Come On Up To The House

I’m ok now, thanks for asking. A wee bit damp, but coffee’d and Belgian bunned up, which suits.

I’m going for a leaving lunch shortly at Rosemary Lane. Jealous? You should be. It marks the start of a hilarious period in which I am covering an administrative project involving Kazakhstan, something unknown to me before yesterday. I’ll have roughly no-one to ask if I need help, and a pile of random things to do, but hey! I’m adaptable.

I have a headache. I hate finances.

Saturday was the birthday of Simone. Huzzah! I arrived in the world 26 years and two days since, and I am now a year nearer 50 than from being born. I am old, creaky and quite definitely balding.

This year’s celebrations (how my birthday became such a deal I’ll never know) were bigger and bolder than ever. Firstly, the much-vaunted Paris trip, with its many varied gourmet delights, was just out of this world. More recently though, the Delightful Day was spent in pretty much everything ideal.

Starting in Marmalade (with the most wonderful tarte tatin you are ever likely to have), the day continued with lunch in Muswell Hill’s semi-legendary Crocodile Antiques, followed by a pile round a couple of charity shops (emerging with Paul Theroux’s My Other Life) then on to Highgate to blitz the cemetery. We did the west side (previously I’ve only been to the Marx/Adams/etc. East), to see Litvinenko, Faraday and some other cool stuff. Not to mention the awesome, megalithic vaults and the Circle of Lebanon. Photos to follow on flickr, no doubt.

After a swift caffeine in Highgate, back home and then to La Kera for a mighty Keralan feast. A very fine restaurant indeed, with a nice line in pink decor.

Charity shops, cake, cemetery, curry - my life is filled with happy C’s.

Red Ken was in town last night, at the Wood Green Caribbean Centre. Satisfyingly, he described the prospect of living through Boris’ reign as like experiencing the Black Death. It’s so rare that politicians are in the least outspoken these days, that the newty one is kind of lovable for it.

Actually, it seems to be a linking factor that London requires a mayor who’s not afraid to make ridiculous pronunciations. So while Brian Paddick is no doubt eminently qualified for the post, he’s not going to get in because he doesn’t make sweeping accusations like Ken, and doesn’t make hilarious gaffes like Boris.

Which is a little depressing. I’ve not decided who I’ll vote for, or if I’ll be voting. It won’t be an apathetic thing if I don’t, more a principled rejection of all the candidates. Probably I’ll end up with Ken, which is fine - the guy’s a little bit skank, but he’s a considerably less inept evil than BJ.

So: the candidates.

Richard Barnbrook, BNP: “Remember London the way it used to be? Clean, friendly and safe.” No, do you? I doubt it. I don’t believe it to ever have really been any of these things. “Because it’s not racist to oppose mass immigration and political correctness – it’s commonsense.” Repellent.

Gerard Batten, UKIP: only half a step above BNP is this bus-top, flag-waving buffoon. “NO to mass immigration; NO to the Lisbon Treaty/European Constitution; NO to the European Union.” Typical: blame the Portuguese.

Sian Berry, Green: the first of the serious candidates, and one I haven’t, as yet, given a great deal of time of day to. But, I may have been wrong in this. While Berry has to be considered an extreme outside shot, her policies are very fair, very green (obviously), but more liberal than the LibDem’s these days. As politics moves further towards the American model where the centre ground is really centre-right, these are good old-fashioned liberal, politely socialist . I like the small business helps, the affordable housing rules, and the free insulation, although I’m not wild about 20mph zones everywhere. I don’t doubt they’re a good idea, but I want to be able to speed my souped up Renault 5 from speed hump to speed hump without worrying about speed limits, thanks.

Alan Craig, Christian Choice: Despite talking like a muppet recorded backwards, I quite like this chap. I saw the one and only party political broadcast I’ve seen the other day, and this man, accompanied by his bouncy purple ball, fit the bill of outspoken, principled, straight-ahead feller far better than Ken or Boris. I’m not sure how workable his policies are, or whether campaigning against a mega-mosque will hinder rather than help community tensions, but I like his Len Goodman smiley face.

 
Lindsey German, Left List: the rancourous breakdown of Respect continues with Lindsey German (”just 0.43% short of a seat in the London Assembly”) representing a breakaway faction. With Galloway busy mimicing cats and ducking bouncy balls, Lindsey has jumped into a manifesto that would make Tony Benn look like Robert Kilroy-Silk.

Boris Johnson, Conservative: on no planet is this man qualified to run a city.

Ken Livingstone, Labour: for years one of the only politicians that looked like they genuinely cared about their job and weren’t doing it for their own benefit, and one of the few that have made lasting policies that stuck. Ken ticks the right boxes, has a proven record and basically doesn’t care what you think, he knows what’s right.

Matt O’Connor, English Democrats: cleverly employing the both-right-and-left-at-the-same-time party name last seen in the National Socialist Party, this hairdresser-esque, scary scary man appears to have no discernable policies. just an incoherent, tabloid-boldface-laden rant against those Scottish thieves that are taking our prescriptions.

Brian Paddick, Liberal Democrat: Finally, bringing with him the receding grey of a former footballer, Paddick is putting a recognisable (ish) face on the LibDem’s again, after too many years of non-alcoholic-ginger-soaked greyness. He’s also taking the party in a police state direction, a notable departure and not necessarily a welcome one. I’ve always voted LD, but I don’t think I’ll be voting for Padders. Saying that, I voted for the hilariously-rumbled Mark Oaten, so what do I know?

I found this interesting article/list in my morning RSS sweep of the local area, and in turn the gangsinlondon site. I’ve don’t really consider that I’m surrounded by this sort of thing (for example, I’ve never seen Ross Kemp exposéeing anything in Noel Park, which is usually a sure sign), but apparently I am. According to the website, I’m in ‘The Avenues’ jurisdiction of the Wood Green MOB (Money over, well, female hounds), but I’ve got no idea what this means, if anything, for me. I’ve known battles to go on in the area - when at my previous address I was just up the road from the sight of a significant gun battle on Lordship Lane. But I don’t really know how it applies to me life, if indeed it does.

I just find it a bit fascinating, that’s all. I don’t have any idea of the mentality that leads someone into a life like that, or why some people from these deeply deprived areas will end up in gangs, and some won’t. My house is pretty nice; it’s on a quiet street, plenty of elderly and family (good signs, I’m led to believe); but just up the road there are some proper deprived areas. The whole of Tottenham and Edmonton could be dismissed as crime-ridden and poor, although that would be an injustice. I just found out that Edmonton is aka Shanktown for its levels of knife crime - I already knew (or at least, the rumour mill told me) that they bus in from there for the Winchmore Hill massive. But I’d live in Tottenham, certainly; probably not Edmonton, but only because it’s a reall ugly and depressing place, not the crime.

I don’t know. There’s no real point in this post, I’m just saying. It’s a weird world - there’s so many levels of culture and types of people. Good luck keeping track on them all.

This morning in Russell Park there was a man in a stripey jumper doing some sort of self-motivated circuit training. It involved moving from the (childrens’) still rings to the nearest bench for some push-ups, then slouching to the next bench for some sit-ups, and so on. Mad dogs and Englishman go out on a rainy April morning, it’s said, and even the dogs were staying tucked up today. Who can fathom the mind of the fitness enthusiast?

My Polish lessons have been cancelled. Sigh. On the other hand, this does mean that I now don’t have to choose between learning Polish and watching Nick Cave next week, nor do I now have to miss the Apprentice. Life ain’t all bad.

I finally finished the epic Foucault’s Pendulum. Even compared to The Name Of The Rose, this is a huge, headrush of a book - to try and take it all in in one reading would be equivalent to trying to read everything that’s there in the Bible or the Koran, or as Diotallevi would have it, to rewriting the Torah. Umberto Eco’s a big fan of intertextuality, the concept that all texts, writings and literary works have an influence and effect on each other. That’s patently true in Foucault’s Pendulum, which itself references a number of texts (as a novel based mostly in a publishing house should), but is also heavily influenced by many writings and ideas and concepts. It’s the way Eco draws these things together into an accessible whole which is the really impressive thing to me - like Four Tet does with electronica, or Mogwai do with post-rock, Eco takes an inherently complicated and overwrought subject matter and distils it with art, dexterity and on top of it all, a really great sense of what makes a thriller thrilling.

Next up: The Wasp Factory. I’ve managed to not read any Iain Banks up til now, for some reason. We’ll see if that’s justified. So far, it’s a little bit like the end of And The Ass Saw The Angel, but that might just be the animals on sticks.

Each morning as I wend my way to Turnpike Lane tube station, I’m inevitably faced with a barricade of elderly Freedom Pass holders - this morning there were more than usual, poised with one eye on the clock (waiting for 9am, the earliest the cards can be used) and one hand tapping the card on the reader. When the big hand hits perpendicular, a wave of purple rinse and shopping bags floods through the gates and engulfs the platform.

Usually, I just manage to make it through while the crowd is milling, uncomfortably, on the station concourse like a group of urban meerkats. Today, they had edged closer than ever before and were crouched, today more like leopards in the chase than the chased themselves.

I often envy the old. As a man once sang, “the old folks are losers,” but he was wrong. I have to come to work today, to do the exact same thing as I did yesterday, while meaningless bickering rages around my ears. I have this to look forward to for the next forty years or so. If I was old, I wouldn’t have to go to work. I could get up when I wanted - although I think it may be a rule that one has to get up really early when one is old, even if one has nothing to do - I could swamp the tube station, I could hit children with walking sticks (probably) and I could bribe love out of relatives with biscuits. I think that’s a pretty good deal.

Somewhat randomly, I spent Thursday in Paris, savouring the cafés of St Germain-des-pres and the bold hawkers of Montmatre. I returned laden with fromage, saucisson et pain, which extended the joy. I very much respect the gallic food ethic, and thusly this morning was spent at the Stokie farmer’s market, a result of which is a looming, and deeply exciting steak dinner.

But a very interesting part of the last few days was actually spent far closer to home. Spending time in Tottenham has become considerably more attractive with the arrival of Marmalade, a Crouch End type cafe in Tottenham, if you will. all stripped floorboards and shabby chic, and with absolutely, stonkingly delicious food, it’s certain to become the meeting point for N17’s more select set, and even rope in out-of-towners such as myself. It’s at least, ooh, 20 minutes wal from my house.

Is Tottenham on the up? It’s an interesting thought. In the last twenty years, N17 has been suffering in the reputational aftermath of the Broadwater riots, so it’s certainly due a revival in fortunes. The tide of gentrification has spread out in waves from central London: the former ‘hood of Islington is now the select and increasingly homogenised Upper Street, with its boutiques and cute caffs. The aforementioned Stoke Newington is a further case in point, a shabby high street becoming today’s delightful Church St, with its farmers market, glam shops and artisanal bakeries. Witness also (to varying degrees) estate agents herculean efforts in Harringay, Holloway, Crouch End, Stroud Green, Walthamstow, and so on. Why shouldn’t Tottenham flourish?

The only reason most people have heard of the area is Spurs, of course. there’s precious little else to endear it to the outside: numerous chicken shops, grocers, and so on. But look deeper: here a yuppy cafe, there all the amenities you need, the edginess so beloved of the type of resident that made Shoreditch so popular, the multi-ethnic food angle (always going to popular around COUTTH Towers). Here a Tudor mansion, there an ancient park, here an overgrown cemetery, there a 20 minute train ride from the City.

I’m actually hoping that most people don’t read this post - as soon as I’m grown-up enough to buy a house, I’m looking at Tottenham. Preferably around the back of Bruce Castle Park, where I can roam the dog on the green and stroll down for a coffee and carrot cake in Marmalade. I’m a little bit jealous of my future self.

Via the ever-reliable kottke.org - timelapse photography of a man trapped in a lift for no less than 41 hours. It’s almost painful to watch, but watch it you can: http://www.newyorker.com/online/video/2008/04/21/080421_elevators

It’s been some little time since my last update, a good few days. Weekends are never the ideal time for this - there’s so many better things to do than to blog. But, back at work, and blogging is Go.

The job description for my immediate manager’s job is now available to apply for. I’m tossing it up as to whether to apply, although I almost certainly will. I have to decide whether to stay here and go up a notch, or to move departments/places of work after the summer. Not sure yet. I need, as usual, someone else to tell me what to do. As with my car, which has just this moment been broken into. Accursed teefs of North London.

The most pressing thought on my mind over the last weekend though, atypically, is morbid, and sad, and not a little confusing, and not a little beyond the scope of mere words. I ended up with friends from the internet - some I’ve met, some i’ve not. I met one in New York, I’ve met a pile from this country, I met a Canadian, I met my best friend. It was never my intention. I also know people that I wouldn’t consciously call my friends, but I hold a deep-seated affection for them despite never having met, face to face. A Strange New World, to be sure, this web lark.

Over the weekend, an internet acquaintance - one whom I often disagree with but whom I respect greatly - died. More to the point, he took his own life. The thought crosses: how would anyone outside of regular societal contact know? This complex, individual man took the time to send out packages of possessions - cd’s, posters, etc. - to those with whom he’d become acquainted, at least online. I haven’t received one. I don’t know if I will, I’m waiting to see. The thought, and planning, and interest this man had in his own death is a sight to behold, and perpetuates his own, enigmatic persona. I’m using long words in honour.

More than this though, it’s sad. It’s good to know that a bunch of people he met, with whom he shared just one tiny facet of his life, had some sort of effect on him enough to inspire a reaction. But I’ll never understand what he did, or respect that, I don’t think, and although I still don’t understand it all - least of all my own reaction to the whole bizarre affair - I have a feeling this whole concept will float uncomfortably before me for a few days yet.

How well can we know people whom we’ve never even looked in the eye? Not well, it would seem.