that I’d booked a holiday (sorry, vacation) before I knew they were coming. I managed to claw back a day by postponing my trip and so spend it with my nephew Nathan (nearly 9) and niece Zoë (“I’m three and three quarters”). I hadn’t seen them for eighteen months and on the last occasion, my niece wasn’t even talking.
So I booked a show. The Gruffalo is a story with which I was utterly unfamiliar, it having been conceived at a time when I was well past keeping abreast with current children’s stories. In a nutshell, a mouse gets lost in a wood and scares off various creatures who want to eat it with tales of a monster called the Gruffalo which we all know doesn’t exist – or does it??
And so on the 27th December, my sister dropped the children and me at the tube station and we took the lovely Northern Line from Hampstead to Leicester Square. They were almost self-combusting with excitement and spent the entire journey pointing out to me the differences between our tube system and New York’s subway. I think the general consensus was that we win with our upholstered seats, electronic signage in a more sensible place and announcements in an English accent. They were incredibly sweet, opting to share a seat although there were plenty of empty ones available.
We arrived just the half an hour early and the wait for curtain-up was punctured by the time-honoured question: “when will it start?” Zoë sat, still and mesmerised (aside from jigging along to a couple of songs) on my lap throughout whilst Nathan gleefully responded to all prompts for audience participation, turning to me on each occasion we were told “but there’s no such thing as the Gruffalo” with a knowing “hmmm, we’ll see about that”.
After the show, we made our way to Pizza Express where a toilet stop was in order. It was in the toilet that we had the only tears of the day. The Dyson hand dryer terrified Zoë and I can’t say I blame her. Have you heard the noise those things make? A kiss and a cuddle soon sorted that out and we ordered our meal without too much fuss. As we waited, she suddenly took my hand in hers, kissed it and said: “I love you so much.” My heart, already melted, positively dissolved.
They ate beautifully and we chatted amiably throughout about their friends at school. “Do you have any cardboard?” asked Nathan. I said that as I didn’t have any small children at home, I tended to throw all of my cardboard away. “It’s not only people with children who have cardboard you know” he gently chided me. I had to agree. He wanted it (he said) to make a scale model of a London underground train. An ambitious project for a nine year old in a Pizza Express I felt. Zoë then regaled me with a story of one of her friends who had cut her head open during a fall at school. “You have to be very careful ‘cos if you fall and cut your neck” she added, “that is when you will die”. It was hard to argue the point. “I’ll just put on some lipstick before we leave” I said. “You already have lipstick on” she responded. “Yes,” said I, “I know, but I need to refresh it.” “Oh dear”, said she with some concern, “has it dried out?” An impressive knowledge of make-up in one so young I thought. I put some clear lip-gloss on her too and she was very pleased with that.
We walked back to Leicester Square marvelling at the London taxis. It was cold and I was tempted to treat them to a taxi ride but on balance, I felt that the tube had that little bit more to offer.
Arriving back at Hampstead, I opted to walk home although it really was freezing by now. Parts of the streets were still frozen from our recent snowy cold snap and she insisted on walking on the ice wherever it availed itself. “I’m not picking you up if you fall over” I said. “Don’t worry,” said my nephew quietly to me, “I will”. “You must be the best big brother in the whole world,” I said to him. “Well, she’s a really nice sister too … sometimes” he replied.
Five sixths of the way home, having walked a long way quite happily, she told me that she really wanted to be inside because “…when you take your gloves off” (get the mildly accusing tone), “you'll feel how cold my hands are”. I felt pretty guilty.
Back at my place, they wanted to see around. “I’m just going downstairs,” said she, “that is also your apartment – downstairs?” she asked. I showed them around. “This is my bedroom,” I said. “Wow, this is really cool,” said the three and three quarter year old. But she was really more interested in the big, fluffy toy dog in my 22 year old’s bedroom.
“Are you sure you don’t have any cardboard?” asked Nathan with a bit of a long face. What a terrible Auntie I am, I thought.
I pacified them with a small packet of white chocolate buttons each and found a suitable cartoon channel so that we could all blob out and warm up, which we did.
I think my day out with these two children whom, due purely to distance, I really hardly know, proved my theory that children are usually much better behaved with virtual strangers than they are when they’re parents are around. We had a luvverly day.
So I booked a show. The Gruffalo is a story with which I was utterly unfamiliar, it having been conceived at a time when I was well past keeping abreast with current children’s stories. In a nutshell, a mouse gets lost in a wood and scares off various creatures who want to eat it with tales of a monster called the Gruffalo which we all know doesn’t exist – or does it??
And so on the 27th December, my sister dropped the children and me at the tube station and we took the lovely Northern Line from Hampstead to Leicester Square. They were almost self-combusting with excitement and spent the entire journey pointing out to me the differences between our tube system and New York’s subway. I think the general consensus was that we win with our upholstered seats, electronic signage in a more sensible place and announcements in an English accent. They were incredibly sweet, opting to share a seat although there were plenty of empty ones available.
We arrived just the half an hour early and the wait for curtain-up was punctured by the time-honoured question: “when will it start?” Zoë sat, still and mesmerised (aside from jigging along to a couple of songs) on my lap throughout whilst Nathan gleefully responded to all prompts for audience participation, turning to me on each occasion we were told “but there’s no such thing as the Gruffalo” with a knowing “hmmm, we’ll see about that”.
After the show, we made our way to Pizza Express where a toilet stop was in order. It was in the toilet that we had the only tears of the day. The Dyson hand dryer terrified Zoë and I can’t say I blame her. Have you heard the noise those things make? A kiss and a cuddle soon sorted that out and we ordered our meal without too much fuss. As we waited, she suddenly took my hand in hers, kissed it and said: “I love you so much.” My heart, already melted, positively dissolved.
They ate beautifully and we chatted amiably throughout about their friends at school. “Do you have any cardboard?” asked Nathan. I said that as I didn’t have any small children at home, I tended to throw all of my cardboard away. “It’s not only people with children who have cardboard you know” he gently chided me. I had to agree. He wanted it (he said) to make a scale model of a London underground train. An ambitious project for a nine year old in a Pizza Express I felt. Zoë then regaled me with a story of one of her friends who had cut her head open during a fall at school. “You have to be very careful ‘cos if you fall and cut your neck” she added, “that is when you will die”. It was hard to argue the point. “I’ll just put on some lipstick before we leave” I said. “You already have lipstick on” she responded. “Yes,” said I, “I know, but I need to refresh it.” “Oh dear”, said she with some concern, “has it dried out?” An impressive knowledge of make-up in one so young I thought. I put some clear lip-gloss on her too and she was very pleased with that.
We walked back to Leicester Square marvelling at the London taxis. It was cold and I was tempted to treat them to a taxi ride but on balance, I felt that the tube had that little bit more to offer.
Arriving back at Hampstead, I opted to walk home although it really was freezing by now. Parts of the streets were still frozen from our recent snowy cold snap and she insisted on walking on the ice wherever it availed itself. “I’m not picking you up if you fall over” I said. “Don’t worry,” said my nephew quietly to me, “I will”. “You must be the best big brother in the whole world,” I said to him. “Well, she’s a really nice sister too … sometimes” he replied.
Five sixths of the way home, having walked a long way quite happily, she told me that she really wanted to be inside because “…when you take your gloves off” (get the mildly accusing tone), “you'll feel how cold my hands are”. I felt pretty guilty.
Back at my place, they wanted to see around. “I’m just going downstairs,” said she, “that is also your apartment – downstairs?” she asked. I showed them around. “This is my bedroom,” I said. “Wow, this is really cool,” said the three and three quarter year old. But she was really more interested in the big, fluffy toy dog in my 22 year old’s bedroom.
“Are you sure you don’t have any cardboard?” asked Nathan with a bit of a long face. What a terrible Auntie I am, I thought.
I pacified them with a small packet of white chocolate buttons each and found a suitable cartoon channel so that we could all blob out and warm up, which we did.
I think my day out with these two children whom, due purely to distance, I really hardly know, proved my theory that children are usually much better behaved with virtual strangers than they are when they’re parents are around. We had a luvverly day.
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Speed awareness - you ain't heard nothing yet
“I am so pissed off” said Big-J as he threw himself down onto the sofa. “would you believe I have to go on a frigging speed awareness course” he added, “and all because I was doing 37mph in a 30 mile zone. It was a trap,” he grumbled. “And I have to report to a Police station to show my license – what a waste of bloody time. I’m far too busy for all this.”
We spent the next 20 minutes or so booking the course online for which we had a privilege of paying some £90. But, we reasoned, better than 3 points on your license and a £60 fine.
Big-J spent the following week arguing with the Plod about the unfairness of having to leave his driving license with them for the requisite 6 weeks. He needed it before then as we were shortly to be renting a car overseas. He took some informal legal advice which was basically – get a life. Eventually, a way around it was found (the Police retained the license for 48 hours) without my man having to resort to the legal action he was about to threaten, whatever that may have been. Good idea, I thought, to take on the might of the Met over a housekeeping matter.
The day of the Speed Awareness course arrived amid much moaning and groaning: “I’m just too busy to spend a whole morning do this…” “I’ve been driving for over 40 years, why do I need to go on a course …?” “How long will it take me to get to Ealing,,,” “Where am I going to park?” And so on, and so on, ad naseum.
He left home at 7.45h arriving just the 45 minutes early. Glass ever half full, he called me from a local Ealing café to describe the delicious breakfast he was eating.
At around 13.00h, when the course finished, he called me from the car.
“How was it?” I asked, sympathetically.
“It was AMAZING!” he replied. “What a brilliant lecturer!" He warmed to his theme. "I can’t believe how he held our attention for four hours! I learned so much, it was fantastic! Everyone should do it. It’s shame that you can’t do it voluntarily, I thoroughly recommend it.” A total volte-face, as is so often his wont.
That was the really the last I heard of it until some days later when I next got into the car with Big-J driving. We’d been going no distance at all before he asked me, “Do you know why there are speed bumps in some roads and not in others? No? Well, I’ll tell you. They’re not allowed to put bumps on major routes where they might impede the progress of ambulances.”
“Oh, I said, "interesting. I’d never have thought of that.”
“No” he said, “well you wouldn’t, you haven’t been on a speed awareness course like me; and come on, guess how many fatalities – as a percentage of all UK road fatalities – there are on motorways every year. Go on, go on - guess.”
“It must be quite small I suppose,” I said hesitantly. “Around 20%?”
“Aah no” said my speed aware husband, “far, far less. It’s 3%” he said triumphantly, “because most fatalities are in urban areas and involve pedestrians. There aren’t a lot of pedestrians on motorways.”
We drove on a little further.
“You see that big 50 mph sign?” he said, “that’s because it’s the ‘gateway’ to the 50mph zone. The 50mph signs along the road after that are much smaller. I’ll bet you never knew that did you?”
I had to admit that this was a fact I hadn’t known until that moment.
“And...” he added, “when you see one of those white circle signs with a black diagonal line across it, what do you think that means then?”
“I think it means that you’re out of the previous speed limit zone,” I said.
“Yes, yes it does” he said excitedly, “but what speed does it mean that you can do?”
“Er, 70” I mumbled.
“That’s where you’re wrong” he smugly replied. “The maximum speed limit varies depending upon whether you’re on a motorway, a dual carriage-way or another sort of road. The national speed limit isn’t 70mph you know. You really need to know what sort of a road you’re on and what the speed limit in that area is. It’s very important.”
By now, I was getting a Walter Meldrew, One Foot in the Grave sort of headache. Visions of having to live the rest of my life against this barrage of driving information was making me feel somewhat bilious not to mention very irritated.
“I could explain to you why the urban speed limit is generally set at 30mph if you like” he said.
“On go on do, that’d be really fascinating” I replied, lacing my answer with sarcasm in an attempt to stop him in his tracks. Totally lost on him.
“OK then, it’s because when you drive at 30mph, your car is moving at 13 metres per second and the length of a bus is 13 metres - ah ha!” he exclaimed, “so what does that mean?”
“I guess that means that if you’re overtaking a bus and someone walks out in front of it, theoretically, you’ll have time to brake,” said I.
“Yes, exactly! Well done you!” he replied.
I had to think of a way of stopping this before it really took hold.
“I’d really love to hear your new Bob Dylan album, have you got it loaded?" I said.
“Really?” said Big-J, “you’re not usually that keen to listen to Bob, you usually like to chat whilst we’re in the car.”
“Yes” I said, “I usually do.”
We spent the next 20 minutes or so booking the course online for which we had a privilege of paying some £90. But, we reasoned, better than 3 points on your license and a £60 fine.
Big-J spent the following week arguing with the Plod about the unfairness of having to leave his driving license with them for the requisite 6 weeks. He needed it before then as we were shortly to be renting a car overseas. He took some informal legal advice which was basically – get a life. Eventually, a way around it was found (the Police retained the license for 48 hours) without my man having to resort to the legal action he was about to threaten, whatever that may have been. Good idea, I thought, to take on the might of the Met over a housekeeping matter.
The day of the Speed Awareness course arrived amid much moaning and groaning: “I’m just too busy to spend a whole morning do this…” “I’ve been driving for over 40 years, why do I need to go on a course …?” “How long will it take me to get to Ealing,,,” “Where am I going to park?” And so on, and so on, ad naseum.
He left home at 7.45h arriving just the 45 minutes early. Glass ever half full, he called me from a local Ealing café to describe the delicious breakfast he was eating.
At around 13.00h, when the course finished, he called me from the car.
“How was it?” I asked, sympathetically.
“It was AMAZING!” he replied. “What a brilliant lecturer!" He warmed to his theme. "I can’t believe how he held our attention for four hours! I learned so much, it was fantastic! Everyone should do it. It’s shame that you can’t do it voluntarily, I thoroughly recommend it.” A total volte-face, as is so often his wont.
That was the really the last I heard of it until some days later when I next got into the car with Big-J driving. We’d been going no distance at all before he asked me, “Do you know why there are speed bumps in some roads and not in others? No? Well, I’ll tell you. They’re not allowed to put bumps on major routes where they might impede the progress of ambulances.”
“Oh, I said, "interesting. I’d never have thought of that.”
“No” he said, “well you wouldn’t, you haven’t been on a speed awareness course like me; and come on, guess how many fatalities – as a percentage of all UK road fatalities – there are on motorways every year. Go on, go on - guess.”
“It must be quite small I suppose,” I said hesitantly. “Around 20%?”
“Aah no” said my speed aware husband, “far, far less. It’s 3%” he said triumphantly, “because most fatalities are in urban areas and involve pedestrians. There aren’t a lot of pedestrians on motorways.”
We drove on a little further.
“You see that big 50 mph sign?” he said, “that’s because it’s the ‘gateway’ to the 50mph zone. The 50mph signs along the road after that are much smaller. I’ll bet you never knew that did you?”
I had to admit that this was a fact I hadn’t known until that moment.
“And...” he added, “when you see one of those white circle signs with a black diagonal line across it, what do you think that means then?”
“I think it means that you’re out of the previous speed limit zone,” I said.
“Yes, yes it does” he said excitedly, “but what speed does it mean that you can do?”
“Er, 70” I mumbled.
“That’s where you’re wrong” he smugly replied. “The maximum speed limit varies depending upon whether you’re on a motorway, a dual carriage-way or another sort of road. The national speed limit isn’t 70mph you know. You really need to know what sort of a road you’re on and what the speed limit in that area is. It’s very important.”
By now, I was getting a Walter Meldrew, One Foot in the Grave sort of headache. Visions of having to live the rest of my life against this barrage of driving information was making me feel somewhat bilious not to mention very irritated.
“I could explain to you why the urban speed limit is generally set at 30mph if you like” he said.
“On go on do, that’d be really fascinating” I replied, lacing my answer with sarcasm in an attempt to stop him in his tracks. Totally lost on him.
“OK then, it’s because when you drive at 30mph, your car is moving at 13 metres per second and the length of a bus is 13 metres - ah ha!” he exclaimed, “so what does that mean?”
“I guess that means that if you’re overtaking a bus and someone walks out in front of it, theoretically, you’ll have time to brake,” said I.
“Yes, exactly! Well done you!” he replied.
I had to think of a way of stopping this before it really took hold.
“I’d really love to hear your new Bob Dylan album, have you got it loaded?" I said.
“Really?” said Big-J, “you’re not usually that keen to listen to Bob, you usually like to chat whilst we’re in the car.”
“Yes” I said, “I usually do.”
Friday, 29 October 2010
Why did we do what we did in Morocco?
To be quite frank, I had to drag Big-J to Marrakech kicking and screaming. “What’s wrong with France” he groaned, “THAT’S where I like to go”. By way of an afterthought he muttered a couple of times, “and I’ll have to spend a week drinking bad wine” as he stomped petulantly around the bedroom showing his displeasure. I had to explain carefully (for fear of offence) that whilst I too enjoy France, call me wild and reckless if you like but sometimes, just sometimes, I like to go to other places. “Well” said Big-J, “just be aware that I don’t really want to go, I’m doing this for you and whatever we do” he continued whilst lowering his voice and looking rather serious, “we must NOT buy a carpet. In fact, we mustn’t go near a carpet shop because once they get you in there, you can’t get out without buying a carpet. ”OK” said I, “suits me.”
“I don’t want to go NEAR a carpet shop, not even once” he said sternly.
It wasn’t easy. We had arranged a two-centre trip. Starting in Dublin for four days, we then had a quick overnight at home before leaving for Marrakech the following morning. Not a standard itinerary I grant you and I could explain the background but that’s not important right now. Because of the tight timing Big-J came into his own, planning our packing and our turnaround with military precision, he enjoys stuff like that. Stressful it may have been but there was a frisson of excitement as, with two friends, we headed toward Africa, a continent I had never visited.
First we had to tackle the vagaries of Victoria Station and the Gatwick Express. Big-J wasn’t a happy bunny. The thought of the taxi then the train then finding our way to our terminal was making him feel proper queasy and rather twitchy. As it turned out, it was really easy – even pleasant. “I’ll never be worried about flying from Gatwick again” he pronounced, “that train service is really great and do you know, they serve a lovely cup of tea”. So far, so good.
We weren’t expecting too much and our Royal Air Maroc scheduled flight fully lived up to our expectations. I had thought it impossible to find an airline worse than EasyJet (although I’ve never flown Ryanair) but this one was it. Old aircraft, no legroom, surly staff, late departure, truly putrid food. The one advantage was that we hardly saw the very few staff on board so that was a bit of a bonus. Suffice it to say, never again.
Our slightly nervous arrival in Morocco was a sweaty flurry of form filling and, to be granted entrance to the country, you have to queue. Naturally, the law of queues applied in our case as we chose the shortest one which then took the longest time. Never mind, our baggage appeared quite quickly and our hotel had sent a driver in a Djellaba to greet us.
The fifteen-minute drive from the airport to our hotel proved interesting as we took in our surroundings. Africa and Europe are very different indeed and we marvelled that at just three and half hours from London, we were in exotica. Negotiating Marrakechian junctions was a skilled affair which you’d probably have to learn from the cradle to ever hope to master. All around us was pink terracotta and the land looked arid aside from a beautiful park here or a little oasis there all clearly irrigated at a cost that could probably feed a family of 17 for eight years.
Our driver stopped in a street opposite (what we later discovered was) the highly secure and zealously guarded Royal Palace and around a 5 minute walk from the Medina. There, in-between a motor- cycle repair shop and a tyre replacement outlet, was an unobtrusive wooden door. It was open and we walked in down a rather nice, scented passageway out of the heat and madness into cool serenity where we did all the usual checking into a hotel stuff.
We had booked a Riad, which, for those not ‘in the know’ is a large house now converted into a hotel. As we later discovered, ours – with its 27 rooms - had previously been the home of a Judge (Judgeships must be very lucrative in Morocco) and was acquired by a French family and converted in the late 1990s. A Riad isn’t a Riad (we later found out) unless it has a fountain in its courtyard, which ours did. In fact it had two or three courtyards with fountains and two swimming pools. It also had a very good restaurant, a full Spa including a Hamman (more of which later) and lots of lovely little nooks and crannies which served as romantic, shady seating or bar areas. It was as though we had arrived in paradise. The Riad, Villa des Orangers is quite the nicest small hotel any of us had ever stayed in. It was hard to fault it and, shocking though it might be to those who know us, we really couldn’t find any cause to complain throughout our stay. Au contraire. So lovely was it that we felt as though we were guests in someone’s rather lavish and luxurious home. We highly recommend the place to anyone who is able bodied enough to manage a few stairs – there were two flights up to our beautiful suite - but as that was really the only exercise we had for five days, we were happy to climb them.
A few days into our holiday, we were all totally relaxed. The three of us had had a massage and the four of us, a Hammam (steam bath). I didn’t like the Hammam. Being naked and soaped down in front of other people isn’t something I care for but Big-J LOVED it – blue paper thong n’all. “Next time I come here” he said, “I’ll do the Hammam on the first day – and then again on the last day - only next time, I'll have to request a considerably bigger thong."
"By the way" he added, "when should we come again? I can’t wait to get back here, it’s great for R&R.”
Unlike the three of us, Big-J was an old hand; he’d been to Morocco several times before. “What we mustn’t do” he re-emphasised “is to buy a carpet … or to get lured into any carpet shops” he pronounced, “even if they tell you that it’s their uncle’s brother-in-law and you don’t have to buy anything, they just want you to look … once they get you in there it takes hours and you won’t get out without buying. Mark my words” he nodded sagaciously, “don’t get tempted”. No one in our party was remotely interested in buying carpets but we listened politely anyway.
A few days later we’d arranged a trip into the Atlas mountains. Our guide, Asir, arrived in his air-conditioned 4x4 and we set off. He suggested an itinerary that started off with a visit to Berber house complete with authentic Berber family, comprising adults and their seventeen children, two cows and other assorted animals all living in quarters that resembled something from the middle ages. This family open their home for visitors and apparently entertain hoards of tourists every morning. Enterprising, lucrative and nice work if you can get it. We were struck by how healthy and and beautiful these people were. I guess that with no TV, computers, cinemas, McDonalds, KFC, chinese take-aways, shops or other distractions, the lifestyle in these mountain villages is much healthier than ours as long as you can put food on the table each day and survive illness without any traditional medicine. Although it was heartbreaking to ignore the stunning children who congregated around the car waiting for handouts, our guide seemed to know most of them personally and shooed them away.
After leaving the Berber house, we drove off up the mountain road and Asir asked us whether we’d be interested in seeing the best carpet shop in Morocco. “No” we chorused, “we’re not allowed to buy carpets”. Asir suggested that it would be interesting to have a look anyway but we politely declined because we knew we didn’t want to buy carpet. As we drove past said carpet emporium we couldn’t help but look and remark on the beautiful rugs hanging outside.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” asked Asir, “This is a Berber shop and the best carpet emporium in the area.”
“Well” said Big-J, “maybe we should just have a quick walk around – the girls need to use the loo anyway.”
Within a few moments of walking inside I made fatal a mistake: “That’d look nice in the living room,” I said ‘en passant’ and as a throw away comment and not at all seriously. “Remember” whispered our friend, “you said you didn’t want to buy a carpet, you told me to stop you from buying a carpet, I’m TRYING to stop you from buying a carpet!”. But it was too late. Big-J's eyes had lit up, he had a spring in his step, a hand on his wallet, buying lust had kicked in and the rest is history. Two and a half hours later after lengthy and entertaining negotiations between Big-J and the salesman, a price and delivery date was agreed.
So now, as we await delivery of our rug, I’m left to reflect on whether I should be firmer in my protests when his enthusiasm bubbles over.
Oh dear, he just can’t help himself.
“I don’t want to go NEAR a carpet shop, not even once” he said sternly.
It wasn’t easy. We had arranged a two-centre trip. Starting in Dublin for four days, we then had a quick overnight at home before leaving for Marrakech the following morning. Not a standard itinerary I grant you and I could explain the background but that’s not important right now. Because of the tight timing Big-J came into his own, planning our packing and our turnaround with military precision, he enjoys stuff like that. Stressful it may have been but there was a frisson of excitement as, with two friends, we headed toward Africa, a continent I had never visited.
First we had to tackle the vagaries of Victoria Station and the Gatwick Express. Big-J wasn’t a happy bunny. The thought of the taxi then the train then finding our way to our terminal was making him feel proper queasy and rather twitchy. As it turned out, it was really easy – even pleasant. “I’ll never be worried about flying from Gatwick again” he pronounced, “that train service is really great and do you know, they serve a lovely cup of tea”. So far, so good.
We weren’t expecting too much and our Royal Air Maroc scheduled flight fully lived up to our expectations. I had thought it impossible to find an airline worse than EasyJet (although I’ve never flown Ryanair) but this one was it. Old aircraft, no legroom, surly staff, late departure, truly putrid food. The one advantage was that we hardly saw the very few staff on board so that was a bit of a bonus. Suffice it to say, never again.
Our slightly nervous arrival in Morocco was a sweaty flurry of form filling and, to be granted entrance to the country, you have to queue. Naturally, the law of queues applied in our case as we chose the shortest one which then took the longest time. Never mind, our baggage appeared quite quickly and our hotel had sent a driver in a Djellaba to greet us.
The fifteen-minute drive from the airport to our hotel proved interesting as we took in our surroundings. Africa and Europe are very different indeed and we marvelled that at just three and half hours from London, we were in exotica. Negotiating Marrakechian junctions was a skilled affair which you’d probably have to learn from the cradle to ever hope to master. All around us was pink terracotta and the land looked arid aside from a beautiful park here or a little oasis there all clearly irrigated at a cost that could probably feed a family of 17 for eight years.
Our driver stopped in a street opposite (what we later discovered was) the highly secure and zealously guarded Royal Palace and around a 5 minute walk from the Medina. There, in-between a motor- cycle repair shop and a tyre replacement outlet, was an unobtrusive wooden door. It was open and we walked in down a rather nice, scented passageway out of the heat and madness into cool serenity where we did all the usual checking into a hotel stuff.
We had booked a Riad, which, for those not ‘in the know’ is a large house now converted into a hotel. As we later discovered, ours – with its 27 rooms - had previously been the home of a Judge (Judgeships must be very lucrative in Morocco) and was acquired by a French family and converted in the late 1990s. A Riad isn’t a Riad (we later found out) unless it has a fountain in its courtyard, which ours did. In fact it had two or three courtyards with fountains and two swimming pools. It also had a very good restaurant, a full Spa including a Hamman (more of which later) and lots of lovely little nooks and crannies which served as romantic, shady seating or bar areas. It was as though we had arrived in paradise. The Riad, Villa des Orangers is quite the nicest small hotel any of us had ever stayed in. It was hard to fault it and, shocking though it might be to those who know us, we really couldn’t find any cause to complain throughout our stay. Au contraire. So lovely was it that we felt as though we were guests in someone’s rather lavish and luxurious home. We highly recommend the place to anyone who is able bodied enough to manage a few stairs – there were two flights up to our beautiful suite - but as that was really the only exercise we had for five days, we were happy to climb them.
A few days into our holiday, we were all totally relaxed. The three of us had had a massage and the four of us, a Hammam (steam bath). I didn’t like the Hammam. Being naked and soaped down in front of other people isn’t something I care for but Big-J LOVED it – blue paper thong n’all. “Next time I come here” he said, “I’ll do the Hammam on the first day – and then again on the last day - only next time, I'll have to request a considerably bigger thong."
"By the way" he added, "when should we come again? I can’t wait to get back here, it’s great for R&R.”
Unlike the three of us, Big-J was an old hand; he’d been to Morocco several times before. “What we mustn’t do” he re-emphasised “is to buy a carpet … or to get lured into any carpet shops” he pronounced, “even if they tell you that it’s their uncle’s brother-in-law and you don’t have to buy anything, they just want you to look … once they get you in there it takes hours and you won’t get out without buying. Mark my words” he nodded sagaciously, “don’t get tempted”. No one in our party was remotely interested in buying carpets but we listened politely anyway.
A few days later we’d arranged a trip into the Atlas mountains. Our guide, Asir, arrived in his air-conditioned 4x4 and we set off. He suggested an itinerary that started off with a visit to Berber house complete with authentic Berber family, comprising adults and their seventeen children, two cows and other assorted animals all living in quarters that resembled something from the middle ages. This family open their home for visitors and apparently entertain hoards of tourists every morning. Enterprising, lucrative and nice work if you can get it. We were struck by how healthy and and beautiful these people were. I guess that with no TV, computers, cinemas, McDonalds, KFC, chinese take-aways, shops or other distractions, the lifestyle in these mountain villages is much healthier than ours as long as you can put food on the table each day and survive illness without any traditional medicine. Although it was heartbreaking to ignore the stunning children who congregated around the car waiting for handouts, our guide seemed to know most of them personally and shooed them away.
After leaving the Berber house, we drove off up the mountain road and Asir asked us whether we’d be interested in seeing the best carpet shop in Morocco. “No” we chorused, “we’re not allowed to buy carpets”. Asir suggested that it would be interesting to have a look anyway but we politely declined because we knew we didn’t want to buy carpet. As we drove past said carpet emporium we couldn’t help but look and remark on the beautiful rugs hanging outside.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” asked Asir, “This is a Berber shop and the best carpet emporium in the area.”
“Well” said Big-J, “maybe we should just have a quick walk around – the girls need to use the loo anyway.”
Within a few moments of walking inside I made fatal a mistake: “That’d look nice in the living room,” I said ‘en passant’ and as a throw away comment and not at all seriously. “Remember” whispered our friend, “you said you didn’t want to buy a carpet, you told me to stop you from buying a carpet, I’m TRYING to stop you from buying a carpet!”. But it was too late. Big-J's eyes had lit up, he had a spring in his step, a hand on his wallet, buying lust had kicked in and the rest is history. Two and a half hours later after lengthy and entertaining negotiations between Big-J and the salesman, a price and delivery date was agreed.
So now, as we await delivery of our rug, I’m left to reflect on whether I should be firmer in my protests when his enthusiasm bubbles over.
Oh dear, he just can’t help himself.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
I just can't stop going on
Dear reader
You may be starting to think that I'm as obsessed with the banks as Bob Crow is but I can't resist sharing.
Hats off to my business partner for this one.
He hauled the North London NatWest business manager over the coals, he really did. At the end of the pulverisation, he asked what NatWest thought might be an appropriate compensatory gesture for all of our time and trouble, not to mention aggravation. They suggested that they might put £30 into our account. We laugh in the face of £30! What an insult.
My business partner suggested that even on a modest hourly rate of £150, they really should be thinking more in terms of a payment of £800 to mollify us. The whole debacle had really taken up a lot of our time. The business manager went away to think about it and we weren't holding our coporate breath.
Lo and behold, a few days later the bank made us an ex-gratia payment of £250.
Back of the net!
You may be starting to think that I'm as obsessed with the banks as Bob Crow is but I can't resist sharing.
Hats off to my business partner for this one.
He hauled the North London NatWest business manager over the coals, he really did. At the end of the pulverisation, he asked what NatWest thought might be an appropriate compensatory gesture for all of our time and trouble, not to mention aggravation. They suggested that they might put £30 into our account. We laugh in the face of £30! What an insult.
My business partner suggested that even on a modest hourly rate of £150, they really should be thinking more in terms of a payment of £800 to mollify us. The whole debacle had really taken up a lot of our time. The business manager went away to think about it and we weren't holding our coporate breath.
Lo and behold, a few days later the bank made us an ex-gratia payment of £250.
Back of the net!
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
RESTAURANT REVIEW
YORK AND ALBANY
127-129 Parkway, London NW1 7PS
T: 020 7388 3344
We ate at the York and Albany last night. It seems to me that it's a restaurant that has almost (but not quite) got it right.
The first two people we encountered to were unable to find our booking despite them having called me the previous Friday to check we were coming. (Ramsay restaurants are very hot on checking up and if you want a group booking for six or more, you have to sign a contract, give them a credit card number and let them take your children hostage.) After a nail biting few minutes where Big-J anxiously paced the bar asking me what we should do if we couldn't eat there - "eat somewhere else" I said, the bright and smiley Ms Restaurant Manager appeared and told us, wryly, that “you just can't get the staff”. We rejected the first table (right under the air conditioning unit) and were seated at a nice round one although the person on the outside seat was asked to move several times during the evening in order for chairs to be pushed by and for staff to gain access to the wine cupboard.
There were highlights and lowlights.
So, to the highlights: the service was really friendly and very efficient and even amusing – in a good way. The food we ordered was, in general, excellent. The pace of service was also very good – not too fast and not too slow.
The lowlights: (1) The first basket of bread brought to the table was stale. I'm perhaps being unfair, I'd say that it had probably been cut in the morning and left to dry out but by the time it reached us, it was totally inedible (unless you fancy cracking your expensive porcelain crowns) and we had to send it back. Really not what you expect from a Ramsay establishment – must do better. On the upside, they replaced it very quickly with a fresh basket. (2) The wine list is outrageous moving seamlessly from the one or two reasonably priced bottles at around £25 up to very overpriced offerings starting at £50. We estimated a 300% to 400% mark up on most of them. (3) The lighting (absolutely fine when we sat down) was then turned down so low that it became difficult to read the menu. (4) The menu itself was quite difficult. There was really only one starter and two of the main courses that I fancied. (5) My summer salad starter, whilst delicious, was absolutely teeny weeny. A minute, nouvelle cuisine, doll's portion which was a shame because every single tiny morsel tasted completely delicious. I could have done with a portion at least twice the size.
We all opted for the Côtes de boeuf (I told you the menu wasn't easy) and it really was excellent. Perfectly cooked and served with a delicious braised endive, the like of which I've never tasted before. Lovely.
We didn't have dessert, we drank one bottle of reasonably priced wine between 4 (two of our party were on some sort of mad ‘detox’) and at £115 per couple we thought that was pretty expensive for what it was. Because of that, we won't be rushing back.
127-129 Parkway, London NW1 7PS
T: 020 7388 3344
We ate at the York and Albany last night. It seems to me that it's a restaurant that has almost (but not quite) got it right.
The first two people we encountered to were unable to find our booking despite them having called me the previous Friday to check we were coming. (Ramsay restaurants are very hot on checking up and if you want a group booking for six or more, you have to sign a contract, give them a credit card number and let them take your children hostage.) After a nail biting few minutes where Big-J anxiously paced the bar asking me what we should do if we couldn't eat there - "eat somewhere else" I said, the bright and smiley Ms Restaurant Manager appeared and told us, wryly, that “you just can't get the staff”. We rejected the first table (right under the air conditioning unit) and were seated at a nice round one although the person on the outside seat was asked to move several times during the evening in order for chairs to be pushed by and for staff to gain access to the wine cupboard.
There were highlights and lowlights.
So, to the highlights: the service was really friendly and very efficient and even amusing – in a good way. The food we ordered was, in general, excellent. The pace of service was also very good – not too fast and not too slow.
The lowlights: (1) The first basket of bread brought to the table was stale. I'm perhaps being unfair, I'd say that it had probably been cut in the morning and left to dry out but by the time it reached us, it was totally inedible (unless you fancy cracking your expensive porcelain crowns) and we had to send it back. Really not what you expect from a Ramsay establishment – must do better. On the upside, they replaced it very quickly with a fresh basket. (2) The wine list is outrageous moving seamlessly from the one or two reasonably priced bottles at around £25 up to very overpriced offerings starting at £50. We estimated a 300% to 400% mark up on most of them. (3) The lighting (absolutely fine when we sat down) was then turned down so low that it became difficult to read the menu. (4) The menu itself was quite difficult. There was really only one starter and two of the main courses that I fancied. (5) My summer salad starter, whilst delicious, was absolutely teeny weeny. A minute, nouvelle cuisine, doll's portion which was a shame because every single tiny morsel tasted completely delicious. I could have done with a portion at least twice the size.
We all opted for the Côtes de boeuf (I told you the menu wasn't easy) and it really was excellent. Perfectly cooked and served with a delicious braised endive, the like of which I've never tasted before. Lovely.
We didn't have dessert, we drank one bottle of reasonably priced wine between 4 (two of our party were on some sort of mad ‘detox’) and at £115 per couple we thought that was pretty expensive for what it was. Because of that, we won't be rushing back.
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