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.

Look after your feet - you can't get anywhere fast without them

Faced - 'footed'? - with a couple of stubborn veruccas (ever the Ulster women, even my afflictions are stubborn), I told my cheery chiropodist to throw everything she had at them. Her grin should have been a warning sign.

This morning, a day after the latest 'freezing', I headed off to the station, en route to a French grammar workshop - yes, I know .... But in a bit of a d'oh! moment I realised that I was in pain and hobbling, and moving at half my usual stomping speed. Result? Two trains missed, and the workshop  - its places like gold dust - abandoned, by this scholar at least.

So here I am, back at my desk, full of paracetamol and pondering my feet. They still hurt and I am realising how little thought I give them when they aren't throbbing. I scuff around in Converse, flop in Havaianas and shuffle in ballet pumps. All without giving my poor tootsies a second thought.

No more! Never mind religious zealots, I will become a foot zealot - not in a kinky way, I hasten to add. It will be scrubs and buffing all the way now. And glittery gold treats like these will be just that, treats.

Feet - welcome to the world of special treatment.

An early visitor

At Dorking Deepdene station on Wednesday, I spent a happy few minutes watching a pudgy little robin basking in a sunny corner of the rather tatty shelter. Clearly used to people, he hopped closer and closer, driven away only the vibrations of the arriving train.

Kind of Blue - the great Miles Davis

It's astonishing how music can lighten the mood. Here was I, knackered, disillusioned and sore of foot and back - and all it took to sort me out was a spot of the incomparable Miles Davis. Kind of Blue, to be precise - the album that introduced me to him, more years ago than I care to remember. And I never forget how privileged I was to hear him live.

Small bottles of wine - why are they so vile?

When it comes to drinking, I am very much of the 'quality over quantity' school - these days, at any rate. And as the only white wine drinker in the house, if I buy a bottle of decent vino (Gruner Veltliner being my tipple of choice) it rarely gets finished, tending instead to get chucked out at the end of the week.

So in the Guildford M&S today - a relatively large branch - I decided to treat myself to a small bottle of something white and easy on the palette. At first glance it looked as if they had a fairly comprehensive range. Not so. Despite not being a fan of Chardonnay (scarred for life by Footballers' Wives, perhaps), that's what I ended up with. And as soon as I opened it, I knew it would end in tears.

Why, why, why, particularly when the government is always banging on about people in the UK drinking too much, can't they make it easier for us to drink less but better? Surely it's not too much to ask?

Swimming caps - old school glamour

Just back from a few days visiting my brother in San Sebastian, and noticing that most of my photos are of shop windows. I'm not a huge fan of shopping, but I love colour and appreciate good layout. Whoever thought a rubber swimming cap could look so glamorous?

Why is crapness ok?

That title makes this sound like the start of a Carrie Bradshaw stream of consciousness, but it isn't - I promise.

But what really pi**es me off about this country - and I realise it's at least as bad in plenty of other countries, not least my own - crapness seems to be acceptable.

Thanks to some mysterious 'signal failure' (aka 'feeble excuse no 795') today, what would normally have involved a 20 minute train journey (from Guildford to Dorking) took the best part of three hours, via Clapham Junction. At no point did any staff brave the platform and risk the ire - or even the polite questioning - of the small band of weary would-be travellers. No, they hid in their office and cowered behind the tannoy. But, to be fair, the LED screen did say 'sorry' ... That make it all ok, then.

Goslings in Dorking

Finally back online after the move to Dorking - yippee! (On both counts). One of the best things about living in this lovely town is the walk to the station, through the park. Look at these goslings!

Ring of Brodgar, Orkney

Up to Orkney last week, to see the sister and her family. Thanks to volcanic ash, the journey there was somewhat more epic than planned, involving a total of five trains (Leatherhead to Thurso, done in a mere 13 hours, not counting time spend in stations), one overnight stay and a ferry - 29 hours between leaving and arriving. But there were adventures along the way, and scenery to gladden even the most travel-weary heart. And it was all worth it when I got there. Family fun aside, Orkney has a charm all of its own, demonstrated not least by the Ring of Brodgar. A neolithic stone circle on a gentle plain, there's a real magic to it that I will never be able to put into words.

Dusk in the garden

What is it about a garden that gladdens the heart? Even a small garden can convince you that there's still hope for us all. I'm sitting at a tall picture window in central London, watching twilight come to a rain-bedecked garden. I won't tell you where I am – I want this to stay my secret, my sanctuary from the crowds and the noise. But I can give you clues. There's a magnolia tree in the centre of the garden. It's just starting to blossom, and loving but knowing nothing about the magnolia, I find myself wondering anxiously whether it should be blooming today, a cold April 7th. The almost-flowers are white, tinged with pale purple, and from behind my window I'm hoping their scent hasn't succombed to the stench of London's pollution. The branches are bent this way and that, so the overall effect is that of a Balinese dancer, fingers daintily stretched out. It's rather beautiful.
There are daffodils too, and a lilac hued flower I recognise but can't name. And this being London, there's even a rogue traffic cone. But I still won't tell you where I am.

Review: Paloma Faith, Shepherd's Bush Empire

Walking through the shrine to Mammon that is Shepherd Bush's Westfield shopping centre, it wasn't hard to spot my first fellow Paloma Faith fan. Clad in fake leopard skin and skyscraper heels in a delicate teal, she was appropriately turned out for one paying homage to the most glamorous – in a fabulous old Hollywood way – of English songstresses.
Shepherd's Bush Empire, decades past its glitzy best, provided a faded but apt backdrop, and once the supporting act had bounded off, you could almost see the audience checking out the set and pondering the night ahead. A black and white pie slice style stage – rather like King Arthur's roundtable missing its legs – suggested, rightly, that our star would provide the colour, while a mirrored background and splendid Baroque frills added to the anticipation of something a world away from the usual coy girl singers and over processed boy bands.
By the time Faith joined her sharp suited band and Motown-lite singers on stage, the audience was ready to welcome her with a noisy mixture of rapture and reverence. Not many women can carry off a sparkly lemon flying suit, vertiginous red heels and a pair of giant fruit machine style cherries as a headpiece. This one can.
So the performance started long before Faith opened her mouth. But when she did. Oh my. She belted out Stone Cold Sober, and straight away we knew this was one of those rare performances that might even improve on a favourite album. God, that girl can sing. She has one of those voices that swoops, apparently effortlessly, from loud, raunchy and raucous, to ethereal and almost timid. Add great song writing skills, joie de vivre on a big scale, and a stage presence that betrays her burlesque past, and it's easy to see why Faith's audience regards her with the adulation so rarely seen in these cynical times.
Working her way through album Do you want the truth or something beautiful, Faith pranced and slunk around the stage like the 24 year old she is. And at times she looked like nothing so much as a girl who'd rifled through the dressing up box and was just having fun – albeit with the voice of a 70 year old New Orleans chain smoker.
An earlier show had seen Faith pluck a young boy out of the audience, then serenade him with Romance is Dead. Tonight it was the turn of debonair grey haired Larry. Lifted onto the stage, he clambered onto a stool and made the most of his minutes in the limelight, and was rewarded with several kisses from his diva.
An homage to Billie Holiday prompted Faith to change into a gold lame evening stress and matching tassled beret – perhaps another nod to an earlier career – giving the band an backing singers time to shine. But, girlish through and through, she couldn't resist the urge to leap about the stage in her ballgown, delivering a rocking version of the Beatle's You never give me your money.
The encores heralded one final costume change, into a tight, tight, tight blue dress with shoulder pads and a jauntily angled yellow hat. The front of the dress was splashed with sparkly gold brocade, the overall effect one of a sexy pschedelic air stewardess who had trouble climbing steps. Etta James's At last was sung in a shiver-making way, as if it belonged to at least one 24 year old from east London, and the last song of the night, New York, had the audience hollering the chorus as if their lives depended on it.
A great performance – in the true sense of the world – from start to finish. So good that I can't decide whether I want Paloma Faith to achieve bigger things or to stay my secret. I suspect I won't have much say in the matter.

The Simon Community - compassion without questions

This morning I went to Christine O'Mahoney's funeral. Christine was a cantankerous but kindly and much loved member of the Simon Community in London. Indeed, as one of the speakers at the funeral said, it still hurts to arrive at the Community's house and not to find Christine sitting on the steps, smoking, chatting and berating random - usually innocent - people. She was 87, a remarkable age, given a checkered past that had involved bereavement, alcoholism, estrangement from her family, and homelessness.

Having lost all contact with her own relatives, Christine found a new family in the Simon Community - and there were a good 50 people there this morning to pay tribute. It was one of those funerals where people laughed as much as they cried, and a tribute as much to the Simon Community as to Christine herself. Without those volunteers, she may well have ended up as one of the growing number of people dying alone, unfound for weeks or months at a time, in this supposedly developed, civilised nation.

London School of Economics - new building

To the LSE for a debate this evening - stunning building, all smooth surfaces and beautiful wood finishing.

Bad dream - what can it mean?

Not being 'in love with my job' shall we say, is causing sleepless nights, with Sundays particularly likely to see me bug-eyed and wide-awake into the small hours. An unusually early start today combined with a dose of liver salts aimed at righting an upset stomach added to the problem. So much so that I seemed to spend half the night having an unsettling and incomprehensible dream.

In a nutshell, we were driving up a really steep hill when the car started slipping backwards - rather embarrassingly, this is a real fear of mine. Somehow - and I don't remember the details - I managed to get out of the car. As did him indoors. Next thing we were walking towards a really beautiful, stark white house, of three or four storeys. I knew we were in Ireland, without knowing how I knew. We were in the countryside, there were trees and sheep around. Despite the beauty of the house, when I walked behind it was a very plain, red brick building - industrial in style. Oddly the shape of the back of the building didn't correspond with the front. For some reason I thought it was an asylum or something of that ilk.

Perhaps it's as well I woke up when I did. But what in god's name did that all mean?

Neil Hannon sings 'The Word Up'

Neil Hannon - what a hero. Found this during my Sunday online meanderings - a thing of absolute joy.