Tips and Tricks

Round about lunch time today, I left my flat. Recently, leaving the flat has been a rare occurrence, at least for something other than going to the local Sainsbury’s or the News Agent to pick up the day’s issue of The Times.

One of the problems working from home is that it becomes very easy to find oneself spending all the time in the warm, comfortable cocoon that is one’s home and castle, and ne’er venturing out.

The desire to stay home has doubled of late, as the weather has taken a decidedly more autumnal turn the past week. The t-shirts have gone into storage (i.e. shoved to the back of the closet) and the sweaters brought out (i.e. dug out from the back of the closet, given a quick smell test, and then either washed or worn, depending on how dank and musty they smell). Just as an aside, they call sweaters “jumpers” here. In North America, a jumper is someone who launches themselves off a bridge.

The desire to stay home was give another boost today as well, for I looked outside and to see that London was experiencing some “wet weather.” That’s the Met Office’s euphemism for rain. The weather forecasters seem to use it a lot. “Today the South-east will experience some wet weather.”

I’m not sure why they don’t just say rain. Perhaps there is a subtlety that I am missing, the difference between rain and wet weather. Much like the Inuit apparently have half-a-million different words for snow, perhaps the English have developed multiple words for rain. Maybe I just haven’t been here long enough to understand the difference.

Despite the rainy, cool weather and internet access, I had to go out today, for I had an appointment at my local doctor’s office, called a surgery here even though there is little cutting and blood involved. MPs call their local offices surgeries as well, though given the state of the economy I can understand why that makes more sense - lots of cut and boiling blood, no doubt. I should have registered with a local doctor back when I first moved into King’s Cross, but was lazy and just got around to registering with my local surgery last week.

Hopefully this doesn’t start a whole “socialist health-care versus private health care debate,” but the way things work here is that you have to register for a doctor’s office near your home. I can choose any doctor I like, as long as they are within a few miles of my home. Some might claim that is a lack of choice, but according to the NHS website I have over 100 doctors to choose from, so I am not too fused about the lack of choice. What I find more limiting is that you can’t choose a doctor near your work. Obviously it doesn’t make a big difference to me, working from home as I am, but if I went to a regular nine to five job, I probably would be less excited about having to pick a doctor back near where I lived.

So today I had to trudge out and get my introductory consultation, which involves getting weighed, measured, blood-pressured and then lectured on how you are a fat, old, alcoholic with a lousy diet (at least, that’s my experience of it...). To do that, I had to head out into the rain. So I put on a rain coat and got out my brolly.

Now, I haven’t always had great luck with umbrellas. Back in September 2005 I wrote the following after returning from a rainy weekend in Boston:

I’m not positive that I really know how to use an umbrella. I see other people walking around with umbrella held steady and level above them, keeping them dry. I find myself struggling with keeping my umbrella above me as the wind reaches underneath the lip of the umbrella and lifts it up and away from me. I get wet, my arms get tired and the umbrella gets battered. On Saturday night, the wind took its final toll on the umbrella, snapping 3 of the arms of the umbrella, collapsing the umbrella. I deposited the umbrella in a garbage can and calculated its utility to me. I bought it in September, used it perhaps 4 times in France, a couple times in Toronto and twice in Boston. 8 days of use for 10 Euros doesn’t seem like a fantastic deal to me. I think in the future I’ll stick with raincoats.

That was then, though. Now that I have lived in the UK for a year and 3 months, I’ve had a fair amount of practice with my brolly, and I think I’ve got it sorted out. The key thing is to keep the umbrella slightly tilted towards the wind direction. This way the wind harmlessly shots over the umbrella.

Now, most people reading this will have probably already known that, or perhaps live in a desert and thus never had reason to learn it. I’m not most people though. It’s taken me a long time (almost 39 years) to figure this umbrella thing out. I like to think I am smarter than your average bear, but it appears that in fact I’m only slightly smarter than bears who never figure out how to use an umbrella.

Now that I have the operation of an umbrella as a weather protection device down pat, I think I’ll start working on the next level of umbrella use... I just have to figure out if it is more impressive to be able to fly like Mary Poppins or to administer a spot of poison in a busy crowd.

Call me my life
Call me call me any anytime
Call me for a ride
Call me call me for some overtime

This is a phone booth. Phone booths in London are very distinctive, because they are red, old fashioned looking and have pretty windows on the doors and side panels.

There primary purpose seems to be to hold these:

Ads for erotic escorts.

The phone booths do have handsets and receivers in them, but in a country where there are 118 mobile phones for every 100 people (per capita cell mobile phone ownership), I can’t imagine that the phone booths get much work. Mobile phones are ubiquitous here. Everyone has one.

I have seen people begging on the street for change while chatting away on a mobile. “...and so I says, ‘oy, mate, don’t you step on my jacket,’ and the guys says back at me... Oh, wait hang on a second will you... Hey mister, can you spare any change?”

It all makes me a little sorry for the phone booths. They used to be well used and practical, making them proud symbols of this country. Now they seem a little put out and neglected. Nothing but impotent showpieces for tourists to take snapshots with.

Even as a tourist, though, you won’t get very far without a mobile phone. A hotel around the corner from me has a sign up that says, “Hotel reception. If the door is locked, please ring 020 1111 1111.”

Kind of leaves you stranded if checking in late without a mobile phone.

I suppose if you were willing to hike a block away to the nearest booth, you could use one of the phone booths. If you have any trouble remembering the number of the hotel reception between the door and the phone booth, you could always take down one of the escort ads and jot down the number of the back.

There you go. Perhaps phone booths are more important than impotent.

I recently took place in a contest to win a diamond worth £5,000. I have no real love of diamonds, but do like money, so had I won I planned to sell the diamond and buy twenty pound notes, or if the pound keeps going the way it does, maybe some fifty euro notes. The nice thing about money is that you can exchange it for stuff, like beer, food and Dr. Scholl's odour eating insoles.

Anyway, the diamond hunt was put on by the Leadenhall Market, which is a market that dates back to the 14th century. Today they still do the market thing Monday to Friday, but augment the income by holding events and being the host to a number of high end shops.

The diamond hunt was a virtual one right up until the end when the actual diamond hunt went out into the streets. The winner found it at the Monument to the great fire in London. The virtual part of the hunt was set up as a crossword. Each day a London based clue was posted, and you had to decipher the clue to figure out what part of London they were talking about.

Some of them I knew, but mostly I had to hunt around on the internet to find the answer. For example, I learned that every May there is a car treasure hunt called the The Miglia Quadrato that ends in Finsbury Circus. One of the clues also had me looking up from London Bridge to notice the clock topped with a golden owl on the corner of King William Street. I've probably walked by that building dozen of times without noticing the golden hooter perched atop the clock.

In a lot of cases, after finding the virtual answer I went out to see the actual location. It was an interesting way to get to see places in London I might not have seen otherwise.

Treasure hunts of a less virtual type of very popular here in London. I've already mentioned the Miglia Quadrato, which is a car treasure hunt. Some other examples include a number of discovery walks and Shoot Experience which offers photo-based treasure hunts. Londonist, a local blog, has a whole category for treasure hunts coming up. Even more cutting edge is geocaching, which uses GPS enabled mobile phones to search around a location.

I must admit, until I did the Leadenhall Diamond hunt, I probably would have dismissed the treasure hunt idea as being a little childish and geeky. Now that I have done the Leadenhall Market diamond hunt, I'm starting to think that a flesh-and-blood treasure hunt would be both a good way to learn about a location, its history, get some good exercise and have a good time.

I'm heading off to Cardiff in a few weekends. Maybe I should download a hunt to see the learn more about the Welsh town. Doctor Who and Torchwood is filmed there. Maybe they have a geeky, sci-fi themed one!

Last Thursday, I took a train from Sheffield to Birmingham to meet up with some co-workers for dinner. The train between the two cities, when running direct, is very quick, taking just a few minutes over an hour.

As the evening turns into night, though, the direct trains stop running, and you need to change trains in Derby to get back to Sheffield. I had originally planned to get back on the 21:03 back to Sheffield, which is the last direct train, but by quarter to nine we hadn't even received our main course, so it became obvious to me I was going to be taking a longer trip back.

A few after dinner drinks and I ended up catching the last train heading towards Sheffield, arriving into Derby at midnight. I got off the train and looked up at the train board, seeing what I knew but was hoping wasn't true. The train from Derby to Sheffield wasn't until 00:50, almost an hour from my arrival. All the shops in the station were closed, so I wandered out of the station and decided I would take advantage of my hour in Derby.

Firstly, I should point out that the city name is pronounced DAR-BEE, not DER-BEE. I don't know why, but it is. English very rarely makes much sense, as I was soon to learn... but let's not jump ahead.

Walking out of the station, I surveyed the scene. It didn't look very impressive. Outside the station I could see a few restaurants and pubs, but they were shut down for the night. The only thing open was the Bubble Spa, with a brightly lit store-front with all the windows covered. A spa with paper covered windows open at midnight. I guess there is always the possibility that someone has a late night nail emergency, but I figured it was more likely that the spa was featuring services above and beyond pedicures and exfoliations. I was looking for something different than a full-release happy ending though - treatments for my stress in a pint glass.

I wandered a few blocks away and found a pub that was open. I walked in. Like most pubs, it was long and thin. Like most pubs, the front room was filled with a few tables, some chairs and a bar with draught taps. Unlike most pubs, the back was filled with a dance floor, DJ booth and flashing lights.

"Is this a pub, or is it a dance club," I wondered. I looked around and decided that it didn't matter, as neither the traditional pub nor the dance floor had a single patron. I took a seat at the bar.

A bartender came out from the back room. "Hello there," he said, slight hint of an accent in his voice.

I gestured at the dance floor. "I guess all the dancers must be in the toilet," I joked. The bartender looked at me with a confused look on his face. "Never mind," I said. "I'll have a pint of Carling."

The bartender poured the beer, and with no other customers, we started chatting. He was from Poland, and he picked up pretty quickly that I wasn't from England. "Are you American," he asked.

"No, I am Canadian," I said.

"You must work for Bombardier," he exclaimed. I don't, but it was a good guess. Bombardier is a Canadian company that makes, among other things, trains, and they have a huge presence in Derby, their UK headquarters.

I told him that I didn't work for Bombardier, but rather am a consultant. The bartender told me how he wanted to move to Canada. "I'd really like to move to America, but I think it is easier for me to get to Canada," he said. "I have cousins who live in America."

"Where? I've worked a lot of places in America," I said. That spurred a whole conversation on cities in America. He wanted to get my impression on places he was thinking of moving. California, I told him, was nice but expensive. Florida is good if you can find work, and a lot cheaper than California. As someone in the service industry, Florida is certainly a good choice.

During our conversation, another bartender came out, this one a girl from Russia. She joined the conversation here and there, especially when we were discussing the weather in the UK (they both wondered why I would want to move to the UK, as it was cold and grey all the time) and terrorism threats in the USA (The Russian and I agreed that the USA was no safer nor no more dangerous than other places).

Apropos of nothing, the male bartender said, "you are easy to understand. It is hard to understand people from England when they speak."

"They swallow their words," said the female Russian bartender.

"Swallow their words?" I asked.

"Yeah, they don't finish what they say," the Polish bartender said. "They say half a word then stop. Americans and Canadians speak more clearly."

This wasn't, in fact, the first time I had heard this. A few people who have English as a second language have told me that same thing - I am easier to understand than English people. In some ways, I think it is because many people learn English by watching American TV shows, and thus become used to the American accent. Then again, sometimes I find myself struggling with an English accent, especially when they start speaking quickly.

Just then, another customer walked into the bar and took a seat. "Mate, can I 'ave a pint of Carling," he asked. I listened closely and noticed that in fact, they Russian was right. The last consonant tended to be clipped. It wasn't that the sound wasn't there, just that it was short and quick, like the last sound was spoken at double speed. Add to this the British tendency to abbreviate many words (veg for vegetable, goss for a gossip magazine, brill for brilliant, champy for Champagne), and I can understand how someone could think that the Brits are swallowing their words.

The Brit at the end of the bar continued to swallow his words, clipping the end sounds off them, and also slurring as his words as this obviously wasn't his first pub of the day. He talked at the bartenders, who looked at him confused. I looked at my watch and realized I had to go to catch my train.

"Good luck," I said to the Polish bartender, both wishing him luck in his future dream of living in America, and also in his current problem of understanding the swallowed words coming out of his latest customer.

I got the St. Louis blues, just as blue as I can be.
That man’s got a heart like a rock cast in the sea,
Or else he wouldn’t have gone so far from me.
- St. Louis Blues, W.C. Handy

W. C. Handy’s song, first published in 1914, has become one of the most performed songs in music history and inspired the name of St. Louis’ National Hockey League team. In the early part of the 1900s, riverboats from New Orleans brought jazz and blues into St. Louis, where it mixed with the local ragtime made famous by Scott Joplin to create the unique St. Louis Blues sound. Later, in the 40s and 50s, the St. Louis sound again morphed, mixing with rhythm and blues to create a “driving dance beat with a bluesy delivery,” exemplified by St. Louis natives Ike and Tine Turner.

St. Louis, Missouri is the Gateway to the West. In 1935, the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial Park was established to celebrate the Westward expansion of the U.S.A. from 1803 to 1890. The park is best known for, and dwarfed by the Gateway Arch. Eero Saarinen designed the Arch in 1947, and construction on the 630 foot high structure was completed in 1965.

Just south of downtown along Broadway Street is BB’s Jazz, Blues and Soups. Housed at 700 South Broadway Street in a building dating back to the 1800s that originally was Phil’s Hotel, BB’s provides good food, a well stocked bar and live music from some of the best local blues and jazz artists.

Just down the street from BB’s is the Broadway Oyster Bar at 736 South Broadway. Just as the blues of St. Louis took musical influences from New Orleans, Broadway Oyster Bar takes it’s food and atmosphere influences from the Big Easy. The Cajun and Creole food and cozy interior is good, but it is the exterior that is the best part. Voted the Best Outside Dining by the AOL City Guide (2004), the patio at Broadway’s is a great place to eat and drink under the stars and listen to blues and Cajun music. Oysters, fried alligator and a washboard solo by the zydeco trio playing on the patio, it’s the French Quarter in St. Louis.

Continuing south along Broadway you will find Soulard, a neighborhood with a French flavor, lots of churches and the Soulard Market. The Anheuser-Busch Brewery, home of the world famous Clydesdales horses and their guardians, friendly Dalmatians, borders the neighborhood to the south.

Among the many great pubs, restaurants and bars to see live music is 1860s Hard Shell Café & Bar at 1860 South Ninth Street. Live blues, rock and more, seven nights a week. The bar is small and smoky, but the food is good, the music hot and what better place to see blues than in a smoky, crowded bar!

Heading back North through downtown, right on the banks of the Mississippi is Laclede’s Landing. A nine-block area that originally housed industries and warehouses, the Landing has been transformed into a tourist area with historic touches like cobblestone streets and horse drawn carriages. During the day the streets are filled with tourists looking for lunch at the overpriced chain restaurants or the entrance to the riverboat casino, and at night it is filled with college students looking for a cheap beer buzz. However, once a year during Labor Day weekend, the Landing plays host to the Big Muddy Blues Festival. Blues artists, both local talent and national and international names come and play on numerous outdoor stages that fill the streets, courtyards and parks of the Landing. Great talent playing all day and into the night as well as good food and drink booths make this a must do event for all music lovers.

W.C. Handy wrote in The St. Louis Blues that he hated “to see the evening sun go down,” but given the great music scene that gets going after dark in St. Louis, a music lover finding themselves on the shores of the muddy Mississippi should be counting the hours until they can find themselves a cold beer, a hot meal and some cool blues.