I almost forgot, this morning, that I promised myself I would go for a run - outdoors and not on a treadmill - if the weather was nice enough but I remembered just in time, although the warm sun was rather deceptive given the strength of the wind. Back in my rowing days, I would row up and down the section of the River Nowhere between the two locks in town, several times a week but since then I have only really been as far as Tesco and even then only on a couple of occasions.
Actually, this is the first time I've been running in Nowheresville for years. Fed up with the small college gym, which was always full of the rugby jocks, I got into the habit of just running out of the back of college and through the science labs until I reached the village of Coton (sure to be pronounced "coh-un" given it's in the coun'ry), which sits in pride of place next to the world's most budgety motorway. I went to the more picturesque village of Litte FamousTeaRooms on a couple of occasions but was convinced I was going to get killed by the people who drive to the village in as crazy a manner as I do.
This was 2004, though, and I had yet to discover the joys of podcasts and I couldn't quite keep myself entertained just by listenig to music for more than about 30 minutes. In fact, I'm amazed I survived without podcasts as long as I did - I used to use the same playlist while running or at the gym, week after week, making only a few tweaks every so often. Now, I'm so used to being educated or entertained while running that I couldn't imagine doing it without a podcast (the possible exception being New York, where the cityscape is enough for me). Let's just say that I'm not exactly Thoreau or Emerson when it comes to quiet contemplation or reflection; no, I need constant aural or visual stimulation.
In any case, showered and changed, I now feel chilled out and as though I have earned a drink to go with my lunch with PhD Linguist. I am just hoping that I make it through the landfill site that the grass next to the fairground is bound to have become. Maybe I'll go the long way.
22 June 2008
21 June 2008
How to Fight Loneliness
I was always going to like In Search of a Midnight Kiss. It has been plugged as a sassier, more cynical version of Before Sunrise and Before Sunset with more swearing, at least one of which features in my all-time top five films, and indeed, Midnight Kiss's executive producer also produced both BS movies. If I were to imagine an American rendition of Richard Linklater's BS films, I would definitely set it in New York and not just because I love New York. The main part of both films involves the main characters, Celine and Jesse, wandering around a historic, European city for some portion of the day which is limited in both cases by Jesse having to catch a flight. Midnight Kiss, however, is set in LA, which is not exactly the first American city you think of as being a good place for wandering in a getting-to-know-you sort of way and yet wander the two main characters do and nor is this film supposed to be just an alternative version of Before Sunrise and Before Sunset.
It's New Year's Eve and it's oh so artily black and white. Wilson is feeling lonely and lamenting his lack of girlfriend, lack of job and excessive emo. After all, no one wants to be alone on NYE - people do seem to attach a special significance to this day, just like V-Day and feel that the way they spend NYE is the way they will spend the next year (I bloody hope not). Wilson is a computer-savvy loner though as he Photoshops his best friend's girlfriend's face onto a naked body, only for the best friend and the girlfriend to catch him in the act of worshipping the girlfriend's image in a most unholy way. Best Friend, Jacob, is a little freaked and decides that Wilson needs to get laid ASAP. They realise there is no time for MySpace or Facebook so he will have to put an ad on Craig's List and that he, grudgingly, does after pressure from Jacob and his girlfriend Min.
He soon gets a call from an engimatic yet slightly unhinged sounding girl who agrees to meet him at four but warns him that if he isn't good enough, she'll go and find someone else to be with at midnight. This is Vivian, who at first seems loud, cold, manipulative and even cruel but she decides to stick it out with Wilson, until six at least, thus beginning their wanderings around LA. Vivian, of course, is much more complicated and fragile than she originally seemed and her stalkerish ex calls up and leaves a voicemail every hour or so, demanding that she return to their house. The better she and Wilson get to know each other, the more vulnerable she allows herself to become and the less inhibited he becomes. They definitely click and it's obvious they will end up together when the clock strikes midnight.
This isn't a film in the American Pie style of "oh, shit, we must get laid before this specified time." Far from it. The characters don't care about getting some sex - maybe this is a little unrealistic - but rather, it is comfort, companionship and a feeling of connection to someone that they are desperately seeking; In Search of a Midnight Hug isn't quite such a compelling title, however. Even the other two characters, the seemingly happy Jacob and Min, have their problems. Jacob is incredibly afraid of proposing to Min (especially after he got his mother's engagement ring, which his father had previously given to his other four wives, which doesn't seem to be a very lucky sign) and Min, out of Jacob's sight but in the line of the camera, chats away online with a guy named Jupiter and even tries it on with Wilson, to his horror, later on. Jacob, at least, is searching for companionship and security - sometimes he seems he is in control of everything and then other times, he is like a scared, lost boy. Min is harder to read, although it seems that she will, with time, probably resent being tied down.
Like Before Sunrise and Before Sunset, Midnight Kiss is funny (and at times hilarious) and sweet without being in the least bit maudlin. But while the two earlier films were softer and more romantic, Midnight Kiss is at times very sharp, crude and cynical, which naturally appealed to me. Even though Wilson is a bit a of loser, he is a nice enough guy and the character is sympathetically drawn and well developed. In fact, all four of the main characters are rather likable, even though they all have their flaws; perhaps their need to not be alone any longer is so strong that it serves to make them more real and easy for us to relate to them.
Oh, and the music was great too, although the soundtrack hasn't been released yet so I haven't been able to look up a lot of the songs I enjoyed (a lot of them were by a band called Shearwater), apart from an awesome cover of that great Scorpions power ballad Wind of Change, by a band called Sybil.
All in all, I liked Midnight Kiss very much. I suppose now there will be the sequal, In Search of an Early Morning Kiss, set ten years later in New York. Well, there would be worse things...
It's New Year's Eve and it's oh so artily black and white. Wilson is feeling lonely and lamenting his lack of girlfriend, lack of job and excessive emo. After all, no one wants to be alone on NYE - people do seem to attach a special significance to this day, just like V-Day and feel that the way they spend NYE is the way they will spend the next year (I bloody hope not). Wilson is a computer-savvy loner though as he Photoshops his best friend's girlfriend's face onto a naked body, only for the best friend and the girlfriend to catch him in the act of worshipping the girlfriend's image in a most unholy way. Best Friend, Jacob, is a little freaked and decides that Wilson needs to get laid ASAP. They realise there is no time for MySpace or Facebook so he will have to put an ad on Craig's List and that he, grudgingly, does after pressure from Jacob and his girlfriend Min.
He soon gets a call from an engimatic yet slightly unhinged sounding girl who agrees to meet him at four but warns him that if he isn't good enough, she'll go and find someone else to be with at midnight. This is Vivian, who at first seems loud, cold, manipulative and even cruel but she decides to stick it out with Wilson, until six at least, thus beginning their wanderings around LA. Vivian, of course, is much more complicated and fragile than she originally seemed and her stalkerish ex calls up and leaves a voicemail every hour or so, demanding that she return to their house. The better she and Wilson get to know each other, the more vulnerable she allows herself to become and the less inhibited he becomes. They definitely click and it's obvious they will end up together when the clock strikes midnight.
This isn't a film in the American Pie style of "oh, shit, we must get laid before this specified time." Far from it. The characters don't care about getting some sex - maybe this is a little unrealistic - but rather, it is comfort, companionship and a feeling of connection to someone that they are desperately seeking; In Search of a Midnight Hug isn't quite such a compelling title, however. Even the other two characters, the seemingly happy Jacob and Min, have their problems. Jacob is incredibly afraid of proposing to Min (especially after he got his mother's engagement ring, which his father had previously given to his other four wives, which doesn't seem to be a very lucky sign) and Min, out of Jacob's sight but in the line of the camera, chats away online with a guy named Jupiter and even tries it on with Wilson, to his horror, later on. Jacob, at least, is searching for companionship and security - sometimes he seems he is in control of everything and then other times, he is like a scared, lost boy. Min is harder to read, although it seems that she will, with time, probably resent being tied down.
Like Before Sunrise and Before Sunset, Midnight Kiss is funny (and at times hilarious) and sweet without being in the least bit maudlin. But while the two earlier films were softer and more romantic, Midnight Kiss is at times very sharp, crude and cynical, which naturally appealed to me. Even though Wilson is a bit a of loser, he is a nice enough guy and the character is sympathetically drawn and well developed. In fact, all four of the main characters are rather likable, even though they all have their flaws; perhaps their need to not be alone any longer is so strong that it serves to make them more real and easy for us to relate to them.
Oh, and the music was great too, although the soundtrack hasn't been released yet so I haven't been able to look up a lot of the songs I enjoyed (a lot of them were by a band called Shearwater), apart from an awesome cover of that great Scorpions power ballad Wind of Change, by a band called Sybil.
All in all, I liked Midnight Kiss very much. I suppose now there will be the sequal, In Search of an Early Morning Kiss, set ten years later in New York. Well, there would be worse things...
17 June 2008
In Search of Lost Irony
I made the mistake of singing "do you know the way to St Tropez" this morning, to the tune of "do you know the way to San Jose" and the song stuck in my head all day (and didn't have the original song on my iPod to get it out of my head). The parents had misled me somewhat about the boat trip to St Tropez - I had thought it would be a day of sailing with a brief stop for lunch in St Tropez rather than a sort of mini passenger ferry sailing along the Riviera to St Tropez. Never mind; the sun was shining and the captain was providing some hilarious - if not always comprehensible - bilingual commentary of the scenery we were passing ("that grey ouse was the ouse of the American comics, Laurelandardy").
St Tropez itself could be pretty were it not for the shops and the people. The shops are of two varieties: hideously expensive, designer stores and horrible, cheap, tacky clothes shops. The people are also of two varieties: loud, rich Yanks and old, rich French. We wandered around for a while and as it was market day, it was really busy. There wasn't a single thing I wanted to buy, not even in Longchamp.
We ate lunch at Le Girelier, which was on the harbour, overlooking the hundreds of really, really big, expensive boats. I thought the boats in Cannes were big but they were nothing compared to St Tropez's fleet. Most of the owners had created a sofa area at the back of their boats and were lounging casually with bottles of champagne while tourists gaped and took photos of the sheer decadence. The owners of the boat nearest to where we were sitting - two men wearing sharp suits even though it was almost 30 degrees - had two crew members helping them: one girl and one guy. The girl got let off hosing down duty probably on the understanding that she would go and sunbathe topless on the top deck, as is the tradition in St Tropez.
Lunch itself was really good - a perfectly cooked filet de boeuf followed by some strawberry and mint sorbet. The parents opted for the local speciality, Tarte Tropezienne, which are two conjoined brioche-like things, filled with custard. Apparently they are supposed to resemble the pert, round buttocks of Brigitte Bardot, St T's most famous resident, back in the day.
I couldn't have stayed for longer than an afternoon - the town just takes itself so seriously - even more so than Cannes - and yet parts of it just feel almost seedy. Still, the town is not entirely without irony. I found a nice stationery shop selling cards which had a 3D effect thanks to the cut out sails attached to the boats drawn on the front. "Beau marin disponible," said one, "cherche sirène milliardaire pour faire le tour du monde"(hot, eligible sailor seeks millionaire siren for world tour). Another had a black and white drawing of a CrackBerry taking a photo of a colourful ocean with three 3D ships. "On est au St Tropez - c'est super!" read the caption that the inevitable banker owner of the phone was texting.
The return voyage to Cannes was rather inclement but at least there were none of the storms the BBC weather site has been predicting for days. Docking in Cannes, though, the streets were soaked and we saw some very soggy Mad Men cursing that their perfect hair had been ruined by the downpour.
St Tropez itself could be pretty were it not for the shops and the people. The shops are of two varieties: hideously expensive, designer stores and horrible, cheap, tacky clothes shops. The people are also of two varieties: loud, rich Yanks and old, rich French. We wandered around for a while and as it was market day, it was really busy. There wasn't a single thing I wanted to buy, not even in Longchamp.
We ate lunch at Le Girelier, which was on the harbour, overlooking the hundreds of really, really big, expensive boats. I thought the boats in Cannes were big but they were nothing compared to St Tropez's fleet. Most of the owners had created a sofa area at the back of their boats and were lounging casually with bottles of champagne while tourists gaped and took photos of the sheer decadence. The owners of the boat nearest to where we were sitting - two men wearing sharp suits even though it was almost 30 degrees - had two crew members helping them: one girl and one guy. The girl got let off hosing down duty probably on the understanding that she would go and sunbathe topless on the top deck, as is the tradition in St Tropez.
Lunch itself was really good - a perfectly cooked filet de boeuf followed by some strawberry and mint sorbet. The parents opted for the local speciality, Tarte Tropezienne, which are two conjoined brioche-like things, filled with custard. Apparently they are supposed to resemble the pert, round buttocks of Brigitte Bardot, St T's most famous resident, back in the day.
I couldn't have stayed for longer than an afternoon - the town just takes itself so seriously - even more so than Cannes - and yet parts of it just feel almost seedy. Still, the town is not entirely without irony. I found a nice stationery shop selling cards which had a 3D effect thanks to the cut out sails attached to the boats drawn on the front. "Beau marin disponible," said one, "cherche sirène milliardaire pour faire le tour du monde"(hot, eligible sailor seeks millionaire siren for world tour). Another had a black and white drawing of a CrackBerry taking a photo of a colourful ocean with three 3D ships. "On est au St Tropez - c'est super!" read the caption that the inevitable banker owner of the phone was texting.
The return voyage to Cannes was rather inclement but at least there were none of the storms the BBC weather site has been predicting for days. Docking in Cannes, though, the streets were soaked and we saw some very soggy Mad Men cursing that their perfect hair had been ruined by the downpour.
13 June 2008
Smell the Coffee, Wake Up
I've been saying for months that it isn't the caffeine in my morning espresso that perks me up, and now it seems I may have been right to say that the smell of coffee is enough to get me going in the morning, even on those absent-minded occasions when I forget to drink the beverage itself.
Is a sniff of coffee as good as a sip? asks New Scientist, reporting on a Japanese study into the effect of that coffee aroma on sleep deprived individuals. OK, so they used rats in the study rather than people, but if the researchers are looking for people to participate in a next stage involving humans, they should really contact me. Being paid to caffeinate myself doesn't sound so bad, although the suggestion of pumping the smell of freshly-roasted coffee beans into factories where workers are unable to drink a cup of joe sounds a bit too dystopian to me. Obviously, I wouldn't object to the smell of coffee but many people strongly dislike it (like Maman, who was a big coffee drinker until my brother arrived; now she hates the smell and the taste, although is one of the best cappuccino makers I know, having made at least one per day for Papa for about 20 years).
The solution to my tiredness, then, is to open a coffee shop in the back garden and to roast my own beans, in-house. Then, the delicious smell of coffee beans would waft throughout the house and keep me constantly alert and raring to go. I'd better not tell Doktor Landlord about this plan.
Is a sniff of coffee as good as a sip? asks New Scientist, reporting on a Japanese study into the effect of that coffee aroma on sleep deprived individuals. OK, so they used rats in the study rather than people, but if the researchers are looking for people to participate in a next stage involving humans, they should really contact me. Being paid to caffeinate myself doesn't sound so bad, although the suggestion of pumping the smell of freshly-roasted coffee beans into factories where workers are unable to drink a cup of joe sounds a bit too dystopian to me. Obviously, I wouldn't object to the smell of coffee but many people strongly dislike it (like Maman, who was a big coffee drinker until my brother arrived; now she hates the smell and the taste, although is one of the best cappuccino makers I know, having made at least one per day for Papa for about 20 years).
The solution to my tiredness, then, is to open a coffee shop in the back garden and to roast my own beans, in-house. Then, the delicious smell of coffee beans would waft throughout the house and keep me constantly alert and raring to go. I'd better not tell Doktor Landlord about this plan.
08 June 2008
You Say Noho, I Say WeToCoRo
I never really thought about the etymology of Soho in London until I went to SoHo in the Big Apple and learned that it stood for South of Houston Street (Houston being pronounced how-stun rather than as in "we have a problem"). New York is big on the truncation of several elements of a phrase and juxtaposing them in a single acronym or initialism: SoHo, TriBeCa (triangle below Canal Street), NoLIta (north of Little Italy), DUMBO (down under (the) Manhattan Bridge Overpass)...the list goes on and on.
Why bother coming up with a creative name for a new 'hood when you can make up a catchy word or name based on its geographical location? So, my quartier in Nowheresville could be TriBeCREW (triangle below ? Road and ? Way). I don't see it taking off, somehow.
Anyway, SoHo in NYC clearly took its name from the London area (given that the first citation of the name "Soho" in London in the middle of the 17th century) and it was previously called the Cast Iron District (but the acronym CID was already taken). It has since spawned NoHo, which is (logically, north of Houston Street).
Wandering through London yesterday, I wondered briefly whether London's Soho was so-named because it was south of Holborn, but although this is true, WeHo would really have been more accurate. My puzzlement continued this afternoon when, just the other side of Oxford Street from Soho, I spotted some new apartment buildings being built that were called "Noho apartments" (or similar). Again, this area was technically north of Holborn, but WeHo (Westward Ho!?) would be more accurate. Of course, Soho's etymology has nothing to do with geography, I learn, but (according to the Online Etymology Dictionary) comes from a 14th century hunting cry, as the area used to be associated with hunting (I guess you could say it still is what with all the men going looking for fresh meat in this part of town and the gaggles of girls on the pull).
Noho in London, then, is an interesting analogical reworking of Soho, based on the comparison with the NYC SoHo - the element "So" is taken to mean "south" and then added to "ho" which represents whichever place or street Soho is supposed to be south of. SoOx and NoOx would probably be more accurate, or they could combine the two areas into WeToCoRo (west of Tottenham Court Road). You could imagine a section of Burgess Park being renamed TriBeCa, or the South Bank being called DUWaBO (down under the Waterloo Bridge overpass). Oh, no, wait; in England, we give places sensible names, like this or this (nor have I quite forgiven my parents for not allowing us to move a few miles down the road to Christmas Common, where it is never winter and always Christmas).
Why bother coming up with a creative name for a new 'hood when you can make up a catchy word or name based on its geographical location? So, my quartier in Nowheresville could be TriBeCREW (triangle below ? Road and ? Way). I don't see it taking off, somehow.
Anyway, SoHo in NYC clearly took its name from the London area (given that the first citation of the name "Soho" in London in the middle of the 17th century) and it was previously called the Cast Iron District (but the acronym CID was already taken). It has since spawned NoHo, which is (logically, north of Houston Street).
Wandering through London yesterday, I wondered briefly whether London's Soho was so-named because it was south of Holborn, but although this is true, WeHo would really have been more accurate. My puzzlement continued this afternoon when, just the other side of Oxford Street from Soho, I spotted some new apartment buildings being built that were called "Noho apartments" (or similar). Again, this area was technically north of Holborn, but WeHo (Westward Ho!?) would be more accurate. Of course, Soho's etymology has nothing to do with geography, I learn, but (according to the Online Etymology Dictionary) comes from a 14th century hunting cry, as the area used to be associated with hunting (I guess you could say it still is what with all the men going looking for fresh meat in this part of town and the gaggles of girls on the pull).
Noho in London, then, is an interesting analogical reworking of Soho, based on the comparison with the NYC SoHo - the element "So" is taken to mean "south" and then added to "ho" which represents whichever place or street Soho is supposed to be south of. SoOx and NoOx would probably be more accurate, or they could combine the two areas into WeToCoRo (west of Tottenham Court Road). You could imagine a section of Burgess Park being renamed TriBeCa, or the South Bank being called DUWaBO (down under the Waterloo Bridge overpass). Oh, no, wait; in England, we give places sensible names, like this or this (nor have I quite forgiven my parents for not allowing us to move a few miles down the road to Christmas Common, where it is never winter and always Christmas).
Escape from Nowheresville
Other than arriving at King's Cross on Friday night to find that the discovery and subsequent explosion of a WWII bomb ("hey, Dave! Look what I found under this bench!") had buggered much of the Tube for the evening, it was very pleasant to get out of Nowheresville for the weekend, although typically my landlord was away all weekend anyway, so I would have had the house to myself. I didn't take my laptop, which meant I spent Friday night resting my eyes, reading and sipping a G and T.
I woke up early on Saturday, so I could breakfast on Marylebone High Street before heading off to meet S in Hell - AKA Oxford Circus Tube at noon on a Saturday. We wandered over to the British Museum for some American art and for me to look at that great relic of linguistics that is the Rosetta Stone. We then went back to the '80s for lunch at the Breakfast Club in Soho, which is a great little coffee shop/bruncheria, where I could obtain my pancakes with maple syrup and drink a great juice blend called Spiced Blue Monday and S could have a full English. The soundtrack consisted of The Cure, New Order and The Smiths, mainly, so I was happy and the walls were kitted out with assorted '80s memorabilia; oddly, the quotation on the menu was from a (1966) Simon and Garfunkel song. Not a bad place, all in all.
We then spent much of the rest of the afternoon wandering around Covent Garden, Soho and then the South Bank, where we browsed for books at the second-hand book stalls (there seemed to be about five copies of an old school Penguin book called something like The Joy of Sets (or some other mathematical topic)). We then popped into the BFI to see what films they had coming soon and made a plan to see The Dark Knight at the IMAX - Christian Bale's pecs in high definition; mmm...
I went out to Notting Hill last night for a party hosted by my school friend A and her boyfriend at some kitschy bar called Trailer Happiness. There were a few people from school there but inevitably, I hung out mainly with A's Imperial friends who were a lot more fun. I also enjoyed the delicious mojitos, which proved expensive, especially when I ended up getting a taxi back to Marylebone.
The sun woke me at about nine, although I didn't mind too much as it was nice to have some sunshine in a bedroom in which I was sleeping. A couple of espressos and an (involuntary) cold shower meant I was good to go and I began another crazy trek around much of central London. Given that I was walking pretty much constantly, at my usual drill sergeant pace, for about five hours today, I must have covered many miles. My thighs seem to think so. I still couldn't find a second Father's Day gift, though; Dad is pretty much impossible to buy for. The advantage of walking was that it didn't involve taking the Tube on such a hot day, which is always a good plan.
I also discovered another new coffee shop - well, I tried out a coffee shop that I'd been meaning to visit for a while - Flat White, in Soho, which has won various awards for being the best indie coffee shop in the country and serving great coffee. There weren't many seats at the place and the two outdoor benches were full but I was happy to sit inside and soak up the cool vibes. The coffee was good and artisanal (a leaf rather than a Joe's heart), so I will definitely return.
The more time I spend in Marylebone, Soho and Fitzrovia, the more confident I am that at any given point, I will be able to navigate to a) a cool bar, b) a decent restaurant and c) somewhere that produces good coffee with some degree of atmosphere. It is taking some time for my hippocampus to be suitably developed. One thing that amused me was that when I was with S, my navigation was dire and I would walk in completely the wrong the direction, as though my BexNav had been turned off at the mains. Today, though, by myself, I was wandering all over the place and always knowing where I was and how to get to where I wanted to be. I think inherited this from my father, who is the same in that he yields completely to those with superior navigational ability but is actually quite good at getting around by himself. I'm sure Hugo Spiers would be interested in my inherited navigational bizarreness, anyway.
I woke up early on Saturday, so I could breakfast on Marylebone High Street before heading off to meet S in Hell - AKA Oxford Circus Tube at noon on a Saturday. We wandered over to the British Museum for some American art and for me to look at that great relic of linguistics that is the Rosetta Stone. We then went back to the '80s for lunch at the Breakfast Club in Soho, which is a great little coffee shop/bruncheria, where I could obtain my pancakes with maple syrup and drink a great juice blend called Spiced Blue Monday and S could have a full English. The soundtrack consisted of The Cure, New Order and The Smiths, mainly, so I was happy and the walls were kitted out with assorted '80s memorabilia; oddly, the quotation on the menu was from a (1966) Simon and Garfunkel song. Not a bad place, all in all.
We then spent much of the rest of the afternoon wandering around Covent Garden, Soho and then the South Bank, where we browsed for books at the second-hand book stalls (there seemed to be about five copies of an old school Penguin book called something like The Joy of Sets (or some other mathematical topic)). We then popped into the BFI to see what films they had coming soon and made a plan to see The Dark Knight at the IMAX - Christian Bale's pecs in high definition; mmm...
I went out to Notting Hill last night for a party hosted by my school friend A and her boyfriend at some kitschy bar called Trailer Happiness. There were a few people from school there but inevitably, I hung out mainly with A's Imperial friends who were a lot more fun. I also enjoyed the delicious mojitos, which proved expensive, especially when I ended up getting a taxi back to Marylebone.
The sun woke me at about nine, although I didn't mind too much as it was nice to have some sunshine in a bedroom in which I was sleeping. A couple of espressos and an (involuntary) cold shower meant I was good to go and I began another crazy trek around much of central London. Given that I was walking pretty much constantly, at my usual drill sergeant pace, for about five hours today, I must have covered many miles. My thighs seem to think so. I still couldn't find a second Father's Day gift, though; Dad is pretty much impossible to buy for. The advantage of walking was that it didn't involve taking the Tube on such a hot day, which is always a good plan.
I also discovered another new coffee shop - well, I tried out a coffee shop that I'd been meaning to visit for a while - Flat White, in Soho, which has won various awards for being the best indie coffee shop in the country and serving great coffee. There weren't many seats at the place and the two outdoor benches were full but I was happy to sit inside and soak up the cool vibes. The coffee was good and artisanal (a leaf rather than a Joe's heart), so I will definitely return.
The more time I spend in Marylebone, Soho and Fitzrovia, the more confident I am that at any given point, I will be able to navigate to a) a cool bar, b) a decent restaurant and c) somewhere that produces good coffee with some degree of atmosphere. It is taking some time for my hippocampus to be suitably developed. One thing that amused me was that when I was with S, my navigation was dire and I would walk in completely the wrong the direction, as though my BexNav had been turned off at the mains. Today, though, by myself, I was wandering all over the place and always knowing where I was and how to get to where I wanted to be. I think inherited this from my father, who is the same in that he yields completely to those with superior navigational ability but is actually quite good at getting around by himself. I'm sure Hugo Spiers would be interested in my inherited navigational bizarreness, anyway.
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