Welcome Matilda

My friends have had a baby. I went to see it yesterday with Emily and it was quite something. Matilda is very small and exceptionally sweet, with huge blue eyes that are spellbinding. Sometimes she crosses her eyes and screws up her mouth into a tiny O and then she seems like a possible emigrant from another galaxy. But most of the time she is the embodiment of perfection. She is even able to write her own blog.

What was really miraculous, however, was not so much Matilda herself, but her mother, whose body has been turned into a feeding machine overnight. Lucy seemed blissfully resigned to this four-day-old state of affairs. I was brimming with admiration for her and daddy Jake who danced a whimpering Matilda around the room with unexpected but touching patience.

As far as I can see, the best thing about being new parents must be the food – luxury biscuits and dips and exotic teas were coming out of the family’s every pore – and the new mum in particular has a newly-vacated abdominal space in which to put these tasty items. Her self-control in the face of cookies was inspiring. My weight graph has plateaued for the past three days despite frequent exercise and abstinence from almost everything fun except baby visits. Although there was that delicious prawn curry on Wednesday night. And the handful of self-brought Marks and Spencer’s chocolate éclairs that I scoffed while we were visiting Matilda, and the fact I didn’t make it to the gym yesterday and instead went shopping for miniscule clothing, which was far more fun but may have slimmed my bank balance more than my thighs. Hopefully my miserable lunch of emetic canteen bubble and squeak soup will bring the graph plummeting towards its pre-holiday goal. If not, I’ll be the one sunbathing in a full length dressing gown.

Uninspired

What does it say about a person when they sang, as part of a choir, in a charity fundraising event the previous evening, performing such classical hits as Taverner’s The Lamb and Handel’s Zadok The Priest to an audience who had paid up to £65 for their tickets, and, between their own performances, listened to readings by the actors Edward Fox and Dame Diana Rigg and a short speech by the Lord Mayor of London, and heard other pieces played by an incredible 18-year-old harmonica player and a fantastic brass quintet – and yet they find themselves unable to think of a single interesting thing to say about the entire event?

I think it might say that the person is over-stimulated in the rest of her life and thus has impossibly high standards. I would refute this conclusion however, as I know the real truth about this person’s daytime existence and I can assure you that she is not over-stimulated.

Perhaps there’s just nothing funny to write about choir concerts. But that’s not true either because once this person was performing in a concert and during a particularly moving moment, a large and enthusiastic Springer Spaniel ran full pelt into the glass doors at the far end of the church behind the audience. That was definitely funny.

Perhaps there’s just nothing funny or interesting to write about this choir concert. That must be it.

An Unforeseen Delay

With an hour or so to kill between the end of work last night and the start of choir, I deemed that this would be a good time to visit the in-house gymnasium for the commencement of my week’s fitness regime.

Strangely, although I spent exactly the same amount of time on each of the machines as usual, my workout took a fragment longer than expected, and I entered the changing rooms slightly behind schedule. As per my routine, I showered off, towelled myself with my highly-recommended sports towel (dries in seconds, weighs next to nothing even when wet) and then attempted to put on my skirt.

With the benefit of hindsight, it is possible that I was jumping the gun somewhat here. Perhaps I should have known to wait until my skin was perfectly arid rather than merely not-wet. But in the heat of the moment, I naively tried to get dressed – and it was here that I encountered a small hitch.

Still sweating from my vigorous workout, the skirt’s inexpensive lining stuck to my thighs like cement, locked in place and became impossible to pull either up or down. The outer layer of the skirt, attached to the lining with a few threads at the bottom hem, was consequently pulled underneath and up into the dark recesses, exposing the top of my popsocks. Reader, I have rarely looked more glamorous.

When another gym-goer breezed into the changing rooms, I was too humiliated to remain, and shuffled into the next door hand-washing and coiffuring zone. Pretending to blow-dry my hair, I put the hairdryer on its not-cold-enough setting and wafted it in the vicinity of my still-perspiring legs. But of course, in my panic I merely began to sweat even more and the situation did not improve. Eventually I realised that I would have to leave and hope that a few minutes outside the gym environment would assist my internal thermostat to kick into action. And gradually, as I returned to my desk to collect my choir music and various other items, my skirt rearranged itself into its proper place. There’s a lesson in this for all of us and I’m happy to share my wisdom in the most selfless of fashions: the convenience of synthetic fabrics cannot be denied, bar those few occasions when one is both damp and rushing. At those times, a pair of tights or a slip may be of use. Here endeth the lesson.

Lunch at The Whyvy

As a birthday surprise for my beloved, I booked a table at The Ivy, a restaurant whose reputation precedes it like a pair of large but well-supported breasts, the name as familiar to most Londoners as the name of their own mothers.

And really, I wasn’t much bothered whether I liked it – I just wanted to go. After years of hearing second and third hand reports, I fancied witnessing the truth for myself. And I’ll admit that the ringing endorsement on the restaurant’s website from the mouth-watering A.A. Gill did a fair bit to whet my appetite further. Any friend of Adrian’s is a friend of mine. Apart from his girlfriend/mother of his children. She can get stuffed.

Anyway, The Ivy. It was nice. The staff was friendly and unpatronising. We had a good table where we could see everyone coming in and Alistair Campbell going out although the birthday boy was frustrated to miss my sole celebrity spot. Our herb salad starter was delicious. The Sunday lunch was fine – the roast beef was a perfect specimen – but serve the veg on the plate instead of in a silver dish and the whole meal could easily have been prepared in an average gastropub. My rhubarb pudding bordered on sickly, although perhaps the fact that it was called ‘Lardy Cake’ should have been enough for me to consider myself forewarned.

There’s nothing much wrong with The Ivy but there’s not enough right with it to justify the hype. The necessity of booking weeks in advance for what is, in all, a pretty unextraordinary dining experience will be enough to put me off in future. Still glad I went though. And fortunately, Simon seemed to enjoy himself which, difficult though it is for a self-centred only child to admit, is really all that matters.

Camera Obscured

When Simon and I walked out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream last Wednesday, I became aware that I may be experiencing a gradual metamorphosis from Normal Person to Old Person. This was an unusual sensation: I put it gently to one side and hoped fervently that I had seen the back of it.

However, precisely a week later, the identical feeling reared its ugly head once more, enticing me with its practical views on getting enough rest and wearing enough layers.

Last night, Simon and I were at Koko in Camden to see a band called Camera Obscura, of whom we are fairly fond. Upon entering the venue, we found the railings around the sides of the theatre were crowded with merry punters, and since there was still some time to go before the band arrived onstage, we decided to find a quiet corner where we could sit and while away remaining minutes. To our great surprise, we located an inordinately comfortable black leather sofa area behind the bar, complete with flatscreen TVs to relay the onstage action back to us loungers. Brimming with undisguised smugness, we stationed ourselves in a sofa and watched the support acts on the screen, fully content that we would stand to see Camera Obscura in all their glory when they arrived on stage.

However, when the crucial moment occurred, somehow the full envelopment of the leather cushions prevented us from standing. The flatscreens gave us a prime view of the stage and, more persuasively, of the crowds vacuum-packed into the main audience area. In comparison, the uncrowded sofa zone was a calm utopia and despite being the antithesis of any self-respecting concert-goer, despite my best, most fervently-held intentions and the realisation that I was a stain on the face of modern music, a shameful example of all that is wrong with the youth of today, I was unable to lift myself into a vertical position for the vast majority of the gig.

Sadly, when I did stand, I realised my error – the feeling of watching a band live on stage, with your own eyes rather than through the screen of a television, is unquantifiably, indescribably different – and far superior. It was as though someone had cleaned my glasses – the heightened experience and the direct line of vision between me and the musicians meant that I had become an active part of the evening rather than a passive observer. Laziness overcame me last night, but I’ve learned my lesson and it won’t happen again. The metamorphosis into Old may have begun but I refuse to die without a fight.

Or maybe I’ll just have a cup of Horlicks and an early night.

Out of the frying pan...

Advantages for a daughter living at her parents' house: Last week, while I was at work, my dad heard a loud crash outside the house. He went into the street to find a man lifting my Vespa from its position lying on the ground, where he had knocked it over having reversed into it in his car. The man appeared to be happy to leave without paying for any damage, even though there were several scrapes and a big dent on the right hand side, and one of the mirrors had broken off. Thankfully, my ever-scrupulous father was able to take the man's details and he has now had to agree to pay for the damage. Had I been living alone, there would have been no-one to scamper out and identify the perpitrator: he would almost certainly have driven off and I'd have had to pay for the repairs myself.

Disadvantages for a father whose daughter lives in his house: My father deserves several hundred brownie points as a reward for his serendipitous act. Instead, this afternoon he accidentally reversed into my Vespa in the opposite direction and there are now further scratches and dents on the left hand side. Since it is arguable that, had I not been living at home, my Vespa would most likely have been parked elsewhere, this may contribute to the Get Her Out campaign. Which is unfortunate.

A Midspring Eve’s Confusion

Last night, Simon and I went to the newly reopened Roundhouse in Chalk Farm to see a much-hyped Indian/Sri Lankan production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The critics have been gushing about this to the point of flood risks and since both Simon and I have a) recently returned from India and b) degrees in English, I thought that the combo would make for an interesting evening.

Things started well when the seating attendant told us that two seats several rows forward of those we’d booked were available, so we shuffled into a far better position feeling very pleased with ourselves. Our smug smiles soon faded…

Perhaps our strenuous weekend had taken its toll, but despite our New Improved Seats, the play did not live up to the reviews. Certainly, from a post-colonial perspective, the idea of using six Indian languages as well as English in a production of Shakespeare was very interesting. And seeing such a free-spirited production was interesting in itself – such a highly charged performance, which featured scantily-clad girls in bra-tops writhing on the red mud stage with young men, was surely received very differently back in India. The staging, too, was memorable – touches of Cirque du Soleil and a brilliant scene involving huge swathes of elastic trapping young lovers in a web of confusion added some zest to our experience.

In truth, the Dash Theatre version of the play was great. What sucked was the script. In my excitement about the whole India/Shakespeare melange, I’d forgotten that I hate A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Sure, there are a couple of memorable lines in it, but ultimately, it’s a bit crap. There are the fairies who blather on about nothing for far too long. There’s the completely unconvincing plotline of the four young lovers which reaches a climax of impossibility when one female character begs to be treated as her chosen hunk’s spaniel. And there are the Mechanicals: Peter Quince, Bottom et al., who – in a plot device so clunky it’s hard to believe it’s been accepted all these centuries – attempt to lighten the mood with a play within a play. At base, AMND is just three substandard plotlines woven together in an implausible and lazy fashion that no amount of Indian sexuality, gorgeous costumes, stirring drumbeats and heady acrobatics will ever be able to disguise.

Disgruntled, we left at the interval and were tucked up in bed before the second act finished. Oh what a glamorous London life we lead…

Two people, four days, fifty six miles

It was a triumph of Nurofen over unmarked paths and rude bar-staff. With dogged determination and regular ‘oaty pauses’, when my mother-bought health bars coaxed us through the next few fields, Simon and I managed to walk from the source of the Thames in Gloucestershire to the centre of Oxford over the four days of our secular Chocolate Egg Bank Holiday Weekend.

Both of us confessed to having severe nerves as the train pulled into Kemble on Thursday evening. Clutching our luggage – mine, a purpose-bought rucksack; Simon’s, a cumbersome laptop bag which he’d got free from work – we set off on the mile long walk to our first night’s stay. Our navigation of the short journey was not exactly confident but we made it in good time and enjoyed an early night in a faux-antique four poster that felt no sturdier than a paper anvil.

Four days later, on Monday afternoon, we crawled into Oxford town centre, sunburned, insect-eaten and smelling feintly of Tiger Balm. Over the past few days we had witnessed the Thames grow from this:



To something more like this:

We’d seen lots of these:

And witnessed the British spring at its best:

But we’d also trudged through countless badly-marked fields where horse hooves had packed previously muddy earth into a now-arid and perilous potholed terrain; we'd dragged ourselves onwards when the pub we’d earmarked as ‘lunch’ turned out to be fully booked and rammed with trendy country living types who glowered at our backpacks, mud-splattered tracksuit bottoms and sweaty upper lips; and we had to put up with the fact that several stretches of the Thames path were around a mile from the actual Thames and, at one (thankfully rare) point, along an A road, thus:

For all the flippancy and moaning, however, there’s no doubt that the trek was worthwhile: a real test of our mental strength and ultimately more satisfying than an ice-cold beer at a Lanzarote lunchtime. It’s now two days later and my calves are still aching but there are no regrets other than one particularly flaccid portion of fish pie at The Rose Revived, Newbridge. Plans to complete the next leg, from Oxford to Windsor, are afoot for 2008 – although it seems more likely that we will enjoy the route from the comfort of a barge or similar floating vessel. Given that I managed to walk nearly sixty miles and still gain four pounds, the merits of making the epic journey on foot seem to have waned somewhat.

Role reversal

It's Tuesday afternoon and I’m sitting in a classroom with an Excel spreadsheet on the OHP in front of me. Around me are seven other adult learners. We’re all here to improve our Excel level from beginner to intermediate. Last week I studied intermediate PowerPoint. Tomorrow I will be doing Excel advanced. And, geek that I am, I'm loving it.

But it’s not just me and my fellow spreadsheeting friends who want to learn. All around me on the tube this morning were people reading – and they were not buried into the large-fonted, escapist fiction as were the commuters I remember from yore. These happy travelers were blocking out the sweat and cough particles by engrossing themselves in non-fiction titles such as Freakonomics and How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered The World. I was reading a book about cultural theory. Those who weren’t reading books were buried in papers. In fact, the only people who weren’t challenging their minds were a group of betracksuited teens playing tinny Parental Advisory hip-hop on their mobile phone for the carriage’s enjoyment.

All these urges to learn, to improve one’s mind – where were they when we were at school? With a flash of inspiration uncommon to a creature of habit such as myself, it occurred to me that the system's got it all wrong. The whole ‘youth is wasted on the young’ idea is all too true – and the solution is all around us already. Child labour.

Sure it's 'illegal' now - but who's to say it should stay that way? Not me! Imagine a world where from primary school age, you are sent to work for most of the day, and educated in the evenings. Admit it: it makes sense – children are much more resilient than adults and surely wouldn’t mind the longer hours. They’d work for almost no wages of course, and the (adult) managers could consequently sell the goods at vastly reduced prices, to allow the adults to go to school for 80% of their time and still be able to afford to buy what they needed.

Everyone’s a winner. We’d work almost full time until we were 25, with just education in basic literacy and mathematics in the evenings. Then when we were desperate to learn more, we’d go back to school and university. The whole syllabus could be covered far quicker given our hunger for the subjects and there’d be no discipline problems because we’d all want to be there. After we left university in our mid-thirties, we could go on and pursue management jobs – or retire. Let the Child Labour Party take over at the next election: you know it makes sense.

Legoland: A Brief Retrospective

Having been warned in advance of our visit that Legoland is 'shit', we weren't expecting much. Which, all things considered, was lucky. Like Tom Cruise films, limited edition chocolate bars and Jilly Cooper novels post-Polo, Legoland certainly falls into the category of 'Expect nothing and you won't be disappointed', which, for a family attraction, is possibly not the category for which the land's creators were hoping. Even the name itself is a dramatic overstatement: Legohamlet would probably have been a more accurate moniker. Despite this, Mr Legoland's astonishing bravery as regards ticket prices would not suggest a company worried about disappointing their punters - or perhaps they just aren't expecting any return business. Either way, we went, clutching our print-out discount voucher and anticipating a mediocre Sunday morning near Windsor.

And that, unusually, is precisely what we got. Legoland has good points: a nifty line in branded keyrings in the shop and the faded glories of Miniworld, where cars and buses run without tracks through some sort of magnetic wizardry, where Eurostar streaks between Paris and London, where some crucial integral walls in Sacre Coeur have collapsed to one side, where America is represented only by NASA, where the old Wembley hasn't been replaced by the new one and where ABBA play eternally to a group of Swedish fans and an empty pushchair.

Despite wonderful attention to detail, the park is looking tired and none of the rides justified more than a thirty second queue - even the most 'scary' attraction, the Dragon Coaster, proved to be depressingly tame when Simon managed to take a cup of coffee on board by accident and survive without spilling a drop. He later admitted, however, that he had not escaped entirely and was suffering from minor burns having used his thumb to block the small hole in the cup's plastic drinking lid. The food selection deserves all the negative press it is currently receiving - the only way to eat healthily within the park's confines is to abstain altogether. Even fans of junk-food are in for a shock though - a chicken sandwich meal is over £7. I may have an insatiable appetite and a new salary but that was out of the question.

How things change. It's a week after our Legoland visit and I'm now on a strict pre-holiday crash diet and have eaten only soup, corn thins and fruit today. My stomach has been rumbling non-stop for seventeen hours and suddenly £7 for a chicken burger looks like a generous and irresistable option. I must go to sleep before I phone for an emergency portion of garlic bread with cheese.