Fuck Norfolk

Cringleford, 22nd September 2006

I have been abandoned in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Norwich. The occasion is that my grandmother's 90th birthday is in two days, and my mother needs to be here to fuss over her mother, make sure all the sausage rolls have been ordered, that sort of thing.

Norfolk is not exactly evocative of fun in my scarred childhood memory. Rather, it is a place where we always went on sufferance, where children were to be seen and not heard, where 'proper' (i.e. arbitrary and entirely inessential) manners were enforced unsmilingly, where time always seemed to move twice as slowly, a place of stilted conversation over tea and crushing, crushing tedium.

Cringleford, where my grandmother moved on her second marriage, a few months after my birth, is a dreary rural suburb with battalions of bungalows filled with floral patterned old women. For some reason, although Norwich, which is a city with actual things and young people and life in it, is only three miles away, we never got to go there. Rather, we were dragged to stately homes and garden centres (fascinating! another potted plant!) and generally bored to within an inch of our lives.

The explanation given by my mother now is that my grandmother "chose these activities with my brother and I in mind". Although I appreciate that her heart might have been in the right place (I have more doubts about my step-grandfather who never knowingly understood the idea of children, or of having fun for that matter), it depresses me still that it was never understood that we might be tearing our own eyelids off in despair at the prospect of a whole afternoon spent in another stuffy house with furniture that we couldn't touch*. No one ever asked us.

This is something that my brother and I (whose relationship has sometimes been somewhat rancorous) agree wholeheartedly upon.

It is typical, then, that instead of being accommodated in the middle of the city, where we might stand a fighting chance of having something to do in the evenings, we have been stranded in a service station in fucking Cringleford. The whole thing is so very Alan Partridge that I don't know whether to laugh, or just cry myself to sleep. There's certainly nothing else to do.

(* Imaginary conversation with stately home owner: "Oh well done, Lord Rectal-Bigamy-Smythe for owning a big house that you didn't buy. Let me pay you five English pounds for the honour of walking inside a third of its rooms. Oh! Such magnificent, um, old furniture you have! No, I wouldn't let anyone sit on it either, the state it's in." I guess this is the root of my despising the aristocracy and all their apologists.)

Arting about in London

Another new day, another day gallivanting about Lahndon. A little late off the mark this time - didn't set foot in the cemetery till 3.30, didn't get there until gone 4.30. I had to move quickly, and so raced across Hungerford bridge, zig-zagging past the blue-shirted kids handing out anti-drugs leaflets (sponsored by the Church of Scientology, so it said on their backs. Hmmm.) On Northumberland Avenue, as Rob has pointed out elsewhere, the volume of free newspapers thrust in your direction by enthusiastic young men and women was of forest-threatening proportions. Trafalgar Square was rammed as usual; I particularly liked how a gaggle of jolly-hockey-sticks public schoolgirls in ridiculous stripy uniforms and straw boaters were being openly and loudly mocked by a couple of blokes perched on top of one of the lion statues. Pigeons, seemingly unaware of Red Ken's edict against their continuing existence, were rooting about in the dust from the nearby building site. I found my way to the top of the steps and ducked into the cool, calm sanctuary of the National Gallery.

What followed was essentially a 30 minute greatest hits set of western art from 1400-1900. (I had meant to give myself a bit more time to do it all justice, but I can go back and do it properly some other time, eh?) Starting off marvelling at Titian's excellent depictions of beards, I then gazed with admiration at Leonardo's angel in the shadows, plus the Virgin Mary, etc. (nice rocks there too, mate) before heading off to find my current favourite, Botticelli's Venus and Mars.

Realising I didn't have much time, I dashed off into the 1600-1700 section, through a whole heap of moody Rembrandts. I was looking for Vermeer; he clearly is a tricky chap to find. Anyway, I eventually tracked the bugger down - in this one I particularly liked the cherub brandishing a card like an overzealous football referee. I also dallied awhile by the Rokeby Venus by Velazquez. Nice curves, I thought.

Onwards and leaping forwards in time, and I ploughed through a bunch of Canalettos, into a room of Gainsboroughs (I liked these dudes) and Constables, depicting some kind of Olde Englande rural timewarp. Last, but by no means least, was the groovy selection of Turners, with their fantastic hazy skies and smoke and moody atmosphere. Altogether, a very satisfactory half hour. I still completely failed to find the Impressionists, some of which are marvellous, so I'll have to go back, I reckon.

After my little spree in the NG, I was then herded onto a tube train for the journey out east. I was due to meet Dr Smitha Nathan at the Ten Bells in Spitalfields, historically notable as the pub where Jack the Ripper selected his victims. An agreeable pub, all told, with massive leather sofas - all the better to accommodate Drs Ben Kilner and Alice Thomas (from Oxford! Thanks for coming all that way!) and Dr Andrew Sorby. Surrounded by such excellent personages, a jolly evening was inevitable, especially when you factor in a Brick Lane curry and a purchase of a dozen bagels (got a bit carried away in my beery enthusiasm). The only downside came when, having made the last train with plenty of time to spare, I fell asleep and missed my stop, and had to take a £20 cab ride home from Farnborough. Whoops.

Ruby Murray

Pirbright, 19th September 2006

After all the high culture, now for the low culture. I had arranged to meet Dave and Rich (who surprised us both by showing up with a rather cute German exchange student - good luck there, feller - whose name I never quite grasped) in O'Neill's in Woking. We were mustering for a trip to that Great British gastronomic institution, the curry house. American curries are certainly not bad (at least not in California), but they are rather insipid - I have been craving the visceral thrill of eating something properly hot for quite some time.

Preliminary beverages consumed, and now safely ensconced within 'Bombay Nights', the rituals commenced. First up, far too many poppadoms, and slopping mango chutney all over the tablecloth. Secondly, massive Kingfishers all round. Thirdly, cramming export strength lamb madras w/ onion bhajis, rice and garlic naan down my gullet until I could barely move. Feel the burn. Mmmmmm. Not much conversation at this critical stage. Fourth, feeling a trifle dry-throated now. More Kingfisher please, my good man! Finally, the essential hot towels. A cross between a facial sauna and a jolly good scrub. Even with lemon freshness, the curry scent is rather hard to shift from your fingers.

And onwards to the pub! A wagonload of my old schoolfriends were engaged in mental combat in the Sovs' pub quiz. As I supped on my first proper pint of bitter in aeons, Si, Stu, Sam and James (and their respective other halves) were carrying all before them with their expert knowledge of reality TV and sporting trivia. Prize money duly collected, conversation turned to how none of those guys had come to visit me yet (fools! and me with a spare room, too!), Sam's latest harebrained plan for ascending to superstardom (and just why would you think the BBC would want to employ you, eh?), holidays we went on seven years ago and much, much more. Two more pubs (including a supremely ill-advised pint of wifebeater, which seemingly precipitated a heated debate about the applicability of supposed national/racial character traits to individuals - Sam thought so, I thought it was utter bollocks), an encounter with an enthusiastic spaniel puppy and six hours later, I woke up in Dave's spare room with a rather unpleasant headache and growling stomach. Ah, curry...

The village and The Village

Pirbright, 18th September 2006

When stranded at home for a long stretch, one has very few real options for entertainment. Pirbright is a pretty village, but fairly short on things to do. There are only so many times, for instance, that one can walk around a duckpond. And if you eschew, as I have chosen to this time, the brainrotting option of surfing my parents' 300-odd Sky Digital channels all day for half-decent music / Australian 'aerobics experts' in sports bras / catwalk models in their pants then it is fairly clear that in order to prevent one beating oneself unconscious in bored desperation, escape is highly necessary.

Luckily, for reasons historical that I will not bore you with now, the rather large cemetery over the road from my parents' house (2nd largest in Europe!) comes equipped with its own mainline railway station. In just 35 minutes, one can be in the centre of 'The Village' (as our nation's capital is often deprecatingly referred to, at least by my friends) where there is no shortage of anything at all to do, save perhaps breathe clean air. Thus it was that a little after 11 o'clock, I found myself picking a path through a few thousand dead Canadians, Americans, RAF pilots and British Muslims, and thence onto a train to Waterloo.

One hour later, after an amusingly haphazard walk through Theatreland, where although I was largely going in the correct direction, I kept finding myself two streets away from where I wanted to be (who needs an A-to-Z anyway?), I eventually pitched up at Virgin Megastore, Tottenham Court Road. I immediately deployed into grab-and-purchase mode, selecting five DVDs of crystalised Britishness in as many minutes. Meanwhile some load crashes and thuds and geetar noises from the basement alerted me to the imminence of a free lunchtime gig by the unwieldily-named Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. And they were quite good - they had a trumpet, a laptop, and a sound which reminded me somewhat at first of those Noel Gallagher acoustic numbers on old Oasis B-sides (not least because of the chap's voice), but then got faster, more trumpety and more interesting.

After hurtling back across town on foot, a little better directed this time, I romped breathlessly into the Tate Modern and into the exhibition on the 4th floor. Vassily Kandinsky and his 'journey into abstraction' were on the menu today; it could have been baboon arse paintings or another Barnett Newman single-stripe on canvas retrospective, and I still would have gone, mind you (I am still a Tate Member, having forgotten to stop the direct debit, and therefore I must strive to get my money's worth...) Kandinsky is famous for paintings of intricate squares, triangles and blobs and such which are supposed to represent abstract concepts, like motion or whatever. Here they had early paintings of his where he was actually painting 'things' - actual recognisable objects and landscapes. I liked those.

And then there were the ones from a few years later where he had gone semi-abstract, with squiggles and all that business amongst the identifiable people and horses and gubbins.

And then the even later ones where you should just give up trying to work out what the features are and appreciate the 'vitality' and 'movement'. These mostly give me headaches.

After I got myself a proper headache, I retired to the Members' Room on the 6th floor to join my fellow members of the Liberal Elite, sip my latte and gaze, stupified, at the magnificent view of St Paul's.

And that, excepting a nondescript train journey home, was that.

Zombiedom

Pirbright, 16th September 2006

I am feeling positively loopy. I got on a plane on Friday in broad daylight and got off a plane on Saturday in broad daylight. Sleep was almost nonexistent, given that the fellow in the seat in front was seemingly determined to mow through my knees from about 10 minutes after takeoff to the denouement 11-something hours later. (Incidentally, cheers for that 45 minute wait to get to our stand after landing, fellas. Good job.)

After the hugs, the first cup of strong coffee I could get my hands on, the first of many (I presume) maternal interrogations, and an uneventful drive through dull suburban Surrey, I finally stumbled through the front door of my parents' house a little after noon. Determined that I should acclimatise to this new time zone (a mere eight hours ahead of Pacific Standard Time) as soon as possible, I began to summon all of my strength to stay awake as long as I could. I also made a very large pot of coffee.

My mother decided sometime after lunch, that I should go into town and see my brother's (small, but perfectly formed) new flat. Hence it was that a tall pale zombielike figure could be seen haunting the Peacocks shopping centre in Woking in the late afternoon, crashing from Virgin Megastore to HMV, clutching an eclectic mix of toiletries and teabags. I actually managed to stay awake for five hours beyond that (finally conking out halfway through writing this, actually), but what I said to people past 6 pm is anyone's guess.

bicycle commuter news (update)

Our daily morning companion the rat is clearly in this for the long haul. I feared the worst when Forest St was cleared for sweeping this morning, but the rodent - still strongly adhered to the asphalt - is evidently made of very stern stuff.

Two volcanoes

And Ben and I climbed both of them.