Japan

Japan is a beautiful and friendly country, a truly amazing experience that is very difficult to put into words.

12,6 and a half

“Let’s go, fast leg.”

This is what’s being shouted at me and my fellow bikers in a darkened room. I’m spin biking, which, for the uninitiated, is like being in a nightclub on an exercise cycle. They turn the lights off and pump out dance music while shouting instructions. It’s a lot of standing and pedalling, ‘hovering’ which is crouching forward, turning up the gradient so peddling becomes heavier, then more ‘fast leg’ peddling.

It’s a nice gym tucked away on a mews street in Marylebone. I’ve not joined, we’ve got vouchers, which means as a non-member you can’t book the spin class. It’s usually fully booked so each time I have to wait outside the class until the right time and am a substitute for some lazy person who’s not turned up. I step into the pitch black room and hope the instructor will turn the lights on so I can find my way to a spare bike.

Yesterday evening a girl came into the class with a musical instrument in its case and put it behind her bike. I liked that. If I had an instrument on me I’d use it as an excuse to not turn up or put it in my locker and spend the whole class wondering if it’s been stolen. I liked the way it suggested she’d accomplished two activities that day. Me, I only managed the spin.

After the Saturday class I feel nicely warmed up under the ice cold blue sky as I walk the streets of Marylebone with their desolate Saturday afternoon feel, while the mass rush of Oxford street is only a few streets away. I go for a coffee, sometimes at the Nordic bakery, sometimes closer to home.

Either way it feels like the most deserved coffee possible.

At the Hop

I saw a photo the other day of the junior school play I was in back in 1980, but I can’t remember a thing about that play. Ah Chesworth, with your yellow doors and classrooms divided by curtains. Here’s something I do remember:

Chesworth 1977 or 1978 and me and David Wood, who’s my best friend at school, hatch this plan where we must spend the day hopping on one foot and the leg that we're not hopping on isn’t allowed to touch the floor. A harmless enough plan, perhaps even a brilliant one. By first break this plan is gaining momentum. As we hop to the first break other kids in the class are joining in. There must be about 10 of us hopping by the time we head back to the class. By lunchtime it’s become a craze. As we bob up and down en-masse towards the hallway to collect our coats, a teacher comes charging over, demanding us to stop. Her adult mind, perhaps tainted by disappointment, hints of tragedy, with a little bitterness and paranoia thrown in, is not clear enough to see that this is pure fun. Cleverly I have decided to put one foot on top of the other so I’m not, technically speaking, touching the floor with both feet. The teacher demands to know what this is about. Is she thick? It's the challenge of not letting both feet touch the floor. It's about hopping. We’re shouted at some more and told we’re all in lunchtime detention immediately. I use both feet to walk to the detention.

The following day Tim Ottley arranges a lunchtime football match especially for the hoppers. Non-hoppers are not allowed to play. He’s quite ruthless about this rule, grabbing the ball off one kid and sending him off the pitch. Yesterday we were punished, today we're being rewarded. Good times.

I don't know if I've explained it too well but I still laugh when I think about these kind of memories. It's a comfort. Life just isn't that funny anymore, at least right now. I'm just glad we're out of 2011.

The crabs at San Wo's

Friday 5 0'clock and after a Thursday night out, I'm looking forward to going home, or at least I've convinced myself I am.

Thursday night I was on Jermyn Street, with its independent suit, shoes and cheese shops. I especially liked the cheese shop. It's probably even better when it's open. We were in a hotel at an after meal for a conference Tracy organised. The toilets in the hotel had TV screens above the urinals so you didn't miss any of Sky news. TVs turn up in the weirdest of places these days. At a recent meeting in Canary Wharf the building we were in had TVs in the lift. Also playing Sky news.

I'm going off the point a bit here, not that there is one. Anyway, Friday I leave for home for the weekend but it doesn't quite feel right. Leaving work on Friday should be one of the best feelings of the week but this Friday it's not quite that. People are still working as I leave. I get home and pretty soon I'm feeling restless. It's my own fault. I was invited to a cocktail bar and an indie night but declined both. I want to wake up sober. You don't get that privilege after a night at a cocktail bar. Anyway the restless feeling won't go away; I try pizza, a selection of friday night songs, I feed the fish, none of it works.

Then I hit upon the solution. I put on the Madness DVD, which has the music videos for all their singles. Madness videos if you haven't seen them, or have forgotten them, are pure joy. The nutty dancing, the toy saxophone, band members flying through the air, the two tone clothes. Do you remember Woody Allen's list of things that make life worth living, in Manhattan? If I ever compiled that list for myself the Madness videos would have to go on. The odd thing is the DVD is not currently available in the shops. They need to bring it back. If anyone asks the cure for friday night blues, it's Madness.

Mystery Train

Every morning, it seems, on reaching the platform the tube train is waiting, yet threatening to shut its doors in your face and leave at any second. The trick is to never board this train. If you do, in a panic you jump into the first carriage and the doors stay open for minutes allowing dozens of other panic stricken passengers to board the same nearest carriage until it's rammed, and your journey is spent with your face picking up ink from someone elses Metro.

I tend to take the slow train, which is usually ignored by passengers waiting for the fast train, so you tend to get a seat. Usually it only takes five minutes more to reach Finchley road. The tube is a place to be invisible, nobody looks at each other, although I break this rule often, taking in strange sights; such as the man playing a game on his phone while contorting his face into the strangest mannerisms as he does so. I only see him once. There are no regulars on the tube.

I say usually it only takes five minutes extra for the slow tube to reach Finchley road. The other day the tube was delayed as it reached the first stop. The driver explained there were problems on the line earlier so the trains were backed up. The passengers are silently united. We're all going to be late. We all hate the London transport system, what is it with them? Here we are heading to somewhere we didn't want to go and now we're not even going to get to the place we don't want to go to on time. Somebody tuts and then groans, emphasising how we all feel. Wait a minute, who the fuck does this person think they are? What makes them so important, that they are allowed to complain with the most irritating of noises - the tut? I'm not sure about the rest of the passengers, but I have shifted my hatred for the London transport network - they're fine, it's a difficult job - there's no problem being held here, the only problem with being held here, is that we're stuck in a carriage with this idiot tutter trying to make us feel uncomfortable. Let's banish the tutter from the train then we can head off.

In true organisational style (which maybe part of being British or maybe part of being human), we are advised to get off the train, head back to the station we've just come from, where, apparently, we can board a fast train. We dutifully board the train heading in the opposite direction, get comfortable and then are told the train we were on is now ready to leave. We all step off and head back to our previous train. This time the tutter is not in our carriage. Hopefully, detained by the transport police. (Something else happened on that train, nothing to do with the tutter, but I'll leave that for another day).

If you're leaving the train at Finchley road the trick is to be towards the front of the carriage because it's a platform people cross over to change trains, or just step off and wait for the next train, so when you try to leave the platform there's people walking across you rather than just towards you. This one day though, from towards the back of the carriage I step off and the platform seems empty. I walk up the platform, with nobody in my path, just this strange peaceful throughway and so I walk on through half expecting Jenny Agutter to come running up in Edwardian attire, calling out, "My Daddy".

Career Opportunities (Part 6)

One afternoon we are called over to Terminal One where a hundred or so would-be passengers who are supposed to be on a plane to LA, are stuck around a dining table in a huge sparse but thickly carpeted room, a floor to ceiling window facing the runway so they can watch other passengers take off towards their destination. Their flight has been delayed for 6 hours and so they’re being treated to a three course meal to try and dispel their ill feelings towards Gatwick Airport and its staff. Six of us have been sent from the Village Inn to pretend to be silver service waiters for the afternoon.

The men who run the kitchen are a camp bunch who swear a lot. We are given silver trays full of food and pushed out the kitchen doors towards the unhappy looking passengers. The trouble is, whereas everyone else has been given a professional silver tray, I’ve been given a tray made of tin foil, like the trays you get when you buy a quiche from the supermarket, only larger. So when I go out with a tray full of peas it flops about. There’s no way you can carry it in the professional one hand aloft manner without it sagging. A trail of peas mark my path from the kitchen to the dining table.

“Would you like peas?” I ask, as they tip off of the tray and run around the whiter than white table cloth.

“No,” shouts one woman, “I want a knife, why haven’t I got a knife?” She asks malevolently, as if I’ve somehow stolen it.

“I’ll get one when I go back to the kitchen.”

“My flight is 6 hours late and now you can’t even provide me with a knife.”

Oh I get it, the delayed flight is my fault too.

I dish out the remains of the peas and hurry back to the kitchen.

In the kitchen there aren’t any knives. There’s no time for discussing knives, there’s only time to fill my floppy tray with more peas and rush me through the kitchen doors again. I follow the previous trail of peas towards the table of angry passengers, holding on to the tray with both hands while the other staff, confident with their more sturdy trays, perfect the silver service pose.

“Do you want peas sir?” I ask as they drop from my toy platter.

“Do I have a choice?” he asks, his plate already full of them.

“Where’s my knife?”

If I don’t look at her maybe someone else will deal with this. I move to another part of the table, giving out extremely generous portions of peas.

“You with the blond hair, where’s my knife?”

I head back to the kitchen but there’s no refuge there.

“What are you using this for?” a white hatted chef asks angrily about my tray. “Call yourself a silver service waiter?”

“When did I call myself that?” is all I can blurt out as I realise the floppy tray is also being added to the list of things that are my fault.

They want me working in the kitchen, which saves me from Mrs No-knife. However they don’t tell me what to do so I begin by standing in a corner trying to look invisible but when this is interpreted as standing in the way I make out my shift has finished and go back to the Village Inn.

It’s quiet over here, the bar is closed, staff ‘look busy’ with serene tasks; polishing glasses, collecting trays and stray glasses. The washer-upper is out the back, whistling away, happy in the knowledge he doesn’t have to deal with customers or pests that frequent this airport like holiday makers and employers. I’m beginning to see why he likes his job.

I’m not liking mine though. As the days continue they keep me away from the bar. Infact they seem to be running out of jobs to keep me away from. I decide to make it easier for them. A few days later I hand in my notice. Nobody objects.

Career Opportunities (Part 5)

My friend James thinks we should apply for bar jobs at Gatwick Airport. He’s so keen to work there he thinks I should phone up to enquire while he shouts abuse at me to put me off. It’s summer 1988, Southern England, jobs are easy to come by and despite background abuse and laughing while I’m asking about the job, we’re asked to come for an interview. To get the job you have to show up for the interview and you’re in.

James is working in the departure lounge and I’m in the south terminal, at the Village Inn bar. At the supplies store they’re handing out the uniforms. It doesn’t get off to a good start.

“Got a young man here, needs a uniform,” shouts the woman at the counter to the woman hidden in the store room.

“Is he tall dark and handsome?”

“No, he’s the opposite.”

Well I’m not short, I am blond and if I’m the opposite of handsome I must be hideous. Thanks for rattling my already shaky confidence 50 year old supply woman.

The first day I’m working the bar. The pubs are open 11 – 3 and we get off to a quiet start; polishing glasses, wiping trays clean, serving the odd coffee, but come mid-day the place is packed, a sea of faces and fists clenching tenners eager to be served alcohol. Good under pressure? Oh dear. I get the orders wrong, I can’t find the exotic spirits they’re ordering, I spill drink on the bar, I input the wrong things in the till.

Not to worry, I need guidance, motivational talks, someone who leads by example, a kindly…

“This’ll be a laugh, seeing how many hundreds of pounds your till roll is out by,” snorts the bar manager.

He struts to the till, nonchalantly opens it and calculates my till roll.

“I don’t bloody believe it.”

My first day’s till roll is out by 1 pence.

The following day they’re not so keen for me to be behind the bar. I spend a lot of time taking glasses out to the washer-upper. He works fast loading up the huge industrial dishwashers, whistling and singing in the steam filled kitchen. He actually seems to enjoy his work.

They put me on the tills for the busy last hour. I repeat yesterday’s mistakes but I work the till right. The second bell is rung for last orders. A man sitting down leaps up from his chair and rushes to the bar.

“4 pints”.

“I’m sorry, last orders has been called.”

“I’ve been waiting half an hour.”

“You were sitting over there a minute ago.”

“Alright, 2 pints.”

“Sorry, we’re closed.”

“How dare you, I want to speak to the manager.”

“I’d prefer you spoke to him too.”

My shift is 8 till 4. There’s a train that gets me to the airport twenty minutes early, or one that gets in five minutes late. I opt for the latter. The first weekend is not part of my shift but the second weekend is. Don’t they understand I only live for the weekend? At the weekend I need to be on the other side of the bar. I decide to ring in sick, phoning the only number available which goes to some random answer machine in an empty office, leaving a message for someone to ignore on Monday. I also get Monday and Tuesday off as part of my shift to reward me for the weekend I’ve failed to work.

“Where were you yesterday?” asks the bar manager.

“I was off, it wasn’t my shift.”

“You were supposed to be in at the weekend.”

“I was ill. Did you not get my message?”

Myself and an impish looking lad are sent to see the boss in his office for a bollocking. We have to stand waiting while he talks to Mrs Bell, someone even further up the chain of command if her suit is anything to go by. Mrs Bell eventually leaves.

“That was Mrs Bell, we were a bit behind.” The boss says.

“She has a very nice behind,” the impish lad says, clearly having failed to pick up on any of society’s ways during his lifetime.

“I beg your pardon?”

I move slightly away from my fellow skiver, just in case the boss thinks we are in some way connected.

“I said she was a very nice woman,” the lad tries to correct himself, but fails due to the mischievous look on his face.

“How dare you speak about your employer like that. Mrs Bell eats young whippersnappers like you for breakfast. Do you understand”

“I do,”. Unfortunately his “I do” does not contain the amount of sincerity needed to get him off the hook and the boss lays into him a while longer. Long enough for him to forget why I’ve been called into the room and my two days bunk is left unpunished.

As he hands out the wages for the week, the bar manager is all set to have his revenge for my unallocated time off.

“I can’t wait to see how little you’ve made this week,” he scorns as he passes me my wage packet in its brown envelope. His face changes as he looks at my paycheck. “I don’t bloody believe it.”

Due to my non-work in the early part of the summer my tax has been readjusted and I’ve just been awarded an £80 tax rebate, putting my wages above everybody elses for the week. Serendipity rules this summer.