On The Great Outdoors

I am, and always will be, a townie. While I appreciate that the countryside can be beautiful, peaceful and calming, it's really not for me; I much prefer the bright lights and loud noises of the city. So when N decided to arrange a camping trip for his birthday, I was decidedly underawed.



It wasn't, forunately, as bad as I thought; I had a fantastic weekend and I think I managed quite well without the internet, TV and...walls. Actually, that's a complete lie, and I respect you too much to lie to you. I'm sorry. The truth: I was completely rubbish and should not be allowed out of the concrete jungle. Bear Grylls I am not. Setting up tents, for a start, is a chore - especially when the ground beneath is so muddy you can hardly stand. That's something I like about houses; they generally come pre-assembled, ready and fit for habitation. Not so the tent, which requires assembly then reveals a sizeable insect community that has somehow survived those long months in the garden shed.



The first night was rainy, cold and dark and I was incredibly, stupidly inebriated. Towards the end of the night, the end of my night anyway, the group realised that I'd been missing for 25 minutes, and a search party was sent forth. N found me in the toilet block, hugging the hand-drier for warmth and escorted me back to the tents. I went to bed - not to sleep, just to lie with eyes wide open wondering what exactly was walking around outside. I wasn't expecting a bear or anything, but when you're out of your comfort zone, even badgers start to seem menacing.


The second night was less rainy, less cold and less dark. This was mostly because we figured out how to turn the electricity on and so the 'get back to nature' element of our camping trip went straight out of the window. Electricity gave us light. It gave us heat. We stole a picnic bench and installed it in our gazebo. We even, in the true hunting and gathering spirit of our country-dwelling ancestors, ordered a Chinese takeaway. In short, we may as well have booked a hotel.



I'm not meant for the great outdoors. I'll never be able to do without walls, a bed, central heating. I'm too attached these creature comforts and little luxuries to find sleeping on the floor enjoyable. Give me supermarkets that don't close, a mind-boggling transport network and brick, glass and steel. I don't care if I can't see the stars or see through the exhaust fumes. Just don't make me sleep outside again; the badgers might get me.

On The Week That Just Was

An Evening At The Scala

I'm so pleased it's the weekend - it's been a week with more ups and downs than the Big One at Blackpool.

After my Night of Shame last Saturday, I couldn't shake the hangover until Monday evening. Oh, how I struggled at the office. I drank so much water in an attempt to end the misery than I spent most of my working day in the toilet.

Tuesday was marginally better; I went for a few drinks after work (I know - I never learn!) which were rather funny. We've started recording the funny things we say in a quote book, which makes great reading, but is not for the faint hearted.

Wednesday, however, was very good. I met N after work and we went to see Tom McRae at the Scala. I don't know his music at all - it was N's birthday present - but it was bloody brilliant. I think also, because he's not as well-known as he could be, he's developed a scarily devoted fan base. I'm not joking - it's like they all know each other - they know when to sing along and when not to, they have little jokes with him and all sorts. The only downer was that we went for an all-you-can-eat buffet meal at Kitchin beforehand, which limited movement later. Luckily, we found a perfect spot right at the front of the top balcony - meaning we could see everything. I felt like Prince William, looking down on the paupers squashed in below. I really like the Scala for that reason; it's full of corridors and stairs and balconies, it's quite easy to get lost in. One of my favourite gig venues I think. Especially the mosaic floors in the stairwells.

Thursday was a lowpoint - despite not drinking on Wednesday, I felt bloody awful all morning. I was struggling so much I went home from work, and missed the Fulham vs Juventus game that everyone's talking about. My dad says it was the "best atmosphere he's ever seen at Craven Cottage". N was 'so happy he felt dizzy'. I was at home alone. HOW IS THIS FAIR? I am so full of regret. And woe, I am also full of WOE. Still, well done Fulham for reaching the quarter finals. C'mon you whites!

I ended up taking Friday off too (although this was less because of my cold and more because of the intense depression missing Thursday's game put me in).

So it's been a week of highs and lows. I'm in Italy next week, with work, so I'm off to buy some new stuff to wear now.

I hope everyone has a great weekend!

tbr

On The Menu

"You simply must try the dickled octopus - it's to die for."

I found myself in an unusually charitable mood this evening, so when N picked me up from the station after work, I suggested we go out for a bite to eat. He chose an Italian down the road. We went in, were shown to our table and ordered our drinks. All was going swimmingly - I even bumped into a friend in there, which made me feel like I was in Cheers.

The waitress, a friendly Italian woman, left it just the right amount of time before asking whether we were ready to order our food. The starters were ordered without a hitch. For my mains, I chose an unadventurous Spaghetti Carbonara - I was in the mood for something simple. N, however, wasn't;

"Can I have the pasta marinara..."

'Good choice,' I thought - but alas, there was more.

"...but I'd like a carbonara sauce instead of the tomato sauce please."

The waitress was speechless - and it wasn't her level of English, which was impeccable - nothing could have prepared her for this. I sat there in silence, aghast. It got worse. She had to check with the chef. Check. With the chef. I implored N to chose one, or the other, and not to insist on this mash-up, but he was adamant. She was gone for what seemed like ages - a time probably spent forcing the chef to cast aside his culinary pretentions and cook whatever pig's swill this mad customer wanted. She came back to tell us that the chef could prepare the meal but...wait for it...he wanted us to know he would not be held responsible for how it might taste. Too right - if my career was built on cooking good meals for customers, I'd have N banned from my restaurant and distance myself as much as humanly possible from his insane gastronomic inventions. The meal arrived and N ate it. He made it out it was delicious, but I'm not sure I believe him.

The situation exposed a difference between us - I am of the opinion that menus are not lists to mix and match with. Of course if you have an allergy or other dietary requirement, or would like a meal without mushrooms, for example, go for it. But I draw the line at pick n' mix pasta. If someone has gone to the trouble of creating a menu of fine food - with ingredients carefully selected and included in the right proportions, who are we to waltz in and crap all over it? Would it not be more...proper to choose one of the options offered? (Proper - another word I love. Proper). Surely that's part of the experience of eating out?

N, however, is of an entirely different viewpoint, i.e. you're paying for the meal, so you should be able to have exactly what you want. While I do see some reasoning behind this, I refuse to change my allegiance. I will forever belong to the 'You-get-what-you're-given Camp'.

I'd be interested to know whether I'm alone in this. Am I being a food snob? Should I try to ditch this reliance on the menu and create-my-own?

On Caviar & Comics

Tonight was my work Christmas do. And it was quite a do. Having had a couple of days off, I went to the office, glanced briefly at an inbox full of troublesome e-mails and then headed off to the Covent Garden Hotel for lunch.

We were told to dress up (unusual for an office full of Converses, jeans and hoodies) and I'm glad I did - the hotel is beautiful. We were shown to a private room in which I was not the only one impressed by the cloth wallpaper...or wallcloth perhaps. I'm sorry, I don't know the correct term. The food was fantastic. I had caviar for the first time - not much I hasten to add - a small helping on top of the rémoularde which accompanied my starter of smoked salmon. Fear not - I'm not going to run through the menu, but for a born and bred Essex boy I feel caviar in a swanky hotel is something of a milestone :) In all honesty, there wasn't even enough of it to really taste it - what I did manage to separate from the rest of my meal felt a bit like I was eating tiny bubbles. You can take the boy out of Essex...

Then went on to the pub - so please excuse any glaring spelling errors, 'tis not my fault but the fault of the good brewers at Becks Vier.

When I left this morning, sliding along the pavement like Bambi on the ice due to some new shoes I bought with my birthday funds, it was so cold my fingers nearly fell off and each breath hung in the air. I'm not moaning though - I love winter. It is my season of choice, and not only because it houses the joyous anniversary of my birth. I think everything looks better in winter. Lights shine brighter, homes look more inviting and there is a lot to be said for knitwear and winter jackets. I think winter suits London, and after some drinks in the pub, I took some time out from my desperate laps around Covent Garden Market in search of a public WC (I'm sure somebody's tampered with the signs, I was on a wild goose chase for a good 20minutes) to take some extremely festive photos on my new phone!

Yes, new phone. I am now a card carrying member of the I-Squad and have to admit that I love it. I don't know how I functioned with a phone minus all the clever little applications you can download - although I am trying to stay aware of the fact that they are money-making machines, Apple is terribly efficient in offering you applications that do exactly what you need, exactly when you need them. I MUST BE CAREFUL.

Saying that, I downloaded a clever little app that lets you download comic books which I'm really impressed with. I'm not a massive comic buff, but it's quite interesting how the designers have made use of this new platform when laying pages out - pressing next doesn't necessarily take you to the next page, but zooms in a different part of the current spread, or zooms out to show more, so that you bounce from speech bubble to speech bubble like you're watching a tennis match. Very clever...

The particular comic that impressed me was called 'The Stuff of Legend' by Mike Raicht and Brian Smith, illustrated by Charles Paul Wilson III and published by Th3rd World Studios. The artwork is breathtaking - all in sepia tones which is in keeping, I suppose, with it's WW2 setting. But while WW2 rages in the background and is rarely commented on directly, a battle on a smaller scale forms the main storyline - that of a group of toys, come to life in The Dark (a world inside their owner's cupboard, full of abandoned toys) on a quest to rescue the boy who owns them from the Boogie Man. It may sound odd, but give it a go - I do recommend it.

Anyway, I'd best be off - have to get in early tomorrow to actually deal with the e-mails I 'filed' this morning!

Festive wishes,

tbr

PS What a rant - Christmas - caviar - 'why I like winter' - new phone - comics - sorry, will try to be more structured :)