Small acts of kindness

This sign stands outside a church in East London not far from Liverpool Street station. What are Oranges and Lemons letters? Can someone send me some, please? We thought maybe it was a business name, but there were no businesses in sight with that name. Which is good, because Oranges and Lemons letters should never be corporate, never be official - they should be friendly, like the letter I got off my Mum the other week. It's so rare anyone sends a hand written letter anymore - yet they're the only letters worth receiving. My Nan used to send loads of letters and they'd tell you what everyone was up to and if I look back at them now they're great because they capture moments in time that you forget about. 'Life moves pretty fast, if you don't stop and take a look around once in a while you might miss it', as Ferris Bueller once said.

Small acts of kindness are unexpected in London because it has a reputation for being so unfriendly and harsh. But take a look around and they do happen. Last Wednesday I was waiting for a friend at Victoria station and an old woman was trying to get help with her baggage from the station staff. Due to some health and safety/ red tape/ corporate nonsense issue, the staff explained that he couldn't carry her bags anywhere until she was actually in the station. A gruff fellow clearly sick of this, lit a cigarette and strutted up to the woman and asked her in a belligerent tone, that may have slightly scared her, where she needed her bags taking to. She told him and he picked them up and marched them to the station for her. I liked the way he was being nice in a surly manner.

I recall the winter of 2007 when I was flat hunting and I rang a woman called Doreen Collar who had a room in a flat for rent. She sounded really nice, and quite old - she was from a gentler and nobler age - and she told me which bus to get and said 'I should ask the driver to let me off at a certain junction'. I love that line because my experience of bus drivers is of angry irate men who think you're out of order if you dare ask them a question. I like the idea though, that old people can still live in this world, with the drivers dutifully dropping them off at their stop.

I didn't end up going to see Doreen Collar's flat. A shame really, she sounded really nice. And I bet she knows what Oranges and Lemons letters are.

A Sopranos shaped hole

There is a Buddhist maxim that states ( and I'm paraphrasing) that you should live in the now. I'm so stuck in the past and the ideal imagined future it's untrue. I'm stuck in the past with TV too. I rarely watch it, I just play catch up on classic series. Matt lent me the Sopranos, and I've just finished 6 series and the final episodes. If you're wondering where your blog was last week I was watching the final episodes of the Sopranos. (Oh you weren't. Oh well. As a character says in another gangster film, 'do you listen or wait to speak?'. I'd have to confess to the latter).

I was worried someone was going to tell me the end of the Sopranos, but they never did. Now I can see why. What happened at the end? What did the black silent screen signify? Did Tony die or was it just saying life carries on, the loose ends stay loose and this is where we're ducking out of his life?

Whatever, it's a brilliant series, pretty addictive. It got me through some long winter weekends. In January I took a walk through Regent's Park on a freezing ice-blue Saturday. It was silent and eerie. I was going to take a photo and start my blog that way but I never took the picture. I wish I did. I wish... (Have a picture of Corrado and T instead. I love that scene:

     'This thing of ours. You used to run New Jersey.'

     'Oh, that's nice.'

That day there was nobody about in Regent's Park I went home and sat in bed watching the Sopranos. 

Now there's a Sopranos shaped hole in my life. Or maybe it's something else. On Friday I sat drinking coffee in a cafe with a good window to the Liverpool street below. I was writing out a card for Adrian, as he and Sam have just had their first daughter. It took me ages to work out what to write. I was looking out trying to recognise faces. I lived in that city for years. I only recognised one person: Gary Rigby. He's on the sick and saves up money to go abroad: India, Australia. He's possibly saving now. He just sits out the months until he can go away. Well I guess that's what he still does.

In the cafe in Belsize Park on Monday, where I was ushered in to shelter from the hailstones, I sat drinking coffee knowing I wouldn't recognise anyone who walked past. Now I've finished the Sopranos I'm not going to take on any more big tv series. I've got a million things to do, all those things hanging around waiting to be finished. Waiting to be started. I'm sure going to miss my Sopranos fix though.

I've nothing to say, but it's Ok

I've nothing really to write today, no picture to illustrate what I've been doing. (Above is Canary Wharf where I went for a meeting and co-incidently where my brother used to work. He also worked in the building in Swiss Cottage where I work now. This photo has nothing to do with the following text).  I've been to see a couple of properties but really I need to contact a mortgage advisor to see how much money they'd lend me before my dreaming gets the better of me.  I'd love to have my own place though. It's about time. I think about this a lot at work. You need things to think about to find a reason for all the small ridiculous tasks you're meant to do.

What is it with the modern office environment? They're forever offering you cake. Everybody's always celebrating something, or someone's neighbour has brought round a cake for someone. Then you get an email about it. I was on the phone today and a piece of cake appeared on my desk. I felt ungrateful but I didn't want it so I threw it away. 

Outside of the office I keep bumping into Talya. Last week she was waiting outside Waitrose for a Nun. That's what she said, and then a bus stopped and the Nun appeared. On the Saturday before last she was on the tube making her way to Brighton with a friend (she's one of those people who has millions of friends and you never see the same one twice) to play some rare musical instruments at a festival. 

June already, it's scorching hot outside, I need to get moving.

The White Bookshelf and The Rambo Cardboard Cut-out

Thursday night I drove to Ikea to buy a white bookshelf to house all the books and other stuff that have been lying on my bedroom floor for the last year. I managed to get lost twice on the way there and on the way back too, despite having made two previous visits in the car, with the same intent of buying the white bookshelf. The previous two times I had changed my mind, convincing myself (a) it wouldn't fit in the car and (b) it didn't look that great anyway. This time round I realised I had been wrong on both counts. It's funny because I measured the length inside the car but when I looked at the height of the flat packed bookcase I thought no way. I had Friday off work so spent the morning building it. It looks great and houses all my books, although I've still a few books in my parents' loft.

The last time I was back home I picked up my two diaries from my parents' loft. The only time I kept a diary was when I was 14 (ripped up and thrown away years ago from embarrassment), 15 and 16. The main one from 1986 I was interested in because I was trying to recount for this blog my first job. Unfortunately there's no mention of it. 1986 was a big year, a year of change. It was the year I left school. This is hardly mentioned. There's some worry about what I'm going to do, but in the main I list my dull life, watching TV; Eastenders features a lot, and hanging around the streets. For instance on Friday 10th January 1986 I can reveal that 'I went down the video shop to see the 'Rambo cardboard cut-out'. Oh yes, my friends, the opportunities were endless for a 15 year old in Horsham town. I always wondered what I did the day I left school, it's meant to be a huge day but I guess I didn't do anything. This isn't mentioned either. I can however, reveal that on Friday 24th January 1986 I cooked myself a fried cheese sandwich and a boiled egg. (I'm sure I didn't fry the cheese, I must have melted it under the grill).

I constantly report films: Sylvester Stallone films were big in my world then and complain a lot of being bored. I also pine for girls I met on holiday and who live hundreds of miles away, address unknown. The one pursuit I did have was I did Kung-Fu lessons on Saturday afternoons. All in all though I don't sound too happy, I'm glad I'm not still in 1986.

Talking of things I should mention, perhaps the biggest news for our family this year, is my sister had a baby boy - Finn, a few weeks ago. I went to visit him last bank holiday. Also, I had scottish salmon for my tea tonight.

Brick Lane

It started last Monday in HMV on Oxford Street when they tell me they no longer sell 7'' singles. I'm trying to get hold of the God Help The Girl record. It's the new project from Stuart Murdoch and I'm a huge fan of all things Belle & Sebastian, etc, etc, so I have to have the record. I get the central line to Rough Trade where they have plenty of 7'' singles. The guy behind the counter is surprisingly friendly. I'm finally ready to pledge my allegiance to the Independent record store. The friendly guy tells me Graham Coxon is playing instore at their east end branch. Ok, so I don't go but it sets me thinking.

Back at the office I check out the Rough Trade website to find Jarvis Cocker is playing on Saturday. So come Saturday, me and Tracy head east. At the store they are blasting out the Vaselines re-issue. The shop is surrounded by food stalls and people are hanging around sitting on the pavement. It feels like a mini-festival. We watch The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, buy our Jarvis albums and get our wristbands for the show later. We head off to explore our surroundings.

We walk Brick Lane's narrow street full of restaurants, clothes shops and markets. We spy apartments for sale, ring the bell and the guy shows us round these brand new all mod cons apartments, although we fail to convince him we are serious buyers. He asks if we'd like to see the price list and we hesitate a bit too long. The show flat looked great though. It would be great to come home to those modern appliances and the brand newness of it all. 

Back on Brick Lane there is a bar blasting out rave in the late afternoon. I feel too old - no too mature - for all that nonsense at this time of day. We get out of there. There's a bar in the back room of a restaurant on the corner by Rough Trade, where the DJ plays big band tunes from the twenties. Couples are performing swing dancing. 

We pop over the road to get our albums signed but change our minds when we see the queue. Instead we sit on a sofa, and there opposite us behind the counter is Jarvis, looking, well, like Jarvis with his v-neck sweater, long hair, beard and black rimmed glasses. I suppose it's not really a surprise seeing someone famous if you know they're going to be there.

After an intimate (a hundred people) and entertaining gig, showcasing most of his new harder sounding LP we head off back down Brick Lane weaving our way through the Waiters giving the hard sell for their restaurants.

The following day on the South Bank, underneath the Millennium Wheel I see Paul Weller striding along with his child. There he is with his grey mod cut, wearing rock star silver shades with a slight tint, adidas trainers and a cool designer green parka. He's talking on his mobile, his voice unmistakable. He strides confidently past and out of sight.

Don't be glum, be glam

I've wanted to go to the Albert Hall for ages and I guess I'll be waiting a while longer now as Morrissey, who I was supposed to be seeing last night, cancelled at the last minute. He's got a doctor's note apparently. I was looking forward to having a seat.

These days I find myself annoyed at the people who push past you to get in or out of the crowd. I hone in on people who stand in front of me talking or texting on their mobile phones throughout the gig. I curse tall people standing directly in front of me. On Thursday the guy standing in front of me looked just like Paul Simeon at the age he would have been the day he joined the Clash, only taller.

On Thursday I went to the Electric Ballroom in Camden to see Art Brut (see expert gig photo above). The last time I was there was twenty years ago to see Birdland (remember them?) with Sue Carpenter (remember her?). It's bigger than I remembered it. It was an older crowd too and I felt we fitted nicely in the middle, not one of the kids, but not one of the oldest ones. You get really polite indie kids at gigs as well who open doors for you. The bouncers could learn a thing or two about manners from these people.

Once the band come on I'm drawn in, excited and charged and all the petty annoyances usually fall away. This worked with Art Brut and even better with Jeffrey Lewis two weeks ago. The main difference wasn't the performance - both Art Brut and Jeffrey Lewis are amazing live - but the fact that young Simeon wasn't standing in front of me for the Jeffrey Lewis gig. Jeff got the crowd to ring him on his new phone. So I've got his number (unless he's changed it already).

After the Electric Ballroom we race to the Buffalo Bar to the aftershow party, where Glam Chops play, fronted by Eddie Argos. Glam Chops are always fantastic. They're trying to get themselves nominated for the 2010 Eurovision Song Contest. Vote for them. Maybe I should ring Jeffrey Lewis and ask him to vote too.

The Vivian Girls are visited in the night by Saint Dargarius and his Squadron of Benevolent Butterflies

It took me to the early part of the 21st century to get a mobile phone but since then  I've embraced 21st century thinking and I'm not really a technophobe.  I love ipods. However I can't quite get into downloading new music. I have to buy it on CD. The other week I logged onto itunes to buy the Vivian Girls album and almost convinced myself, before retreating to HMV to buy the CD. I never even listen to the CDs, I download them straight onto my Mac and listen to them through my ipod. I like being able to touch my music. 

But CDs are on their way out and I guess on the day I turn up to HMV to see the floors are empty, the CDs gone, the CD racks dismantled to make way for a roller disco, then I'll simply turn around, go home and download them. The thing is I don't think I'll even miss CDs that much.

 I liked them when they first appeared though, I liked the fact you could get a miniature version of an album. It reminded me of this alphabet chart we had at primary school and we had our own individual ones, which were miniature versions of the one the teacher used to teach us the alphabet. I remember they were orange and black. Once you'd learnt the alphabet they took your chart away. So when I had learnt the alphabet I was disappointed, because I was going to lose my miniature alphabet chart. 

When I lived in Liverpool I took my newly bought Sufjan Stevens album in and John Harrison read the track about the Vivian Girls out in gleeful disbelief. John's from Wigan and used to sit on the bank of desks behind us looking up the Wigan Athletic website, while Andy and Paul discussed their plans to move to New Zealand. Since I left I heard that John's wife was offered a teaching post in New Zealand, so John and his family upped sticks and moved to the other side of the world. Andy and Paul are still discussing it.