Kalt following

Jesus wept, it's cold this afternoon.  Not that this should come as a surprise; it's been well-forecast.  It's just that one's ability to objectively recall the pain of cold weather is weak.  I can remember heat pretty well, I think - but not cold.  Why is this?  It doesn't seem on the surface of it to afford me any evolutionary advantage.  Also, I'm London-born to Irish parents.  I was always going to be at the front in the war against shit weather.  That's why I don't tan well.  My skin goes red and then I'm physically sick in hot climes.  

I can see the point of this, though.  My blood wasn't designed to tolerate heat, and evolution hasn't yet come to terms with the rise of budget air travel.  In 50 years, cockneys like myself will no doubt have thick rubbery GM skin that can equally-well withstand alpine Europe in the winter and Dubai in the summer.

But I suppose there is an upside to the chilly temps: the missus and I have a lot of fabulous telly to get through, so it's supper on our knees and the goggle box "on" as soon as we're able most nights.  Last night was "Happy Valley", which is as intense a crime drama and I've ever lain eyes on - and I'm old enough to remember McMillan And Wife.  It's so frantically over-wrought in fact that I dread watching it.  The missus has to insist.  I'm always delighted she does though.  It's absolutely brilliant.

We alighted on this series thanks to a camp barman in a pub in central London.  We were in there one evening in the dead-eyed week between Christmas and New Year.  The boozer was practically empty, and we got chatting to the staff and a nice young couple from Chicago, who where in "London, England" for the night before flying home.  The barman raves so compellingly about H.Val that we had to have it.  It is as good as its shrill hyperbolic billing, however.  When I'm next in that hostelry, I'll tell him so too.

Tonight is "Wolf Hall", with the peerless Mark Rylance as Thomas Cromwell.  Everyone is being acted off the screen by Rylance.  But no-one fares worse than Damian Lewis as Henry VIII.  This is the worse piece of miscasting since Janette Krankie landed the role of Lolita.  Poor D just isn't magisterial.  He's good-looking, yes, but that's not enough in a production of this haute qualité.  Actually, it is enough for some of my more impressionable female friends.  When the first episode went out, they wouldn't stop tweeting about how marvellous he was in the role, notwithstanding that all the positive notices revolved around his ability to fill a pair a tights.  These are intelligent, professional wimmin d'un certain age too, not dozy young slappers.  They should know better.  Tsk.

Break the ice with a joke

We had our annual business conference today.  It's a 2-hour shindig at the nearby hotel.  The only reason I can be bothered to attend is that the catering is top notch.  Sit through an hour of heart-breaking business-speak and you qualify for a free lunch.

What is there to say, anyway?  If the direction of travel of the business makes your job about as current as that of lamp-lighter, then you're screwed.  And there's nothing they or you can do to remedy that.  If your skill set chimes with the direction of travel, then you're already involved.  Your workload has increased exponentially, but at least you're not in any immediate danger of receiving the dreaded notice of "consultation".  The consultation period is a 90-day stay of execution that employers are legally obliged to enter into.  It's clear to even the dullest intellect that once notice has been served, your career goose is cooked.  If the business were in two minds about your value to them, they'd keep their council.  Otherwise, they might lose a useful incumbent.  Ever if they do change their collective, corporate mind, you'll jump ship if you've any sense.

It was the usual "shit sandwich" approach this year: bit of good news (the bonus having been paid out at the end of last year); the bad news (choppy waters, change of emphasis blah blah); and finally a bit of good news (they're going to restock the stationery cupboard in time for Easter).

I managed to stay awake for most of it, and then bolted out for my complimentary lunch.  It was rather good, but I suspect the sautéed potatoes must have had some MSG on them because my mood started swinging furiously even as I was shovelling them down the hatch.  In spite of what the weasel food industry's co-opted nutritionists tell you to the contrary, it is possible to be allergic to MSG.  It drives me doolally anyway.

I'm dreading the journey home tonight too.  It's unfashionably cold in London again today - really rictus grin inducing chilly.  Chez moi is a modern, draft-free abode, but it lacks a fireplace.  The Romans didn't refer to brer fireplace as the focus for nowt.  Without one, a room lacks heart.  Objectively, our front room is plenty warm, but the old brain starts to fret and fizz when it perceives the fireplace has gone AWOL.

Hi-tech shambles

It's been cold of late.  No massive surprise there, I suppose.  It is December after all, but it's been quite a warm year, so winter's tendrils felt particularly unpleasant.  Saturday in London was a charming day, full of winter sunshine and with a festive dusting of frost.  But festive comes at a price, and that price is draughts.

Despite living a new-build house, the missus and I have noticed that the front door area tends towards the draughty and unpleasant during cold spells.  Being a modern house, ours has eschewed the traditional porch or hallway off the front door that the Victorians favoured.  The thinking behind this is to maximise the space one has to live, front and/or lounge in, and this the configuration does admirably.  Unfortunately it also means you've only got a sliver of wafer-thin mdf between you and the great outdoors.

I took to the web to find solutions for this modern architectural foible.  Apparently the only option is to buy a new front door, which runs to about £500.  Or one can lag the inside of the shit door with space-age thermal lining.  Sadly, that stuff costs a fortune too, and one then has to fit it, which looks tricky to mine untrained eye.

In desperation, I decided to line the inside of the portcullis with cushions.  I don't know why but we seem to be overrun with cushions; people keep buying them for us.  We're both quite thin, and obviously look like we need upholstering.  We'd recently had a cull of unused scatter-cushions and the condemned ones were piled up in the front room, waiting for the end.  I simply stacked a couple up against the inside of the front door, like a brightly-coloured, flaccid flying buttress.  The result?  Instant draught-free comfort.

My spirits were lifted immeasurably by this small victory for cheapskate lateral thinking.  Some much we encounter in modern life is disposable and impossible to fix, needlessly so too.  Why does it take a degree in engineering and one hundred man hours to replace the battery on an iPod, for example?  There's no reason why it should be so difficult.  What it does do of course is put you off trying it yourself.  No, chances are you'll leg it down to Currys and buy a brand new replacement.  That might be good news for Apple, but it spells disaster for the environment and for you bank balance.

I'm no anarcho-syndicalist, but I am suggesting we wrest some power back from the man and his corporations by changing the batteries on us own consumer durables.  Take to the barricades, brothers.

Kalt in the name of the law

Kin Nora, it was cold in London over the weekend.  Saturday was one of those concrete-nipple-inducing clear winter days, of which we're so justly proud here in northern Europe.  Trouble is it also co-incided with a day-long yomp around Camden and the west end in search of the last few Xmas pressies.

It was actually very lovely to be in town on Saturday.  The weather, lights and crowds of shoppers all aided the festive feeling.  It pervaded everything - even my lunch in the pret on Frith Street in Soho was a jolly affair, as I watched the hoards scurrying about with their groaning Hamleys bags.

Sadly, I did eventually agree to succumb to exposure, thanks to the bitter conditions, and rather let myself down by getting a touch tearful and maudlin.  I also had a full-sized replica of a Viking sword on me at the time (long story), which I had to carry home on the train.  This of course acted like a magnet for mentalists and the congenitally drunk as I waited for my train.  If your timing is off to even a modest degree, Liverpool Street Station can periodically resemble a mediaeval asylum.  

It's not as much fun as it sounds either because the threat of crapulent violence is ever-present.  LP station serves Essex and east London, for the most part, and so is extravagantly overfurnished with leering tattooed cockneys.  Add a couple of stiff Yuletide what-have-yous and a tweedy, thin bespectacled man carrying a broad sword (yours truly) and you have yourself a social powder keg.

I did manage to get home unmolested as it happens, but it was the most unrestful 15 minutes I've experienced since queueing for a urinal in the gents of Millwall's firm's pub just outside The New Den.  That episode required an acting masterclass from myself.  You need to look non-threatening and hard at the same time, and all you've got to play with is your stance and your facial expression.  Get it wrong, and you'll resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame trying to suck the skin off a pickled lemon.