No 'me' in communal

I recently discovered the concept of the 'me bubble', whereby someone is entirely wrapped up in themselves. This seems to be increasingly common these days, as does a worrying failure to take responsibility for anything unless it is clearly and entirely yours (and sometimes not even then). 

I live in a flat in a beautiful 19th century building. It's a sturdy building, with a respectable history -in its time, it has been a hospital, theatre, library and even a fire station. When I tell local people where I live, they are intrigued. Everyone in this town knows my building. 

But after almost two years here, I still struggle with the state of the communal areas. The hallway is home, most days, to sweet wrappers and ground-in biscuits and crisps, even leaves and sticks. I pick these up as I walk up and down the stairs. 

The approach grieves me more, though. It has been smartly paved and the flowerbeds planted with the types of shrubs and grasses so in vogue today. Careful thought has been given to the colour of the plants and the lavender was a particularly welcome sight. 

Why then did I spend two hours today (far from the first such occasion) picking cigarette butts out of the woodchips, pulling bits of wrappers and plastic bags out of the plants and chiselling hardened chewing gum off the paving stones?

I know why I did it - because I don't want to have to walk through a giant ash tray every time I enter or leave my home, and because I knew, hope as I might, that no one else would bother. 

But what really pisses me off is that no one seems to grasp that this area belongs to us all. It makes all of our homes look like dumps. It is the first thing that all of our guests see. There is no me in communal - this is ours. Our responsibility and - if carefully maintained - our joy. Only one flat in this building has its own outdoor space, so this is the closest that the rest of us will get to a garden. 

People, make a mess inside your own four walls if it makes you happy, but this space is both mine and yours - keep it clean and beautiful, please! 

Bully for El Bulli

Hard to believe, but this gigantic bulldog is covered in icing sugar, its garland of flowers - and seemingly random fried egg - made from spun sugar and jellied fruits. But this is no ordinary giant icing sugar bulldog (does such a thing exist? Hopefully), but one made by the pastry chefs at world-famous Spanish restaurant El Bulli. 

Celebrated in an astonishing exhibition at Somerset House, El Bulli - famous for head chef Ferran Adrià's 'molecular gastronomy' - started life as, of all things, a mini-golf course. In its first restaurant incarnation - if the photos are to be believed - El Bulli was a stereotypical Costa Brava tourist restaurant, not dissimilar to the sort of venue we'd have seen in ill-fated 90s soap Eldorado (but with sturdier furniture and, one hopes, door frames that didn't wobble when people passed through). Menus included all the Spanish classics (paellas, gambas and  sardinas aplenty) that the well-heeled tourist had come to expect. 

But in 1987 Ferran Adrià became head chef, and things started to get interesting. What struck me most about the exhibition was that it takes a very special mind to think of the things he did - never mind actually making them. Ravioli that's a bubble, rather than the traditional pasta envelope. Soup that - rather than the liquid you'd expect elsewhere - arrives as a foam spelling out the words 'THE SOUP'. Olive oil caviar (looking alarmingly like tiny cod liver oil tablets). 

And the detail of it all. One of the most fascinating exhibitions was a huge glass case full of rough plasticine models of bits and pieces of food, used to mock up each dish before it appeared on the menu. All helpfully labelled, because of course in the world of El Bulli, nothing is as it seems. 

The restaurant closed in 2011, but the El Bulli Foundation is due to open its doors next year. On the same site, it will be much expanded and is billing itself as a 'centre of creativity'. The emphasis, says the team, still headed by Ferran Adrià, will be on the development of cooking and other fields of creativity, rather than simply on making money. 

That said, this exhibition will no doubt be the closest most of us will get to Adrià's cooking. Whether you're a cook or a chemist, or simply a lover of beauty, it's well worth a visit. 

My kind of superhero ....

Planning a trip to Ireland? Some useful vocabulary

Upsetting old ladies

I meet a lot of older people - mainly through voluntary work - and as a rule, I really enjoy their company. They are friendly, polite and they have time to chat. They are for the most part interesting and happy to share their stories. They have told me about wartime childhoods (I have met several 80 somethings who to this day cannot swim, as the public pools were closed during the war), they have suggested good local walking trails, they have taught me about gardening and identified the plants I appreciated without understanding. 

So I enjoy the company of the older generations and I like to think that they enjoy mine. Understand, then, my bemusement when I unwittingly angered an older lady yesterday. Volunteering in a charity shop, I served her, then, having noticed her accent, asked, very politely, where she came from. Bear in mind, here, that I am Irish and that this is what we do - we are interested in other people and their stories and of course we like sharing ours. 

Her response, alas, was unexpected. She demanded why I asked, then told me in a nasty tone that there were lots of people in Dorking who are not English but who 'don't feel obliged to give detailed biographies to strangers'! Well, that was me told. I explained in as friendly a voice as I could muster up that I am not from England either and that I love the mixture of people in Dorking. And off she marched. 

I am left wondering if this old lady has had an unhappy life - perhaps there was an unfortunate reason for her arrival in England, possibly war-related - but what makes me more sad is that she missed out on a nice chat with a friendly, interested person. 

But the rest of my customers more than made up for her. Stand behind a shop counter for long enough and you will hear everything! 

Waterstones promises eternal life - maybe.

Check out the small print

Book shops are pretty much my favourite thing, particularly those of the independent variety. I live in a town that is oddly lacking in this respect but I doff my cap to the local Waterstones. Displaced by a Waitrose redevelopment, it finds itself literally in the shadow of the town library, but continues to lure in the punters thanks not only to its book range but to friendly, knowledgeable staff who know and clearly love their books. 

There are signs of entrepreneurial endeavour, too. If you look closely at this sign, you'll see that, in addition to books, they claim to sell cards, wrapping paper, stamps, and even eternal life. That's my kind of shop.