Seeing Les Miserables one Saturday night in London with my dad was the perfect entree to my weekend getaway to Paris. Not that there was revolution in the air, or unrequited love, pursuits of prisoners or the rescue of orphans, but its antithesis - food, shopping, wine and carousing down the banks of the Seine.
With my dad in Europe for business meetings, and my sister staying in my little flat for a work conference, it was perfect timing to enjoy an autumn in Paris, and a great excuse to take off a Friday to take a long weekend. I couldn't have asked for a nicer start to my mini-holiday. A very civilised lunch in a local cafe with a very patient waiter - where triumphantly I ended up ordering herring (that was the only thing I could find in our tiny tourist dictionary) and a piece of porc. Then, a ride along the clackety metro taking us straight to the Eiffel Tower where my sister and I prodded my long-suffering dad into climbing the Eiffel Tower by foot. Funnily enough Dad did very well - we powered past some rather unfit people as they clutched the railing, panting for breath. Dad did get tired though, and we left him at the first level.
But it was all the way to the top for the rest of us. Having been to the top of the Tower before, I had seen it all before, but I did marvel at how beautiful Paris was, admiring the trees turning their colours in the cool autumn afternoon. A walk to the Arc de Triomph and a stroll along the Champs Elysees perfected a cruisy afternoon. I was however, very pleased to be able to do some shopping along the Champs Elysees. The first shop I entered I found a great duffle coat. Having searched the globe for a duffle jacket that would fit my rather skinny frame for the past 2 years, I knew I wanted the coat once I put it on, twirling in front of the mirrors. Another guy, stopped to look at me and my twirling and immediately put on the same jacket as I was wearing. We looked at each other and knew that the jacket was the goods. We both ended up buying the jacket, and wearing it out of the shop. Mutual validation - you should try it sometime.
Dinner was going to be the death of me. Having continued to snack on coffees and pastries all day, I continued on my path of gluttony with soup, duck and a very rich creme brulee. It was a rather uncomfortable night later as I lay in bed, a days worth of food churning in my stomach. But it was well worth it after months of eating supermarket sandwiches. Poor me.
The next day dawned with an early morning kwa-sson so we could beat the early morning crowds at the Notre Dame cathedral. We spent a little bit more money to go into the Cathedral's treasury where we saw a few of the more precious items on display, including the robes worn by one of the monsignors hundreds of years ago. I've always found cathedrals to be relaxing places (sans rude tourists taking flash pictures while people are in the middle of a prayer), and it was nice to take a moment to light a candle and think and reflect.
This rather mild form of contemplation continued on at the Musee D'Orsay with its excellent collection of contemporary art. I enjoyed seeing the Van Gogh collection again, and my sister, dad and I picked our favourite pictures so that we might buy some prints later. After a couple of hours however, the return on investment had its margins slashed (read: we got sick of art and wanted to eat lunch and go shopping) and on leaving, found that dad & sister had been to the gift shop and bought me a print which I had been wanting to get for a long time. Tres happy!
The rest of the afternoon was spent moseying through Parisian boutiques, ending up at the Galarie Lafayette - an enormous but very glitzy department store which on that day wasn't glitzy at all but completely packed out with hoardes of shoppers. Admittedly we did drop a few euros on some rather nice clothes here and there (well, the main beneficiary being my sister) but it was all good fun trying on the designer labels and making myself feel all ooh la la.
Voila.
On our final day of Paris we headed off to Versailles where we wanted to visit the Palace. An hour's drive netted us a big disappointment when we saw the line to get in to the Palace which we estimated to be at least a 2 hour wait. We decided against it given that time was against us and headed into the city centre where a very cute old little lady directed us to the centre and told us to visit the markets.
I am usually not a fan of markets, but it was quite fun to see the cakes, the cheese and all the fresh produce. I scored a bottle of red wine to bring back with me and a loaf of olive bread to bring back on the Eurostar home. But our Paris trip wasn't quite complete without a quick visit to an outlet shopping centre in suburban Paris (well, "outlet" is a bit too cheap a way to describe it given the first cab off the rank was Burberry, closely followed by Bally and then Ferragamo). There was some more twirling, and I scored a cool pair of Campers and a couple of designer ties for bargain prices. Go me.
However, as we soon found out we weren't going anywhere on the freeway back to central Paris for our train home to London. Stuck in a monumental traffic jam, we sweated and chewed our fingernails for 2 hours as we inched forward, killing us slowly with anxiety. We made it - just - after fighting through the chaos of everyone wanting to take the last 2 trains back to London. With a stamp at French immigration, a stamp at British immigration - we were off!
Only to arrive back to London and find ourselves in a massive queue for cabs. I have never been in a Black Cab before, and I don't think I will take another go after watching the spiralling meter chew through all my pounds. The cab driver laughed at me when I told him that I took the night bus rather than a cab - well, he should bloody well know how expensive it was.
The next day I dispatched my sister off to Heathrow with her suitcase in peak hour chaos - she was not a fan of London public transport having been jostled and pushed around on the trains. Having fought my way on to the Tube with her suitcase, I turned around and found my sister standing forlornly on the platform, people hustling her out of the way - like sharks circling fresh (tourist) blood. Needless to say, someone's poor brother had to haul his sister onto the Tube before she got left behind.
Just one final note to satisfy my ego. I won a reward and recognition award from the head of the Strategy Development and Projects Division for my suporting work on a few projects. Was a bit embarrassed, but pleased all the same. I ges I can spel and speek propa inglish arfta orl.
Onwards and upwards (to the top!)
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Thursday, 25 October 2007
the train journey
I usually love train journeys. There's the stressless boarding of trains without the security checks, the fact that you can watch the countryside roll past, and the chance to wander up and down the carriages to stretch your legs.
I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.
Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.
Impressed, I was not.
Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.
I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?
Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?
I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.
Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.
Impressed, I was not.
Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.
I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?
Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?
Friday, 12 October 2007
the bright side of life
In the tearoom at work, someone has put up a list of suggestions for the national motto for Great Britain. The increasing number of scrawled lines include
"always look on the bright side of life"
"we apologise for the delay"
"i do not believe it"
"please complete this in triplicate, sign in all indicated places and initial all signatures"
"mustn't grumble"
"yeah?"
The list continues with lessening humour and wit. I however, was drawn to the motto of always looking on the bright side of life. For example, this morning while walking in the rain I unwittingly stepped in some doggie do, for when i got to work, there was a god-awful smell while sitting at my desk, and I wondered to myself having had a shower, and wearing a new shirt, whether I had sweated that much in on the train journey. Nevertheless, I found the offending shoe and cleaned it - simply by going outside and walking around in the puddles. Brilliant. No hike to the nearest park necessary.
I had a rather nice weekend actually, ending up in Covent Garden twice to gawk at the tourists. Covent Garden is actually quite a nice area to have a coffee, and there are markets (which I usually hate) and nice shops and a couple of nice cafes as well. Over the course of the weekend I have had 2 coffees (although, they don't do flat whites here. The sacrilege!), a chocolate eclair, and a piece of pie in a patisserie.
Just on patisseries. Albeit a Chinese one. A little Chinese cake shop has sprung up on the edges of Chinatown. It is the type of shop which brings you back to when you were 8 years old, begging your mum to buy more cakes, when she has already filled a little box with the cakes and pastries you wanted. The type of shop that inevitably brings a smile to any bitter and twisted old man. The type of shopfront where you stand with your nose pressed against the dirty window or linger in the doorway for a moment of warmth. The type of shop with custard tarts, swiss rolls, sesame balls and pineapple buns lining the windows, drawing you in with its temptations of deja vu.
These of course are a few of my favourite things.
It's going to be a busy next few weeks. I'm off to Leeds to watch the Scottish National Orchestra, then the following week my Dad arrives in town for work. And for sheer timing, my sister also arrives the same week for a conference. At the end of October, I am taking a long weekend off and will take my sister with me to Paris where we will meet Dad. Let me indulge myself for a moment as I contemplate a vision of me wandering around Montmartre in the cool autumn twilight, searching for the perfect coffee and French patisserie.
Now that is the bright side of life.
"always look on the bright side of life"
"we apologise for the delay"
"i do not believe it"
"please complete this in triplicate, sign in all indicated places and initial all signatures"
"mustn't grumble"
"yeah?"
The list continues with lessening humour and wit. I however, was drawn to the motto of always looking on the bright side of life. For example, this morning while walking in the rain I unwittingly stepped in some doggie do, for when i got to work, there was a god-awful smell while sitting at my desk, and I wondered to myself having had a shower, and wearing a new shirt, whether I had sweated that much in on the train journey. Nevertheless, I found the offending shoe and cleaned it - simply by going outside and walking around in the puddles. Brilliant. No hike to the nearest park necessary.
I had a rather nice weekend actually, ending up in Covent Garden twice to gawk at the tourists. Covent Garden is actually quite a nice area to have a coffee, and there are markets (which I usually hate) and nice shops and a couple of nice cafes as well. Over the course of the weekend I have had 2 coffees (although, they don't do flat whites here. The sacrilege!), a chocolate eclair, and a piece of pie in a patisserie.
Just on patisseries. Albeit a Chinese one. A little Chinese cake shop has sprung up on the edges of Chinatown. It is the type of shop which brings you back to when you were 8 years old, begging your mum to buy more cakes, when she has already filled a little box with the cakes and pastries you wanted. The type of shop that inevitably brings a smile to any bitter and twisted old man. The type of shopfront where you stand with your nose pressed against the dirty window or linger in the doorway for a moment of warmth. The type of shop with custard tarts, swiss rolls, sesame balls and pineapple buns lining the windows, drawing you in with its temptations of deja vu.
These of course are a few of my favourite things.
It's going to be a busy next few weeks. I'm off to Leeds to watch the Scottish National Orchestra, then the following week my Dad arrives in town for work. And for sheer timing, my sister also arrives the same week for a conference. At the end of October, I am taking a long weekend off and will take my sister with me to Paris where we will meet Dad. Let me indulge myself for a moment as I contemplate a vision of me wandering around Montmartre in the cool autumn twilight, searching for the perfect coffee and French patisserie.
Now that is the bright side of life.
Saturday, 29 September 2007
the flu and the cold
What a week.
The weekend I get asked out for drinks by 4 friends, I am holed up at home, passed out in bed with the flu.
The week had an ominous beginning. One day after work, I got stuck in the lift in my own apartment block. The lift stopped at my level and then stopped working. I rang the alarm and no-one came to rescue me (the double glazed windows must be good here) and then I decided to call for help. The overly cheery chirpy girl at the end of the line did not inspire confidence. She assured me she would send a techie to have a look. No reassuring words or estimation of time. Only a request for my mobile number so they could call me. In a lift which had minimal reception.
With the milk curdling at my feet, the ice cream melting and the celery becoming less crisp by the minute I was getting cross. I called my flatmate in desperation and she was home! The blessed girl came out and pressed the buttom a couple of times. The lift went up and down. And down and up.
And opened.
There i was, dripping in perspiration with orange Sainsburys bags strewn in front of me, my jacket on the ground. Not a happy chappy.
Later that week, I was sitting at home after work and suddenly felt extremely tired. Went to bed and started to shiver. Then came the fever. I woke up in what seemed like 3am - and found out it was only 7pm!
I have now also caught a cold.
I just loooove the cold weather. And the incubation tubes hereafter known as the London Underground. Where is my mum's chicken soup when you need it?
Yes. I am a glutton for sympathy.
The weekend I get asked out for drinks by 4 friends, I am holed up at home, passed out in bed with the flu.
The week had an ominous beginning. One day after work, I got stuck in the lift in my own apartment block. The lift stopped at my level and then stopped working. I rang the alarm and no-one came to rescue me (the double glazed windows must be good here) and then I decided to call for help. The overly cheery chirpy girl at the end of the line did not inspire confidence. She assured me she would send a techie to have a look. No reassuring words or estimation of time. Only a request for my mobile number so they could call me. In a lift which had minimal reception.
With the milk curdling at my feet, the ice cream melting and the celery becoming less crisp by the minute I was getting cross. I called my flatmate in desperation and she was home! The blessed girl came out and pressed the buttom a couple of times. The lift went up and down. And down and up.
And opened.
There i was, dripping in perspiration with orange Sainsburys bags strewn in front of me, my jacket on the ground. Not a happy chappy.
Later that week, I was sitting at home after work and suddenly felt extremely tired. Went to bed and started to shiver. Then came the fever. I woke up in what seemed like 3am - and found out it was only 7pm!
I have now also caught a cold.
I just loooove the cold weather. And the incubation tubes hereafter known as the London Underground. Where is my mum's chicken soup when you need it?
Yes. I am a glutton for sympathy.
Monday, 24 September 2007
the mediocrity
I have just had a taste of what the london winter has in store for me. Walking to the train station this morning I was not a happy camper with rain coming in at me sideways, my umbrella being turned inside out and my shoes filling up with water. I was so drenched that on the train I had a water dripping from the inside of my pants into my shoes.
It is now sunny, by the way. Grrr.
Anyone would think that we were in the depths of Melbourne.
Despite all that I did have a good weekend. My flatmate's mum is in town for the week, so on Saturday we toddled off to a matinee West End show. There were few remaining cheap tickets left, so out of the remaining good ones we elected to see "Chicago". In one word. Disappointing. Let me elaborate. Having not seen the movie, the plot line was somewhat ill-conceived, the singing/dancing/hoo-ha was a bit flat. One international superstar whose only claim to fame was that her dad was famous was the new attraction in the show - and when she merely appeared on stage she got claps and cheers.
She was flat, couldn't sing in tune to save herself, and was just plain boring. She got applauded and applauded and applauded again. Whatever happened to applauding real talent, and not just pumping the ego of a mediocre starlet?
What was worse was that the band was actually on stage - and given half the show was all for dancing around the stage, the performers were somewhat forced to twirl around in a shoebox. The conductor's baton was irritatingly distracting during the performance. At the end of the show I was grudging in my respect for the two main actors who I am sure are less than happy at being overlooked by a little showy starlet who is unfairly stealing the limelight from them.
Enough of my rant. I will make it up to myself and go see another show sometime. I am considering seeing an opera. There is a drive to promote the opera to the under-30s and students with half-price tickets. In my quest to really take advantage of London's heavy patronage of arts and culture, I am thinking of paying a tenner to sit in the bloodnose section and watch a famous Opera. Aida maybe? The Magic Flute? We'll see.
I did manage to see David, my cousin on Saturday night. He has finally moved into his flat in Camden and I got to check it out. His flat, consisting of 4 PhD students definitely had the feel of a student flat. I can imagine all 4 of them sitting in their living room drinking red wine discussing the theorems of quantum physics while at my own flat, you would find me drowning in cheap white wine while checking up on my facebook page.
Camden however, is a buzzing area with lots of students. And goths. Though somewhat freakish in the number of goths and other oddballs wandering around, there are a good number of nice restaurants around. I was relieved to enjoy a decent pasta and bottle of Chianti, as my repertoire of dishes at home was beginning to fray in desperation for change. I mentioned that my next planned trip was to Portugal, and David is keen to tag along, so I'm looking forward to planning that.
Sunday was a bit of a write-off where incorrect information on the web, coupled with a moronic security guard at the National Theatre turned a nice sunny afternoon in South Bank into a whole waste of time. I was attempting to check out the Landscape Photographer of the Year exhibition but was thwarted when I arrived too early before opening time (making me amble up and down the Thames for an hour), then finding out later that the gallery wasn't open at all. I went home in annoyance and ironed my shirts.
It is now sunny, by the way. Grrr.
Anyone would think that we were in the depths of Melbourne.
Despite all that I did have a good weekend. My flatmate's mum is in town for the week, so on Saturday we toddled off to a matinee West End show. There were few remaining cheap tickets left, so out of the remaining good ones we elected to see "Chicago". In one word. Disappointing. Let me elaborate. Having not seen the movie, the plot line was somewhat ill-conceived, the singing/dancing/hoo-ha was a bit flat. One international superstar whose only claim to fame was that her dad was famous was the new attraction in the show - and when she merely appeared on stage she got claps and cheers.
She was flat, couldn't sing in tune to save herself, and was just plain boring. She got applauded and applauded and applauded again. Whatever happened to applauding real talent, and not just pumping the ego of a mediocre starlet?
What was worse was that the band was actually on stage - and given half the show was all for dancing around the stage, the performers were somewhat forced to twirl around in a shoebox. The conductor's baton was irritatingly distracting during the performance. At the end of the show I was grudging in my respect for the two main actors who I am sure are less than happy at being overlooked by a little showy starlet who is unfairly stealing the limelight from them.
Enough of my rant. I will make it up to myself and go see another show sometime. I am considering seeing an opera. There is a drive to promote the opera to the under-30s and students with half-price tickets. In my quest to really take advantage of London's heavy patronage of arts and culture, I am thinking of paying a tenner to sit in the bloodnose section and watch a famous Opera. Aida maybe? The Magic Flute? We'll see.
I did manage to see David, my cousin on Saturday night. He has finally moved into his flat in Camden and I got to check it out. His flat, consisting of 4 PhD students definitely had the feel of a student flat. I can imagine all 4 of them sitting in their living room drinking red wine discussing the theorems of quantum physics while at my own flat, you would find me drowning in cheap white wine while checking up on my facebook page.
Camden however, is a buzzing area with lots of students. And goths. Though somewhat freakish in the number of goths and other oddballs wandering around, there are a good number of nice restaurants around. I was relieved to enjoy a decent pasta and bottle of Chianti, as my repertoire of dishes at home was beginning to fray in desperation for change. I mentioned that my next planned trip was to Portugal, and David is keen to tag along, so I'm looking forward to planning that.
Sunday was a bit of a write-off where incorrect information on the web, coupled with a moronic security guard at the National Theatre turned a nice sunny afternoon in South Bank into a whole waste of time. I was attempting to check out the Landscape Photographer of the Year exhibition but was thwarted when I arrived too early before opening time (making me amble up and down the Thames for an hour), then finding out later that the gallery wasn't open at all. I went home in annoyance and ironed my shirts.
Friday, 21 September 2007
the architecture
Back in myyyy day, I was the ever goody-goody two shoes who always volunteered to relinquish my weekends to help out on our school opening days. I would play in the school orchestra to ear-bash visitors wanting to see how cultured we were, show off the library's newly laminated books which would only ever be read by the most enthusiastic nerdish-types (read: me), reverently pause by the chapel and point out the marble alter and take my ever-increasingly bored tour group to a football demonstration as if they had never seen a match in their lives.
So the shoe was on the other foot last weekend when London held its annual "open weekends" where hundreds of buildings in London would open their doors to the public for free - to take a gander/stickybeak/whatever form of bird you wanted to see. The criteria for buildings being on this list was that it needed to be of architectural significance, whether that be historical or just in terms of sheer beauty. Many buildings on show were winners of the British Architecture awards, but there were also schools, places of worship, office buildings and the odd government building that had put its best foot forward for the day.
My attempt to get up early to beat the crowds was thwarted with me taking my sweet time eating a bowl of cereal. By the time I managed to haul myself out of the house, I found myself joining an hour-long queue to get into the Bank of England. The Bank of England was a lovely old building and we got to see the nondescript Governor's office. At the end of the tour there was a gold bar on display which you could stick one hand into the glass case to try and lift up the bar. It was the closest I had ever got to a gold bar in my life - and later I had to make do with the chocolate coins from the gift shop.
The next building required another hour wait in the line where I munched on a toblerone block to pass the time. I do not know why I mentioned that, as it has absolutely no consequence at all to this blog. Except I feel I am breaking out in zits now. The Lloyds Bank building is what they call London's answer to the Pompidou Centre in Paris. Both are hideously stunning buildings on the outside - in the Lloyds' building's case - of steel and pipes and just general ugliness. Inside however, was a different tune altogether. The open plan trading floors are impossible to describe - I heard many people comment on the fact that they would love to be there on a working day to feel the buzz. The central feature of the building is that the core of the building leads up to a magnificent glass atrium - and when you take the stomach-churningly fast elevator to the top of the building, you can see down into all the trading floor spaces below. It is a crazy building, but not as crazy as 30 St Mary's Axe, which is more commonly known as the Gherkin.
I didn't get into the Gherkin as pre-booked entry tickets had been snapped up months before. It is a major landmark on the London skyline, and in the sunlight, another shimmering building with the most sexy voluptuous curves. Crudely putting it, the building is sex on wheels. And not because people have described the building as something else on that line. Check out my pictures on my facebook page and you'll see what I mean.
From the City of London borough, I ventured back to more familiar territory in the City of Westminster. I checked out the Foreign and Commonwealth Office building which was surprisingly creaky and decrepit inside, save for the rather glamourous official rooms which had been restored to its full we-will-colonise-you-whether-you-like-it-or-not-and-don't-you-dare-resist glory. But it was Portcullis House, the building situated directly across the Houses of Parliament which was my favourite. Portcullis House, which houses Parliamentary staff, is not a particularly good looking building, but isn't it all about "personality" nowadays? Inside was a surprisingly bright, sunny, open space which housed a large atrium (seems to be a common theme here), and shiny new offices for Members of Parliament, and Parliamentary committee rooms. There were some fabulous photos and artwork on display too. My favourite paintings consisted of a sitting of the House of Commons in 1986, Margaret Thatcher sitting at the Prime Minister's chair, resplendent in pale blue within a sea of gray suits. The artist clearly had a sense of humour, for observing from the visitor's gallery were former Prime Ministers Churchill and Gladstone. My next favourite portraits were of Tony Blair, William Hague and Charles Kennedy - leaders of their respective parties at the last general election. What I liked about these side-by-side portraits was that the width of each canvas was in direct proportion to the number of votes that each party won at the election.
Having had enough of central government, my next stop was the visually appealing Channel 4 offices with more glass and more sharp edges. By then, I was getting tired, but felt somewhat obligated to visit the Royal Courts of Justice as a Ministry of Justice employee. I made the mistake of getting roped into a tour, and left it after 5 minutes when the tour leader turned out to be so dull that his group dwindled to less than 5 people after 30 seconds of his spiel. Even so, the care factor rating had dropped into the ether, and I left very soon after making some half-hearted attempts to look around the building. Walking back to the Tube along the Thames, I came across another "open house" - this time, the ship which housed the some mariners association. While there were some interesting snippets, my internal whingeing was getting louder, so the moment our guide turned around to point out something, I managed to duck out of the ship - but only after enduring 45 minutes of listening to a rant about boats whilst wistfully looking across at the Thames Festival that was occuring on the other side of the river.
The next day I got my wish. With a chat to my friends on skype back home in the mornin', I was off to Southbank to check out the Thames Festival and City Hall. The Thames Festival wasn't particularly interesting, but I did enjoy visiting City Hall where the spiralling staircase wrapped around the inside allowed you to view right down into the City Hall chamber. There were some glorious views of the London skyline from the building, and I was very jealous of the people who could work in such a nice building.
I ducked back home, where for the first time since arriving in London, I had an afternoon nap. As I sunk into my bed with the London sunshine streaming in, I remembered that I was meant to meet my mate Rob later that night to check out the Thames Festival's fireworks. I overslept, woke up groggy, managed to find something to eat, and then managed to be late meeting Rob.
The fireworks were well worth it. They were quite possibly the most spectacular fireworks I have seen in my life - and I couldn't even begin to imagine what their New Year's fireworks would be like.
Just imagine.
So the shoe was on the other foot last weekend when London held its annual "open weekends" where hundreds of buildings in London would open their doors to the public for free - to take a gander/stickybeak/whatever form of bird you wanted to see. The criteria for buildings being on this list was that it needed to be of architectural significance, whether that be historical or just in terms of sheer beauty. Many buildings on show were winners of the British Architecture awards, but there were also schools, places of worship, office buildings and the odd government building that had put its best foot forward for the day.
My attempt to get up early to beat the crowds was thwarted with me taking my sweet time eating a bowl of cereal. By the time I managed to haul myself out of the house, I found myself joining an hour-long queue to get into the Bank of England. The Bank of England was a lovely old building and we got to see the nondescript Governor's office. At the end of the tour there was a gold bar on display which you could stick one hand into the glass case to try and lift up the bar. It was the closest I had ever got to a gold bar in my life - and later I had to make do with the chocolate coins from the gift shop.
The next building required another hour wait in the line where I munched on a toblerone block to pass the time. I do not know why I mentioned that, as it has absolutely no consequence at all to this blog. Except I feel I am breaking out in zits now. The Lloyds Bank building is what they call London's answer to the Pompidou Centre in Paris. Both are hideously stunning buildings on the outside - in the Lloyds' building's case - of steel and pipes and just general ugliness. Inside however, was a different tune altogether. The open plan trading floors are impossible to describe - I heard many people comment on the fact that they would love to be there on a working day to feel the buzz. The central feature of the building is that the core of the building leads up to a magnificent glass atrium - and when you take the stomach-churningly fast elevator to the top of the building, you can see down into all the trading floor spaces below. It is a crazy building, but not as crazy as 30 St Mary's Axe, which is more commonly known as the Gherkin.
I didn't get into the Gherkin as pre-booked entry tickets had been snapped up months before. It is a major landmark on the London skyline, and in the sunlight, another shimmering building with the most sexy voluptuous curves. Crudely putting it, the building is sex on wheels. And not because people have described the building as something else on that line. Check out my pictures on my facebook page and you'll see what I mean.
From the City of London borough, I ventured back to more familiar territory in the City of Westminster. I checked out the Foreign and Commonwealth Office building which was surprisingly creaky and decrepit inside, save for the rather glamourous official rooms which had been restored to its full we-will-colonise-you-whether-you-like-it-or-not-and-don't-you-dare-resist glory. But it was Portcullis House, the building situated directly across the Houses of Parliament which was my favourite. Portcullis House, which houses Parliamentary staff, is not a particularly good looking building, but isn't it all about "personality" nowadays? Inside was a surprisingly bright, sunny, open space which housed a large atrium (seems to be a common theme here), and shiny new offices for Members of Parliament, and Parliamentary committee rooms. There were some fabulous photos and artwork on display too. My favourite paintings consisted of a sitting of the House of Commons in 1986, Margaret Thatcher sitting at the Prime Minister's chair, resplendent in pale blue within a sea of gray suits. The artist clearly had a sense of humour, for observing from the visitor's gallery were former Prime Ministers Churchill and Gladstone. My next favourite portraits were of Tony Blair, William Hague and Charles Kennedy - leaders of their respective parties at the last general election. What I liked about these side-by-side portraits was that the width of each canvas was in direct proportion to the number of votes that each party won at the election.
Having had enough of central government, my next stop was the visually appealing Channel 4 offices with more glass and more sharp edges. By then, I was getting tired, but felt somewhat obligated to visit the Royal Courts of Justice as a Ministry of Justice employee. I made the mistake of getting roped into a tour, and left it after 5 minutes when the tour leader turned out to be so dull that his group dwindled to less than 5 people after 30 seconds of his spiel. Even so, the care factor rating had dropped into the ether, and I left very soon after making some half-hearted attempts to look around the building. Walking back to the Tube along the Thames, I came across another "open house" - this time, the ship which housed the some mariners association. While there were some interesting snippets, my internal whingeing was getting louder, so the moment our guide turned around to point out something, I managed to duck out of the ship - but only after enduring 45 minutes of listening to a rant about boats whilst wistfully looking across at the Thames Festival that was occuring on the other side of the river.
The next day I got my wish. With a chat to my friends on skype back home in the mornin', I was off to Southbank to check out the Thames Festival and City Hall. The Thames Festival wasn't particularly interesting, but I did enjoy visiting City Hall where the spiralling staircase wrapped around the inside allowed you to view right down into the City Hall chamber. There were some glorious views of the London skyline from the building, and I was very jealous of the people who could work in such a nice building.
I ducked back home, where for the first time since arriving in London, I had an afternoon nap. As I sunk into my bed with the London sunshine streaming in, I remembered that I was meant to meet my mate Rob later that night to check out the Thames Festival's fireworks. I overslept, woke up groggy, managed to find something to eat, and then managed to be late meeting Rob.
The fireworks were well worth it. They were quite possibly the most spectacular fireworks I have seen in my life - and I couldn't even begin to imagine what their New Year's fireworks would be like.
Just imagine.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
the registration
As many of you will know, i am slightly obsessed with politics. Every morning, it is a joy for me to read the wrap up of daily political news while the country sleeps half a world away. I read the analysis pages from both conservative and left-wing newspapers, laugh at the cartoons of whoever is being lampooned that day (i must admit my favourite is of Alexander Downer in fishnet stockings), and read the blogs of people lampooning each other. You conservatives are about to be annihilated, they say. You left-wing greenie tree huggers will be over-run by the unions, they shout.
I sit in my office in Westminster, forlorn in the fact that as a civil servant, I must be impartial to political sides.
In the United Kingdom that is. Which gives me free rein to pooh-pooh our current crop of politicians back home, despite having worked as a hack in a previous life. Is that my karma poking me again? (nah, false alarm. it's just my facebook).
I am one of the few people who can't wait to vote. And who enjoys lining up to cast my ballot, deciding whether to eat now at the primary school's sausage sizzle, or to eat later (i always eat later so that my greasy, tomato-sauce covered hands don't stain my ballots). And who actually likes staying in on election night to watch and clap enthusiastically at the swing at Eden-Monaro, and the fact that the national swing hasn't been replicated in Western Australia, and that the honourable member for Menzies is in a shit-fight. Not one of my contemporaries will even bat an eyelid while they drink their vodka and lime in some bar, while I sit in my pyjamas, clutching a cup of tea for dear life, smug in the knowledge that I am seeing history fall into place. Or at least my least favourite pollies being re-elected for their third election in a row.
So, with a gentle email reminder from the Department of Foreign Affairs, I went to the Electoral Commission website to fill out a form to register as an overseas elector (and I'll bet that not one other Aussie in London gives a fig enough to register). I filled in my form, only to realise that you can't submit the damn form online. You have to print it out and send it by post. There was a fax option, but I can't fax out of my offices in a central government department. I could post it, but shouldn't there be an easier way to do this?
I gave up and resigned myself to a postal vote when the election is called - though for me, this would be going against my own religion.
Damn, there goes my karma again.
(if you are confused with all the karma speak, read my previous posts. That will learn you for not reading my blog in its entirity!)
I sit in my office in Westminster, forlorn in the fact that as a civil servant, I must be impartial to political sides.
In the United Kingdom that is. Which gives me free rein to pooh-pooh our current crop of politicians back home, despite having worked as a hack in a previous life. Is that my karma poking me again? (nah, false alarm. it's just my facebook).
I am one of the few people who can't wait to vote. And who enjoys lining up to cast my ballot, deciding whether to eat now at the primary school's sausage sizzle, or to eat later (i always eat later so that my greasy, tomato-sauce covered hands don't stain my ballots). And who actually likes staying in on election night to watch and clap enthusiastically at the swing at Eden-Monaro, and the fact that the national swing hasn't been replicated in Western Australia, and that the honourable member for Menzies is in a shit-fight. Not one of my contemporaries will even bat an eyelid while they drink their vodka and lime in some bar, while I sit in my pyjamas, clutching a cup of tea for dear life, smug in the knowledge that I am seeing history fall into place. Or at least my least favourite pollies being re-elected for their third election in a row.
So, with a gentle email reminder from the Department of Foreign Affairs, I went to the Electoral Commission website to fill out a form to register as an overseas elector (and I'll bet that not one other Aussie in London gives a fig enough to register). I filled in my form, only to realise that you can't submit the damn form online. You have to print it out and send it by post. There was a fax option, but I can't fax out of my offices in a central government department. I could post it, but shouldn't there be an easier way to do this?
I gave up and resigned myself to a postal vote when the election is called - though for me, this would be going against my own religion.
Damn, there goes my karma again.
(if you are confused with all the karma speak, read my previous posts. That will learn you for not reading my blog in its entirity!)
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