Hmmm, What Shall We Call This?

Spent last weekend out of London. In Windsor, to be exact, so about 40 minutes from home...technically. South East Trains had other ideas and took us on a wild trip around South-East England on the way home, a two and a half hour wild trip, taking in such exotic destinations as Staines, and Virginia Water. So it was kind of like we went much further afield (although thank God we didn't, or I'd probably still be on a train trying to get home).

So, Windsor. Lovely lovely place, all castle-y, lots of sweet shops - Ye Olde Time Sweet Shoppe and Ye Old Time Fudge Shoppe and Ye Olde Time Touriste Junkke Shoppe With Sweetes - their marketing (ok, their sweets and fudge - marketing had nothing to do with it) really sucked me in. Windsor is just as you would expect it to be, civilised and quaint and a bit posh, just like the Queen really.

And then, after our lovely weekend in Windsor, a short visit to Staines (an inadvertent visit, I'd like to stress). As a disclaimer, all I have seen of Staines is the train station, the bus stop outside the train station, and the train station again. But I don't like it. It's not a pleasant place, not like Windsor. And that's not really too surprising, because if it were a pleasant place, surely it wouldn't be called Staines? You don't build a gorgeous little village, full of leafy trees and dappled sunlight and cobblestones, and then stand back and decide to caption your hard work 'Staines'. No, Staines is a name designed to make the office drones who have to work out there hate it just that little bit more, to remind them that they're not there for a good time.

There are lots of places in England like this, and you have to wonder about the logic, and whether places would be more or less nice if their name were different. Slough's an obvious example (thank you The Office), but also - Wolverhampton? Really? You're going to call an already slightly tired, downcast town, in the Midlands, Wolverhampton? In New Zealand I used to know an English guy whose grandmother lived in Grimsby. When he told me I think I physically recoiled, and although I've never been there, I have his word for it that it was indeed a fairly grim place.

I'm pretty sure that in England, at least, names are an excellent way of judging whether you might want to go somewhere. Windsor - yes, Wolverhampton - no. Brighton - yes, Blackpool - no.

It's not just applicable to towns and cities either. For example, you shouldn't expect any updates from me in the not too distant future about wild nights in Putney - first and foremost, because I don't really 'do' wild nights in the traditional sense* (last time I went clubbing was literally a year ago, and I'm proud of that) and secondly, because the choice is pretty limited. There is one fairly nasty sounding place that I've heard some stories about, bad stories, to make it clear, and also, now that the Walkabout has been taken over, another club, going by the portentous name of 'Wahoo'.

If the purple and black colour scheme weren't enough to keep you away, or the completely unnecessary velvet ropes outside, the name surely would be, all on its own. Wahoo. Why why why would you call a club that? You may as well call it 'The Really Really Fun Night Place' or 'Put Your Hands Up in the Air'. You're never going to fulfill even your own expectations with that name, let alone anyone else's. You know how nothing makes something more unfun than when it's meant to be brilliant fun, and there is an air of total desperation pervading it, with everyone grinning maniacally, a wild look in their eyes that clearly asks, 'are we having fun yet?' Calling your club 'Wahoo' is taking that and putting it to the power of 10. It is just a bad idea. Like calling your town Staines. Or like Wolverhampton, which in itself is a bad idea.

Shakespeare had it right. Names are important, more important than a lot of people realise apparently. Unless you're selling food of the sweet variety - then you can call your shop whatever you like, I will still make an appearance.

*I wrote 'in the traditional sense' to seem a little cooler, but really, I don't 'do' wild nights in any sense at all.

They Make Them Shiny There

And so to Wales, where I spent a rainy Saturday...

..oh wait, no I didn't. Just as well? This is, after all, about life in London. And Wales is not London. It's like a whole different country (well, I suppose it is really, in a cute way, with its own language and everything. Very realistic 'own country' set up, all bilingual road signs and funny accents).

So anyway, I was in Cardiff on Saturday, the part of Cardiff that resides in London generally and hangs out in Haymarket specifically. I was there to watch the rugby, and had kind of anticipated a Kiwi crowd, as the fine establishment we were meeting in (ahem, Sports Cafe, that is - my tongue has taken to the inside of my cheek most firmly for the duration of this post) is right next to New Zealand House.

First lesson. Just because something is next to something Kiwi, doesn't mean it will be like Kiwis, or Kiwi related things. This seems a pretty basic lesson really, and an embarrassing, foreign - oooh, oooh, dare I say it - kind of American assumption for me to make. Like Australia, or the Pacific Ocean. They're both next to New Zealand but they're not a lot like it really. Not entirely dissimilar, but...

...and so it was with Little Cardiff on Saturday. A bit like New Zealand but not really. Wales and New Zealand have their commonalities - both little countries that are quite proud of their 'own country' status and flaunt it with bilingual road signs, while the rest of the world looks on in a fond, proud parent, 'aren't they cute' kind of way and makes fun of their predilection with sheep, but there are some very important differences, some of which you may not be fully aware. I certainly wasn't before my sojourn to Haymarket.

I arrived late, although before kick-off and the haka even (whoo me!) so I was a little flustered and didn't entirely take it all in. I was aware that the bar was surprisingly full (surprising, because I still expected all the crowd to be NZers and quite frankly, there's not that many of us) but didn't really look at the patrons too closely, except to see if they were my friends. Most weren't, but some were, and upon settling into a cosy nook, pressed up against a railing in a twisted manner, with a glass of cider, I took the opportunity to scan the faces and attire of those around me (as one can't be expected to pay attention to an entire game of rugby, especially when the All Blacks just aren't doing all that much).

And what I saw was...shine. I was highly confused by the large group of girls at the table just in front of us and over a little. It was like being at a mirror ball conference, with added glitter. I really, genuinely thought they were lost initially, then hypothesised that they were on the pull (Sports Cafe when the rugby and the football were on - it would have been a brilliant plan) but then the Welsh team did something that could have been something, only the All Blacks moved a little in a nonchalant manner and it turned out to be nothing, and they opened their mouths and the penny dropped - they were Welsh. And then I looked around the bar, and as a million tiny pieces of sparkle twinkled in front of me, temporarily blinding me, I realised pretty much the whole bar was Welsh. Proximity to New Zealand House meant nothing.

If it had been another two countries, or another game, like (ugh) football, it could have been a recipe for disaster - but luckily New Zealanders and Welsh people are two pretty amiable races. Even when they're annoyed, as we were when the loud, shiny Welsh girls encroached upon our space unashamedly, causing us to twist up into ever more painful positions to see the screen, but being ever so nice about it, as they were to us, despite the fact that we got in their way too, our rugby team played a pretty shockingly lazy game and won anyway, and neither of the girls in our group was wearing any bling, or hair glitter.

Yup, these shiny girls were pretty obnoxious, but we dealt. I couldn't quite get over their shininess though, or the amount they drank - truly phenomenal amounts. My favourite moment of the extra-rugby entertainment was when one girl came back from the bar with not one, not two, but three drinks for each member of their party (to avoid the queues that had formed while she painstakingly ordered them, one presumes) and was so, um, merry, that she couldn't stand up straight while she distributed them - but while she swayed around on her high, high, so inappropriate for 5:30 in the afternoon heels, her hair didn't move at all. That's impressive, on so many levels.

My favourite bit of the in-game action was when I turned my attention to the screen, after twisting my head around into a highly uncomfortable contortion to see it, and due to lighting/cameras/the screen itself/something, noted that the Welsh shiny thing was on screen too. Their white uniforms gleamed and sparkled off the bald head of one of their players, making him look like he had rubbed the top of his head generously with zinc before going to play under the overcast, dark, night time sky. Beautiful stuff (not literally, obviously). I was very very excited about my discovery about the shiny Welsh, and now have a minor fixation with finding more shiny Welsh people/things and hearing their stories. A fixation that will last until I wake up tomorrow morning probably, when I will have forgotten all about it and will return to my normal default status of thinking mainly about myself.

Oh, there were other good things in the game too. Daniel Carter did lots of awesome stuff and we won, even though generally we weren't awesome. More awesome than the Welsh though (since 1953 - that's older than my Dad, hahaha Welsh!), and that was awesome enough.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly - A Question of Beauty

London's a city. There's only so much beauty available in a city that houses 8 million people it's not really designed for, but it's there, definitely. Not always - a glance out the train window the other day, between Vauxhall and Clapham Junction, confirmed that as quickly as I took in the square, squat high-rises (now you know, there can be such a thing as a squat high-rise) spaced out in some seemingly random arrangement, desolate scrubby weeds stretching in between to bring them together in an image of complete harmonious futility.

I imagined living in one of these places, right by the railway track, and found it necessary to pass comment (I had a couple of workmates in tow, I didn't just talk to the rest of the carriage). They agreed, but it was followed up by the revelation that one of them once dated a guy who lived in one of them - and inside it was really nice, with a pool in the basement. Just goes to show you don't know what is hiding inside a hideous shell, especially here. The external is not a reliable indicator of where your judgment should lie.

This isn't a moral lesson or anything, I really am just talking about London generally, and housing specifically. My own house I wouldn't have rented if basing my opinion solely on the exterior, or the communal hallway, but inside the flat it's lovely (yes, admittedly, falling to pieces, but it looks great and when you don't own the place, that's what counts). Outside the front of my place is a small patch of tired looking 'garden' that plays temporary host to some really rank rubbish every time Fulham play at Craven Cottage (kebab wrappers with leftover chili sauce, anyone?) and upon walking past this and in the front door, you're greeted with a dark hallway with old carpet that is an odd kind of non-colour, marked with darker patches of long-unidentifiable stains. And, if you're me last night, a nasty smell, tinged with a vague whiff of what can only be described as 'toilet'.

I headed up the stairs last night with my eyes squinched shut and fingers and toes crossed, muttering under my breath 'don't be my place, don't be my place...' This calling upon the gods of London flatting worked a charm, and it was to a clean, pleasantly fragrant flat that I opened the door, as well as H1 in a stellar mood, thanks to the same reasons as me. We peered out our bedroom window at the Bottom Floor Boys, outside investigating something that we assumed to be the source of the random smell, so grateful it was them, despite the fact that we quite like them.

London London London. Hideously ugly with rampant beauty hidden everywhere, just waiting for you to find it and make the most of it before everyone else finds it too. Randomly smelly (this happens when you hold 8 million people, and have the infrastructure to support about three) and so extremely odd. If you were a parent, and London was your child, I feel like you'd blame yourself entirely and be driven to drink. Maybe this is why Gordon Brown is getting odder.

In other news, I note that I've used a lot of brackets in this post. Due to an afternoon of almost solid copywriting I feel guilty about this lazy device, but not guilty enough to amend. Besides, brackets may have no place in copy for bed linen, but in a blog they serve their purpose perfectly, neatly bracketing my off-tangent ramblings into self-contained witty points (or so I like to think).