Pride

Sunday is the day when gay folk come out to play. A city of 500,000 swells to three million as people come out set gay progress back 50 years.

A & E took me down to watch the parade and what a sight it was. We got there a little late so only saw the second half but that still took an hour and a bit. My feet were hurting by the end so goodness knows what the huge drag queens in high heels must have been feeling like after marching from Embarcadero to Market.

After hearing some stories about the hedonism that is apparently rife at such events the whole thing seemed rather tame. The parade floats were very well done and there was a moderate amount of nudity (mainly female) but it was all very tasteful. Memorable slogans included:

Rodeo is bucking gay, if it’s done right (California Rodeo Riders Club)

Get the hard facts on sex education before you fill in the holes (SF sexual health)

Libertarians – pro choice on everything (Libertarian party)

We’re here, we’re queer, we’re Buddha (SF Zen Centre)

Hikers do it camp (Sierra Club)

Google had a very large group marching, while curiously Northrop Grumman had a few people marching. They received a warm round of applause like everyone else, despite being a weapons company. There were many churches with marchers, even a Catholic one, which was a pleasant surprise.

We all went home and stocked up on water and suncream and then I headed down to the Dog. Fell in with a group and we talked football and Formula One before heading across the road to fill up on sausage and sauerkraut. All in all a very good day.

Moving in

So it seems the previous occupant of my room to be is being a complete arsehole about her contract and I can’t move into the room until Tuesday.

Given the fact that she’s left the entire room in a state my mother would call slovenly (tampons on the floor, litter everywhere and a box of dead crickets to feed her pet lizard in the cupboard) and she’s not in it, it seems I’m stuck with the couch in the spare room for the moment.

A & E are being very good about it but it’s clear they are embarrassed by the situation.

But it is good to get out of the hotel. I’ve spent too many nights sleeping in impersonal hotel rooms, with a maid going through your stuff every day. I value my privacy.

The sofa is killing my back however.

My new local

I’ve written before about the value of a local. I think I’ve found a new one – the beautifully named Mad Dog in the Fog. Found it thanks to Time Out’s guide to the city and it’s a top place.

It’s a British pub, it even has London Pride on tap, albeit in limited quantities. But it has the qualities of a great local. Not too crowded, a garden with sunlight and bar staff who know what they are doing. The barmaid T is a marvel; she knew my usual pint on the second night and made me feel welcome. Once the Pride barrels fell empty she recommended a pub across the street that did cask ale. When someone recommends a competitor you know they are professional.

As it turns out the pub she recommended was full of wankers, good beer but a very bad atmosphere, but fair play to her.

Add into that a plethora of good fast food places in Lower Haigh; Mythic Pizza, an excellent sausage shop and two Indian restaurants and I’ve found my spiritual home.

One odd moment. Saw a girl with a fifty pence piece in her wallet and started chatting. S was very nice, a fellow Brit and a yachty who like rugby but goes home on Wednesday, but nevertheless I spent some time showing my flirty colours.

We bonded over pints of Boddingtons and sharing information about SF. She’s gorgeous but then she mentioned she was gay. Fair enough, but hadn’t she been mentioning how much she fancied Wilkinson?

“I said I fancied him; not that I wanted to shag him,” was the pithy response.

I like this lass. We agreed to meet over the weekend.

Welcome to the world of finance

I got my bank card today.

I brought over a large amount of dollars in a money belt because I wasn’t willing to pay commission on traveller’s checks and despite the world of globalisation we often hear about my credit rating in the UK means nothing over here.

So last week I paid in a substantial amount of cash to a bank and hoped they’d allow me to take it out. But no, I’m an uncertified credit risk and so my pay check (for that is what I’m given until my social security number comes through) will be held back for seven working days until the bank is assured that I am who I say I am.

I still have access to the cash itself, but interest rates over here are pitiful. You can get maybe three per cent on a savings account if you put a huge amount of money in. No wonder personal savings rates are so low in the US. If you’re money’s going to get eaten away by currency depreciation and low rates you may as well spend, spend, spend.

Warning

Every Tuesday sirens wail across the city.

It’s a test for the emergency response system, so that in case of a nuclear, chemical or biological attack the residents can be warned to - well - probably run around like headless chickens, start looting and then die if truth be told.

But it got me thinking. Back in the days of the Cold War what would happen if the Russians staged a first strike at just that time. Everyone would assume it was just a test and no-one would take cover. To the military mind this might be a cunning plan.

I put this to our reporter and asked him what he thought of the idea: what would happen if the strike was timed for Tuesday at noon.

“Exactly the same as would happen if they scheduled it for noon on Wednesday,” he replied laconically.

“We’d all die.”

I like this chap’s attitude.

So long George

Got an early start at work today because I wanted to do some research for a work plan I’ve got cooking. If it comes off we’ll have something that’ll catch the competition flatfooted and bring a little European anarchism to the media – more later.

But the day didn’t start well. Early on the news came in that George Carlin had died. He wasn’t my favourite comic but he was important in breaking down the barriers of convention and secured an important court victory for free speech. Plus he had built a good career in character acting. I’m one of the few people on the planet that thinks Jersey Girl wasn’t that bad, partly because of his performance.

His stand-up was patchy but one routine will always make me laugh - "Me and Richard Prior are great friends. He did cocaine, I did cocaine. He had a heart attack, I had a heart attack. He set himself on fire, and I said 'That's it, you win buddy!"

Had a very interesting lunch of California cuisine with someone at work and I think we can do good things at the company. We have the same attitude to management – if an idea seems good try it out and justify it to the head hochos later. I may have found an ally.

Other than that I finally got a mobile phone – a Blackberry. Still can’t connect it to the email server yet but at least I can make calls and get text messages. It’s a good feeling to be mobile-ready again, one feels so naked without a phone. It came with a belt clip, which will never, ever get used.

Finished work and hit the gym. While there’s a lot of people in worse shape than I over here it’s time to get fit again. Cutting out lunchtime pints at The Ship will shrink the spare (bicycle, not truck) tyre but it’ll take a fair amount of work to get my stamina up again.

Bittersweet Sunday

Sunday and it’s a Grand Prix day – this time the French speed circuit at Magny Cours.

I was a bit worried because Formula One isn’t too popular in this country. Nascar rules the racing roost and I was wondering where I could watch the race. As it turns out I needn’t have worried. A quick web search found the San Francisco Formula One club, who gather each race morning at 10am in a local bar to watch the spectacle over brunch.

They’re a good crew and are passionate about the racing. I met a wine maker who’d driven over from Oakland for the race, and a Brit who’d been over here so long he sounded Australian. Even got an invitation to a party next weekend from one of the club DJ, plus there was a fun raffle at the end for some good prizes.

The bar brunch wasn’t up to much – basic eggs, bacon, home fries and toast but now I know the form I’ll take some Marmite along to spice up the meal. Still, the barman mixed an excellent Bloody Mary, even if he was a bit heavy on the olive juice.

But it was a bittersweet morning. Back in the UK I’d grab a couple of bottles of wine and head over to R&B’s for a lunchtime race, then W-A-L-K the dogs (you can’t the word otherwise they go nuts until it’s time to go) and then an excellent dinner. Home seemed a long way away as I wandered down 7^th avoiding a homeless lady performing her morning ablutions.

Still and all it wasn’t a bad morning. The race was pretty good – Hamilton screwed up again and it was clear it was going to be a Ferrari one two, until the end when Raikkonen’s exhaust dropped out and he sacrificed the lead but managed a skilful drive to second. Trulli deserved his third; it took real guts to risk a crash to defend his spot on the second to last lap.

Considering the early start (an alarm going off at 8.30am on a Sunday is seldom a happy occurrence) and the two drinks I went home to the hotel, had an hour’s nap and decided to cheer myself up the best way I know how – buying a few books. So it was over to my favourite San Francisco bookshop: City Lights.

It’s a great little place, steeped in history, firmly independent and packing a selection that the majors wouldn’t touch. Plus I found some books I’ve been meaning to get for years; Howard Zinn’s autobiography ‘You can’t be neutral on a moving train’, the third book in the Chalmer’s Johnson trilogy and ‘Canticle for Leibowitz’, a masterpiece of post-apocalyptic science fiction from the early 1960s.

Another reason to love the bookshop is its proximity to the San Francisco Brewing Company, so I took my purchases down there to peruse over a pint of Emperor Norton in the late evening sun. Then, feeling much more cheerful I headed home, with a brief stop for spicy noodle soup and spring rolls in Chinatown before having an early night – must be fresh for Monday.

Today’s the day the atheists have their picnic

So last night I went on a bad date and came home early to consider what the weekend had in store.

While the hotel is very nice I didn’t want to spend the weekend watching TV and drinking beer. I’m here for a year and it’s time to get out and meet people. So I got on the internet (what did we do before it?) and had a look around.

For Saturday the options didn’t look good. One of my favourite pubs here, the Irish Bank, was hosting a mixer organised by Urban Diversions that involved a series of challenges like using a cheesy chatup line etc over six pubs and two nightclubs but I’m not in the mood for Club 18-30 frolics.

However a Google search for SF Atheists bought up their calendar and the group was holding a summer picnic in a park near the ocean. I was a little apprehensive; as an online friend Del pointed out it might consist of “Yeah, I have no divine guidance...ooh! is that three bean salad?”

Nevertheless I though I’d check it out and popped onto a MUNI train to head over to the area. That was an experience – the MUNI starts off as an underground train – just like the Tube but with air-conditioning. But after a point the train emerges into daylight and starts rolling down tramlines on the street. What a brilliant idea.

The downside it that it stops everywhere like a normal tram so I got a bit lost but saw a library and went in to ask where I was. What is it with librarians; they must be the nicest people on the planet. I’m sure there must be the odd axe murder or two who works in a library but everyone I’ve met in one, including this one, was nothing but helpful.

So I found the park where the party was being held, braced myself and wandered into the fray. It’s always a bit tricky introducing yourself to a large crew of people who you’ve never met before but it has to be done if I’m going to avoid being a loner.

As it turns out it was a really fun afternoon. After some initial awkwardness I started to mingle and tucked into the barbecue. This was a revelation – public parks over here have barbecues built into the parks that anyone can use. Just turn up with charcoal and start grilling. Add in a Frisbee game and we all had a really good time.

The group had had to reserve the place, but that only cost $55, and everyone brought a potluck dish so there was more than enough food and plenty to drink. In the hot sun (spf15 got slapped on but I’m still slightly burnt) it was a very nice way to spend an afternoon and I met some fun folks and one or two really interesting ones.

I was a bit perturbed by some of the activities. There were two bible throwing competitions – one for distance and the other for accuracy. I didn’t take part. First off no matter how you feel about Christianity a lot of people care about the bible and you shouldn’t disrespect those feelings even if you don’t agree with them.

Secondly, and more importantly, it’s a book dammit. You don’t wilfully damage a book – care went into it and you should no more fling a book than burn it. It was interesting that very few people took part in this activity and it was mainly the older crowd. I suppose they may have had more problems with the religious folk and so have demons to exorcise.

There was also an atheist band (see picture) singing for a while but to be frank they were really not up to snuff. They needed more practice – the rhythm guitarist was groping around for the melody with more desperation than a blind monk in a strip club. Nice idea though.

But as I say there were some interesting people there and I hope to see some more of them soon. On the way back we crested the hill into the San Francisco downtown area and the view was truly beautiful, with the sun shining off the buildings and the bay surrounding the urban centre, with the two bridges like antenna leading to the north shore. What a wonderful city.

Temperature

San Francisco is going through something of a heat wave at the moment; it hit 96 degrees here today with no breeze, which was very unpleasant and called for frosty beers after work.

Unpleasant as it was I started to realise how much I had in common with San Franciscan natives. As I left the building I met a guy in the lift and mentioned the heat outside.

“Awful isn’t it,” he said with a grimace.

I’ve found my spiritual home it seems. I’m very much a cold weather person; under 75 degrees and I’m happy – over 85 and I’m working from home to avoid the pain of travelling in such a climate.

Part of it is down to upbringing. At boarding school the single pane windows were open more often than not and one home in Bakewell had the windows painted open and the gap stuffed with newspaper. I got used to cold weather and now heat is very uncomfortable.

Now there are two cities in the US I could live in: New York and San Francisco. While all my friends are in New York the summers there are brutally hot and winter is just too cold. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve rolled semi-naked in snowdrifts in Finland and endured Moscow in January – but that’s dry cold. New York takes London levels of moisture and chucks it down the back of your neck.

San Francisco on the other hand has Goldilocks weather; not too hot, not too cold but just right. Sadly the thermostat seems slightly out of kilter at the moment but hopefully normal service will be resumed shortly.

Fears, unfounded or otherwise

Heard my first gunshots today; somebody’s going to emergency, somebody’s going to jail.

We were sitting in the office this afternoon and there was a noise outside. It sounded like a string of firecrackers going off, five or six smallish bangs from outside. At first that’s what I thought it was, but then the sirens started and a reporter from another publication mentioned there had been a shooting.

From the start I’d state I’m not afraid of guns; I used to shoot at a competition level and guns are just like any other manufactured good in a lot of ways. A finely balanced shotgun or highly engineered rifle can be a thing of beauty, as exquisitely built as a fine watch or crafted sports car.

What does freak me out a little over here is their prevalence. This is less of an issue in San Francisco, since it’s one of the most gun-unfriendly cities in the US, but it’s the thought that anyone could be carrying one. In London if a fight kicks off you can be sure the most you’re going to face is fists or a knife 99 per cent of the time and if someone doesn't know what they're doing you can end the situation with minimal risk. But in the US there’s always the chance that the belligerent bloke (and tell the truth and shame the devil, it usually is men) you’re facing will have a gun.

There are nearly as many guns as people in the US, a very sobering thought. I could go to a gun show tomorrow and buy one with the minimum of fuss. It’s a far cry from the home shores where guns are kept safely in wall-fixed cabinets in gun clubs, which have security systems that could put some banks to shame.

But despite today’s incident you can’t live in fear – in the words of Roy Batty “that’s what it means to be a slave.” Instead you take a reasoned calculation of the odds and get on with your life. It’s like living in London during a bombing campaign; be it be Republican or Muslim fanatics. The odds of getting killed are minimal so live your life as normal and if it happens it happens. Otherwise they’ve won.

The other fear of the day concerned my housing arrangements. I was handing over my deposit today, and it’s a bit of a leap of faith to hand over wodges of cash to people you only met recently, however nice they are. I’ve met some absolute shits in this life and the worst have always been the most plausible, but this crew looks good to me.

So I popped round after work and we had a chat. It was very reassuring, and before you knew it three hours had passed and we were on the way to becoming firm friends. Even the house cat was adorable, a longish-hair grey who soon fell prey to my backrubs.

I really think I’m going to like living there. They’re young to be sure, so there’ll be occasional times where I feel the geezer of the group, but I think it’s going to be fun.

Getting lucky

When I made the decision to move over here I knew I was going to be living in a shared house. While I can afford a studio or one bedroomed place I hate living alone and given the paucity of people I know over here a shared house makes sense. You’ve got an instant social network and it’s always nice to come home to a friendly environment with good people.

I’ve usually lived in shared housing, even in London. I’ve got a place to myself a few times but I’ve found living alone to be a depressing, and slightly unhealthy experience. I’m a social animal and like the feeling of having others around me to share with.

Now looking for a place is a tricky task. It’s the first time I’ve done this in over a decade and I’d forgotten how stressful the whole thing is. It’s kind of like a job interview, you’re checking the place out thoroughly but also you’re supposed to be selling yourself too – particularly in a tight housing market like San Fran, as I said last night.

Luckily age brings experience and I used this to my advantage. One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that if you’re in any kind of interview situation you should never try too hard. If you want the right job or relationship for you, for example, you never try and sell yourself. Instead you be honest, open and if they like you then they like you, if they don’t it’s not the right place for you anyway. It took nearly ten years of work to realise this strategy gets you to the positions you are happiest with. That goes for homes, relationships and friendships.

In 1999 I got an interview for the job I then wanted most in the world, technical editor of the finest computer magazine on the planet. I remember being asked by one of the editors, T, what digital assistant I used and why. I expounded the virtues of my Palm 3x at length and then he asked me about the 5 model.

I disparaged it as a tool for a fashion victim and explained about the virtues of removable batteries and the shortcuts that fancy styling had forced on functionality. With consummate timing he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Palm 5. I felt the blood drain out of my face, thinking I’d blown my dream job, but he grinned and told me I’d made my case fairly and that was what he was looking for. We’re still friends today.

So at the first house I looked around yesterday I resolved to follow the same strategy, and my goodness it worked. I got an email that night and they want me to move in. I’d budgeted for two weeks to get this done and now I’ve found a home. Went to sleep with a very big grin on my face indeed.

Work and moving

First day at work today and I was late. Jetlag reared its ugly head and I woke up at 4am with my body telling me it was midday. Stayed up for an hour or so before falling back to sleep, then wake up late and rushed to a diner for breakfast – I’m a grouchy sod without food in my belly in the morning.

The first day at work is like the first day at school, slightly nerve-wracking to say the least. At least I’ve been here before so knew where the toilets were and who was who. It’s a very different atmosphere from the UK office – none of the other journalists talk much so N and I nattered away in near silence.

There’s also a cultural difference. No-one swears over here and I can be a tad foul mouthed at times. The last time I was over here the departing editor told me in a joking manner that he’d arranged an uninterruptible power supply review for me – the room 101 of a tech journalist. I told him, with a grin we both understood, to go f*** himself with a chainsaw. We laughed, but some of the more prissy US hacks didn’t get the joke.

Still in all a great start. Got my office systems set up, arranged a few meetings, got a fair amount of copy out and I feel N and I can have a good working relationship.

Plus I introduced him to a great Vietnamese restaurant within walking distance of the office. Our locale is not known for its great cuisine, catering as it does mainly to the city’s homeless population. But this place is fantastic – I’m going to be eating a lot of pho in the coming months. Now if I could just find a good pizza place…

I’ve also started looking for a place to live. It’s the first time I’ve done this in over a decade and had forgotten what it was like. In a tight market like this the temptation is to sell yourself but, as I’ve found with jobs and relationships, it’s not right. Be who you are and if folks like you then so much the better, but try and fit in to what you think they want and even if you get it you’ll end up with a situation you’re not comfortable with – and home should be comfortable.

I visited a great place within walking distance of work (so no getting pressed up on public transport with someone without any deodorant) and really nice people. The apartment itself is a Victorian, with great dark wood floors, a kitchen with a dishwasher (nothing causes more arguments in a shared house than the washing up, except maybe bills and noisy sex) and a bedroom which is perfect.

There was a comic moment when I arrived on the doorstep and found someone else there. He too had come to check the place out and we bonded over attempts to access the internet to check we'd got the time right. By coincidence he was a hack too, so we swapped anecdotes about the trade and bonded over a mutual loathing of management inertia.

Anyway, I liked the place and the area, but time will tell. Now I must be off to bed, I intend to be early tomorrow – just to show I’m not a laggard.

Day One

Woke up to the sound of an American police siren and mused on the fact that this was it: I’m really here now and will sink or swim based solely on my own efforts.

Since it was very early to go out I unpacked. I should have done it last night but was too tired. I’ve bought way too many t-shirts, so some will have to go, and somehow the Sock God, the one who steals odd socks from the washer, had gifted me with a couple of spares that had no partner, so into the bin they went.

Thankfully my three jars of Marmite and tea bags had made it through intact, I was a bit worried all my clothes would be covered in black goo and I’d have to lick them clean :)

I was still a bit stiff (must get a gym membership) from manhanding the luggage so put on a birthday present CD, ‘Burning’ by Whitest Boy Alive. Norwegian electro-folk might seem an odd choice but it’s a bouncy little track that was enough to get me dancing while I worked.

Then it was off for a morning stroll to get my bearings. It was a chilly day as the fog hadn’t burnt off yet, so went to see Union Square again and then up the hill to Pacific Heights and down back through the Tenderloin.

By this time the stomach was sending signals that it wanted to be fed so stopped off at Dotties for brunch. My former San Francisco landlady took me there when I was staying with her in November and I’ve been dreaming of their home fries ever since. The food is great, as shown by the queue that is so long it can take an hour before you get a seat.

As it was they had an opening for a singleton so I got in quickly and laid in with gusto to a bacon and mushroom omelette with home fries and toast. They even have good quality tea there, although there’s a subtle discrimination. If you’re a coffee drinker you get free refills but tea drinkers just get more hot water and there’s a limit to the number of good brews you can get from a single bag.

Fully replete I waddled down the hill back towards Civic Centre. The office has a number of downsides but a major benefit is that it’s next to the main library in town and that was my target. I am now the proud owner of a library ticket and took out my first book, Harlan Ellison’s ‘Angry Candy’. That card will save me a fortune and keep me in books, and their library’s AV collection is very good too.

Next it was up the mall and Kiehls to stock up on toiletries. Their stuff is very expensive, back when I was doing the New York run regularly I’d take out marmalade and chocolate and bring back Kiehls and mustard. But it’s the best there is and was a must buy.

Then it was over to North Beach to revisit some old haunts and back to the hotel. It’s 9pm now and my body is telling me to quit and go to bed but I’ll stay up for a few hours yet to make sure of a good night’s kip.

Leaving on a jet plane

My last night and I didn’t sleep; things went badly wrong. I was taking a box of books to the cellar and felt something in my back give, painfully. So I abandoned the boxes and started taking bags down instead - smaller, lighter but many more trips needed.

Time slipped away from me and finally slipped past and the taxi driver turned up early. To describe what followed as packing would invite prosecution under the trades descriptions act as I threw item after item into the cases in a mad rush. For reasons of space the kilt and dinner jacket are staying at home – sacrifices have to be made.

Got to Terminal Five on time, checked in and went to look for my sister and S, who had come to say goodbye. I’d arranged to meet them at the passport check desk, thinking that there was just one. There isn’t, there are five, and I rushed around like a blue-arsed fly trying to find them.

It was good to see them. Bridget and I walked to the pub (I can’t say goodbye without a drink) and she put her arm around my shoulders, something she hasn’t done since I hit my late teens and got taller than her. It was an odd feeling, but a comforting one. I’m going to miss her very badly.

Her partner S (boyfriend sounds stupid, they’ve been together for over 23 years) was full of good advice, as he’s done the same thing in reverse over two decades ago, returning from the US to the birthplace he’d left when he was three.

Also had a chance to call Mum on S’s phone. Although she couldn’t be there it didn’t matter, I knew she was with me in spirit and given how much my departure date had shifted it wasn’t surprising we missed each other. She did offer to fly over specially but that would have been silly; you don’t need someone there to know they love you, you just need to know them.

So we said our goodbyes and they took me to the gate, and for nearly the first time in the whole process I got a little teary. In a way it was the good thing the iris scanning system wasn’t functional that day, I might not have got passed and been taken away for questioning and an uncomfortable examination.

As for the flight, well it wasn’t good. Where possible I avoid flying at the weekend, since the proportion of children goes up massively. This one was no exception, two babies within earshot – but they weren’t the problem.

Instead a couple were letting their five year old run riot, and refusing to either keep her seated or shut her up. The little brat went on playing up for nine solid hours, keeping sleep at bay. I’ve never hit a child in my life but my goodness I was tempted.

All in all the flight was 12 hours in total, and another hour to connect my bags. I then decided to sod the expense and get a taxi to the hotel. I was carrying 62kg of checked in luggage, around 15kg of carry on and two bottles of duty free Talisker, and ached badly.

Unfortunately my room wasn’t ready on arrival and I had to wait for an hour. I chose the bar, predictably enough, and saw the first friendly face since I arrived in there – the German man sitting next to me on the flight over. I knew he was a doctor from polite conversation, and also that he has a bladder of steel; only one trip to the loo the entire flight!

It turns out there was a cancer conference going on in the hotel, so spent an hour chatting to him and his friends about things medical. Big mistake, cancer is one of my least favourite topics, having lost too many friends to it, but finding out the unusual places you can get it left me slightly queasy. Cancer of the eyelid and its treatment was bad enough but nipple cancer was worse – how the hell are you supposed to check for lumps?

Finally the room was free and I made my way up. The room is tiny but will suffice and I took my first bath for six years. I only ever have a bath in hotels, since they need to be cleaned afterwards and cleaning a bathtub is one of life’s more unpleasant duties; even worse than lying in a solution of your own dead skin and grime.

Then bed, blessed relief. I’m finally here and my last thought before unconsciousness was that tomorrow was the first day of a completely new start.

White Van Man

An astonishing amount of accidents on the road involve a van, so much so that the term ‘white van man’ has become synonymous with a jumped up prick in a van who thinks he owns the road.

I had a run in with one of these types a few years ago, when he creased the front of my beloved MX5 trying to push into a queue of traffic. I’ve never liked them since but needed one to take the rubbish from the cellar to the tip.

Getting behind the wheel of one of these brutes for the first time was an experience. You’re very high up, can’t see the front of the vehicle and, most worrying of all, have no rear view mirror. Like most drivers it’s the rear view that’s the most important, the side mirrors are for watching out for bikers and ancillary information. Without a rear view my head was going from side to side like a tennis fanatic watching Sampras verses Federer.

But the van also brings subtle changes in driving. I’m a careful and considerate driver I like to think, more James May than Jeremy Clarkson. But driving a Transit I watched myself becoming more aggressive, accelerating more quickly and taking more control of the road.

Like most aggression this is down to fear. With such limited views you have to take a certain amount of control just to make sure you know where everyone is. Trying to dominate the road is one way to cope.

There are also real pluses to driving a van. Other van drivers for example are models of politeness, and taxis will wave you through. The raised driving position also gives some very interesting views, both of the streets and other drivers (hint to female drivers in skirts; we can see when you’re driving with them up.)

That said I was glad to hand the van back having completed the runs to the tip. Driving in London is bad enough, being a van driver in London could be very dangerous indeed for one’s sanity.

Thankfully I had dinner with some good friends and refined conversation in the evening to bring me back to civilisation. Another few days of this and I'd have been buying copies of The Sun.

Birthday lows and highs

In the lists of things to do on your birthday dragging your carcass out of bed at 6:30am isn’t going to rank particularly highly. But that was the prospect today, since I had to do a video interview with the British head of a very big chip manufacturer; my last such one in the UK.

I’ve known the subject, P, for over a decade. I’ve got fond memories of his days as a flack in the late 1990s. When a rival firm beat his company to the first one GHz consumer processor during the chip speed wars of that decade I was expecting him to dodge the issue, but instead he looked me square in the eye and said “Well you know, speed isn’t everything,” without cracking up. I thought to myself that this man would go far.

He has, but not as far as central London. Despite getting into the office at 8:45am he failed to show, making me a tad grumpy. His PR was very good about it, and I consoled myself with a fry up at Balans, before leaving to pick up the van.

After a busy day at the tip I clocked off early and went for a birthday nosh up at one of my favourite restaurants Bar Shu with my sister and S. It was a memorable night and we fed well on fantastic Szechwan.

After saying goodbye I wandered down to Charing Cross. It was a lovely night, warm without being cloying and the buildings were lit up beautifully. I stopped off for a whisky on the way home and reflected on how much I’m going to miss this wonderful city. Then off to bed, the tip awaits again tomorrow.

Tales of the City

I’ve know I have a book addiction (if it comes to it I'll be the bloke with a sign 'Will work for book tokens'), and leaving them all behind is going to be bad for me in the short term, but good in the long run. The temptation to bury oneself in a book can be strong and lead you to ignore other things, like people or impending deadlines.

But in the spirit of the move I’m reading Armistead Maupin’s first three books of 'Tales of the City', and am sorely impressed. He’s a brilliantly skilled writer, with short, finely crafted stories that benefit from their original form as newspaper serialisations. There's also usually an 'Oh fuck' moment at the end of them as well.

Yes, the San Francisco he described probably doesn’t exist any more; herpes, AIDS and the War on Drugs have seen to that, but the images of some parts of city life are timeless. Candice Bushell’s Sex and the City book owes a lot to Maupin but was a very pale imitation, and the TV series looks like Tales for the City for the educationally challenged.

Fiction it may be, but I’m already a little bit in love with Mona and hope to find an Anna Madrigal of my own to stay with.

Ouch

Leaving party last night and this morning was very, very grim.

The hangover was quite bad but it wasn’t helped by Virgin installing cable in the house at eight sodding thirty in the morning, so I woke to the sound of the front of the building vibrating as a hole was drilled through the wall.

But the hangover was well worth it. Last night was a great send off and huge kudos to everyone who showed up. There were some unlikely arrivals who I hadn’t seen in ages, older friends and a few relatively recent ones. Special award to Rupert who managed to get out of the Apple launch in time for a quick drink before persuading the BBC to send a car to pick him up from the pub so he could do an interview.

It all started off quite slowly, although we weren’t the first people there. But then it just seemed to hit a critical mass of people and things kicked off. People mingled well and it was good to see so many old friends. The turnout was surprisingly high – I nearly had a Sally Field "You like me, you really like me!" moment.

But the Brownian motion of parties was in play; just as all house parties end up in the kitchen eventually so this one ended up in the smoking area outside the pub. By nine the upstairs bar I’d booked was empty, apart from a few forlorn looking rucksacks, and everyone was outside. To be fair it was a hot and muggy night and probably the majority of people there were smokers.

We stayed out until closing time and then A, A and myself headed into Soho to find a bar that was open. I nearly got refused entry, after the bouncer found my homemade ‘In case of emergency’ kit from C. This excellent gift contained Marmite, chocolate, tea and a bottle of beer. We agreed to check it in at the door.

After a quick drink my brain started sending me signals that it was time to go. Staggered down to Trafalgar Square and low and behold an N47 was waiting to whisk me straight to the end of our street. God looks after drunks and small children*. Got home and fell into bed, actually took a running leap if memory serves. It as a night to remember.

*Well, obviously not, unless the deity was asleep at the switch in Austria and Portugal.

Market day

Took my last trip to Greenwich market today to stock up for the remaining week. Picked up some good fresh biltong, venison and mushroom sausages, a quarter of an Alsace loaf and a load of sushi for lunch. There's a new stand there too, serving fresh oysters - a favourite. Sadly I only noticed it after I'd started noshing on the sushi, otherwise I would have been in like Flynn. Hopefully it'll be there tomorrow morning for good breakfast treat.

Now all that's needed for the perfect fry up* is some mushrooms, and I'll pick those up from Paul the grocer down the road, along with some onions as I've a hankering for French onion soup. It'll give me a chance for a chat too, since you don't leave Paul's without a five minute rundown of the local gossip unless you're in a hurry. He stands in his window and watches the world go by, chats to everyone and probably knows more about the locals than they do.

He is also an example of the kind of greengrocer that would make the ecologically minded very happy. He doesn't stock stuff out of season for example, and picks up his eggs personally from the farm to check for quality. He grows his own herbs and while his Maris Pipers look like something that's been hacked out of a diseased dog they taste better than any supermarket fodder I've ever tasted.


*Well, it's debatable. I'm not having black pudding, just bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, fried mushrooms and toast. In the right circumstances I love a slice of black pudding with the fry up but it's more of a cold weather food. Purists would say you should have liver and onions in there as well but that's just greedy.

Fond farewells

Just got back from a final dinner with Mum and H; a bit of an emotional event.

Sadly due to the chaotic nature of the leaving date they’re going to be overseas when I go and so tonight was our last night to chew the fat, reminisce about old times and run through some final details.

She’s going to be looking after a few items I can’t bear to leave in storage: a few pieces of art, a box of vital documents and the pig bench – a lovely 17^th century butcher’s bench that has more solid wood than most kitchens and is one of the most tactile pieces of furniture I’ve ever seen. She gave it to me a few years ago and I treasure it dearly.

But despite our impending separation there was no overwhelming sadness. We’ll be seeing each other again soon and thanks to Skype the family chat whenever we like. Mum and H are the epitome of Silver Surfers, they’ve taken to the internet like ducks to water and have become accustomed to the intricacies of email and forums, so wherever we are in the world we’ll always be in touch. Now if I can just get my sister safely online my technological cup with runneth over.

So long as I remember to answer my phone :)

We wuz robbed

I don't believe it, missed out on the prizes by two lousy points. Put in a storming first round, including guessing the price of a barrel of oil correctly, but got pulled down by a poor second half (it's that third pint that hurts you) and some very dodgy answers.

I mean, if I asked you what was Edith Piaf's theme song I'm willing to bet "Non, je ne regrette rien" would be the answer. "La Vie en Rose" wouldn't even get a look in, except for our quizmaster. No-one got that one right.

Oh well, it's only a game and we turned in a very respectable score. Nice to go out on a high note, just like Ms Piaf herself.

Pub quiz

We’re heading down to the Dog and Bell for quiz night tonight. We’ll probably get beaten hollow as there are two professional teams who go down and take it too seriously. I’ve written and hosted the quiz a few times and those teams are so anal I’m surprised they don’t suck up the furniture when they sit down.

Still, a fun night, washed down by a few jars of ESB. Not too much however, as by pint number three brain functions get seriously impaired – as my dating history shows all too well.

I hope I can find a pub quiz venue in San Francisco. It's a fun way to spend an evening; good beer and friendly competition in a convivial atmosphere makes for a good evening's entertainment. I understand the Edinburgh Tavern, a British theme pub round the corner (well, up two block and four across) from work has one. Something to investigate.