I am in a dilemma.

I have recently been headhunted for a role in to be Dean of the law school that trains all the barristers in a certain small wet celtic nation. I was very interested when they called, being more than usually pissed off with work and GNF, so agreed to be interviewed. It was a long journey – 12 hours each way by taxi, tube, train, ferry and taxi (and then taxi, ferry, train, tube, train, taxi to get back home). Sadly I couldn’t fly as I found the country concerned was too wet and too celtic for any business class flights to travel to (seriously). And in any case the volcano blew up that weekend.

So I finally arrived, stayed over 2 nights had 1 day sight-seeing and an hours interview. The interview panel was amazing – two High Court judges (both ladies), the under secretary of the attorney general’s department, a professor of economics from their top university, and a senior counsel. It is a very senior post, reporting into a standing committee of judges and senior counsels, and involving much collaboration with a whole variety of legal big wigs. The interview went well, though the lady judges frowned at me most of the time – possibly because I wore a skirt with frilly ruffles (deliberately as a symbol of non conservatism) and when asked about my management style declared that I liked change and development and promoted it with my teams (I had to make this clear as I had only discovered that day that the motto of the law school is “we shall not change”). I also had to make it clear I was not a barrister and when asked if I had a criminal record I said “Yes, 11 convicts in my direct line of ancestry – you should see my family tree”.

Despite all this, they have asked me back for a final round interview and I get the distinct impression that I am the favoured candidate.

The buildings of this place are amazing – built about 500 years ago – and the office of the Dean is literally about 30 feet long and 25 feet wide and is used as a room location for period films sometimes.

Tempting!

But … that motto “we shall not change” when I saw it I turned to the CEO and said “Are you sure you want to interview me?” Also as an institution it is a monopoly and elitist and possibly …. a bit dull and maybe not that challenging

5 staff, 500 students, being completely in charge v the chaotic minefield of ABC with its 10000 students and hundreds of staff

So – a dilemma.

UsinUk fans mayn’t be aware that every fortnight I attend a guitar lesson, and have been doing so for the last two years. I am no good at all, but that is no reflection on my teacher who is fab. David is a wonderful player and a great teacher, and one of the least materialistic and happiest people I know.

The classes are held at Hindhead music school which is more or less in Haslemere. So on Saturday mornings I set off at about 9.15 for the 12 mile drive through South Farnham, past Frensham ponds and the heathland, over the A3 and down into Haslemere in time for my 10am class. The music school is set in an old rambling house, with the many rooms converted into teaching rooms. It is shabby and comfortable, with lots of people of all ages taking classes and the sound of trumpets and guitars mixing with the chatter of obsessive parents.

Now some of the more canny of you may be wondering why I leave at 9.15 to go only 12 miles. It is not just the slow English roads – I deliberately arrive with 15 minutes to spare as there is a little tuck shop in the kitchen, and a lovely lady called Nina who makes an extraordinary array of cakes every Saturday. I like to have a cup of tea and a piece of Nina’s chocolate cake. This is the best chocolate cake in Surrey, not too rich, lots of icing and a Malteser on top. It reminds me of the chocolate cake we used to buy for my birthday from Carlingford Court (once I grew out of the ice cream cake phase). There is a cheerful room to sit in – with a cathedral ceiling, big windows, piles of magazines and about half a dozen tables and chairs. This is where parents and students wait between classes.

My class lasts an hour and I enjoy it a great deal. David has quite cheerfully adapted to the sort of music I want to learn – apparently I am unique and none of his other students do the sort of music I like. (Which is traditional folk mostly from an obscure guitarist called Mike Raven). I think David rather likes listening to different pieces, rather than the inevitable Romansa that every student learns. But although I enjoy my lesson I also enjoy the experience – including the chocolate cake.

So imagine my dismay when Nina told me this weekend that she is retiring and won’t be running the tuck shop anymore! She assured me someone else would be taking it on – but she won’t be making the cakes.

“But that’s the best chocolate cake in the UK!” I objected, much to her delight .

She promised to give the new person her recipes – but sadly she can’t force them to actually make the cakes. I am so glad I wasn’t running late yesterday or I would have missed my very last opportunity for Nina’s chocolate cake.

My main job since the takeover is to set up a factory for the creation of new degrees at ABC College where I work. Instead of letting everyone do their own thing, it is my role to work out how to coordinate and systemise this across the College. And as part of that I have decided to set up a pilot to trial using some of the methods employed by University of the Resuscitated Bird. This pilot has taken several months to organise (not least because some of the Americans didn’t have passports and have taken time to get this organised) but at last this week a team of five arrived in London to start working with us.
All of them come from Dead Bird City in the middle of the American desert – a strange artificial place about which our Dean of the Law School once commented that the world would lose nothing if it were “abruptly wiped off the face of the planet”.

Now let me tell you about these 5 visitors. Bobby is a real live Mormon – he managed to find a church in Kensington last Sunday and told us all about listening to the “supreme authority” (ie the pastor) – though currently he is still single. Greg I have nicknamed Texas boy (the first thing out of Texas that I have ever liked), Marcia brought me a bag of trail mix (nuts and sultanas and things) that I had in Dead Bird City on my visit last year that I really liked (she remembered – very sweet), and Jan and Cindy are two young American females obsessed with hygiene.

Now I thought they would like a true English experience, so I booked Jan and Cindy into a lovely Georgian flat in Islington. Big mistake, as gradually over the week complaints have trickled back to me – no wifi, nail sticking out of the floor, leaky shower head, dirty rug and so on. I tried to explain that England is old, lots of places are shabby, and bathrooms almost always a bit grim. But once I heard that they were actually in tears about the place I thought I am going to have to move them – and pay for a second flat! (another £6000 note) The real issue turned out to be they thought the place was dirty. They cleaned it twice themselves– and still thought it was dirty. My PA suggested we get a professional cleaning company in – but they said (and I kid you not) that they didn’t think it could ever be clean because they would always know that there was dirt under the floor boards (ground floor flat you see).

I mean, what do they think the planet is made of? Plastic? Well I guess it kind of is these days thanks to hygiene obsessed Americans!!

Sometimes I could just kiss the (very muddy) ground in thanks for my upbringing of Angledool, guinea pig shit and an agricultural high school.

Despite all this I like all 5 of them very much and am very impressed with their calm professionalism at work. So much more professionalised in their approach than ABC College tends to be. It is a whole new way of working and I am learning a lot –and clearly they are as well.

But even so …. seriously, what do they think is underneath the houses in Dead Bird City??

And I doubt I will be able to get through the next week without giving in to the temptation of telling them that in London no one is ever more than 7 feet from a rat.

Although we live in a town and therefore suffer from light pollution, on a clear night we can still see stars and constellations – though never that sparkling haze of the milky way that can be seen at Angledool. 

This month we saw an astronomical event known as The Opposition of Mars which is where Mars lines up in opposition to the sun, and also comes very close to Earth.  On January 27 at 9pm it was at its closest in this orbit – although not that close.  2003 for example saw an Opposition that was 4x brighter.  So an Opposition may be an Opposition – but not all Oppositions are equal.  Nonetheless from our point of view it looked fab.  It was a clear cold evening, the moon dazzlingly bright and full, Mars red and vivid and located just to the left of the Moon making her a grand dancing partner.

I looked for Mars again the next night but it had vanished – how puzzling.

Apparently an Opposition is usually used by NASA and co to launch probes to Mars and Mars missions have been launched at every Opposition since 1994.  This time though, Mars was allowed to pass by without Earth hurling stuff at it.  There were 2 missions scheduled originally (Curiosity and Phobos-Grunt – don’t ask, don’t know) but both have been put off till 2011.  Another recession cut?

We didn’t last long outside at 9pm as it was already below freezing and the cars and the grass beginning to sparkle with ice.  This has been the coldest winter we have had in England, with more snow fall than we have ever experienced in our lives.  The snow has all gone from Farnham now and this week we saw the very first snow drops appear in our garden.  They haven’t opened fully yet, and are having to push their way past the dead leaves, but they are delightful.  We planted these last year and were assured that in time they would spread to make a big clump if they were happy.  We did not know if they would be happy– not all our plants survive and that part of the garden is quite mossy and damp, but here they are shiny white and indicating spring is not that far away.

Our first snowdrops

A regular feature of our English calendar is the Big Garden Bird Watch.  This is held on the last weekend of January every year.  The RSPB basically harnesses the power of the consumer to become scientists.   Everyone who participates has to count the number of birds that appear in their garden in a one hour period.  The RSPB then collates all the data and uses it to keep an eye on bird numbers.  Mob science as it were.

Now it is quite a tricky exercise.  You have to be able to identify all the birds you see accurately – I have learnt all my birds but it has taken a while and I still am not confident telling a chiff chaff from a female sparrow or a female chaffinch.  Trickier still is that you have to count them.  You can only count those that actually land in your garden, not just fly over it, and you have to count the maximum number of each species you see at the same time.  One bird can revisit the garden many times within an hour, so you can’t just recount the same bird over and over.  But the birds move so quickly this is difficult, a bit like counting sheep in a paddock.  Plus from far away the smaller ones look like leaves fluttering about so you get mixed up with the leaves.

But armed with binoculars, a cup of tea and a pen I identified the following within one hour:

6 Blackbirds
3 Robins
4 Starlings
3 Great Tits
5 Green Finches
1 Black Cap
4 Blue Tits
1 Gold Finch
5 Chaffinches
4 Sparrows
1 Long-tailed Tit
1 Dunnock
2 Magpies
1 Thrush
1 Coal Tit
9 Collared Doves

Not bad considering that the first month we moved here I was quite depressed because we seemed to attract no birds – the wonders of fat balls, sunflower seeds, peanuts and soft bill mix with extra worms!

Plus
1 squirrel

I include the squirrel as it eats lots of the bird food.  Now I have no objection to this but we seem to have a bit of a super squirrel.  I don’t mind her munching away with the birds, but I do mind when she nicks an entire fat ball and makes off with it across the garden.  This was becoming a daily event and the poor bird brains weren’t getting a look in.  So G started tying the fat balls to the container – but no good!  After a bit the squirrel worked out how to untie it, unwrap it from its green netting, and still run off with it!  Eventually G had to buy a special fat ball holder and lock the fat balls safely away in it.  This now seems to be working.

Fat balls locked in a squirrel proof cage

I left the office at about 7pm today and headed back to Charterhouse Square – a delicious 20 minutes walk away.

As I walked across the uneven cobbles of the square I looked up at my building and felt an intense pleasure at being back again after a weekend away.

This fondness for my central London pad has taken me completely by surprise. I expected to hate it – and was only driven to it by extreme stress at work and the fear I would become seriously ill (OK die) if I didn’t do something about it immediately. And it worked – after we made the decision that I would rent a flat and stay there during the week, I went out and found one the very next day, and my life was transformed.

But it is not simply because the flat is so convenient – though I can walk to both the Law School and the Business School in about 20 minutes – I simply love the flat and the building. It is a 1930’s block, in the art deco style which is one of my absolutely favourite time periods for architecture. It has a curved symmetry at the front, big windows, and lots of lovely details like curved ironwork on the banisters, art deco font on all the signs and lovely steps. I even love the way it smells – especially my corridor.

The flat itself is seriously tiny – about 12 foot by 9 foot and even that has a chunk out of it – though it does have a separate kitchen, bathroom and hallway. I have no doubt Dad would think it unliveable. But it has a big window, a black and white tiled 1930s looking bathroom (full size bath and decent shower pressure), it overlooks a quiet courtyard and not a busy street, and it is on the first floor so it is both safe and I don’t have to take the lift.

And then there are the facilities – there is a very well maintained laundry – but far more exciting is the roof terrace – 10 floors up, full of plants and tables and chairs and a wonderful view over London. I can see the Gherkin, the London Eye and St Paul’s from there. And best of all in the basement there is a small but adequate gym, a sauna, a spa bath and a beautiful pool with a good size seating area full of wicker tables and chairs. The pool room is gorgeous – all art deco with moulded ceilings and lovely stone and marble in soft pinks and yellows.

Best of all – it is the building in which Hercules Poirot lives in the Agatha Christie movies starring David Suchet (exterior shots only, his flat is far too big to fit into this building!!). Not that I knew this when I moved in – honest.

So during the week this is where I now come – walking to and from work, sometimes spending part of the work day here as it is so peaceful, catching no public transport, talking to G in the evenings, playing my guitar or going for a swim, listening to radio 4 (I have decided not to have a TV) and reading.

And that feeling of intense pleasure – almost as intense as the feeling when I return home to Farnham on a Friday night.

Being snowed out of Farnham I decided to spend the weekend in London rather than put my life in the hands of south west trains in trying to get home and back again. I have always wanted to have a look around Mayfair – being only one of two areas Eve says she could live in in the uk – so I decided to spend the morning exploring New Bond Street and round about. The mansion flat buildings are lovely and no doubt house stately and enormous apartments. But New Bond Street was remarkably unappealing – lots of very expensive shops full of diamonds and designers in which they deliberately try and intimidate the customer by having wanky looking doormen. Over half the shops were shut – despite being a Saturday – and those that were open were distinctly unwelcoming and uninteresting. It struck me as a place purely about demonstrating boring wealth – no heart. Flat and dead. Not at all what I was expecting – nothing that made me long to buy it (apart from a passionfruit fondant but I was unable to attract the shopgirls’s attention).

It has of course been incredibly cold and there was an uncanny lack of toilets. Bond Street station had several signs aggressively announcing “No Toilets. Nearest at Marble Arch.” (several streets away). Even Starbucks didn’t have one! I thought that was illegal!

I traversed Burlington Arcade and couldn’t help but note that though there were at least 100 people in the arcade I didn’t see a single person actually enter a shop. I studied one of these customer deprived enterprises with interest. It sold luggage – all shiny and new but in an old fashioned design of hard bags with straps – no wheels, no extendable handles. I then studied the Burly boy guarding the entrance – top hat-ed and tailed, and black. What a ridiculous, artificial and vaguely offensive nostalgia is being pickled here.

Final day at work for 2009 – now off for 2 weeks.

Work party last night at the Arsenal Football Ground in London. 740 people attended – knew hardly any of them and had great difficulty finding those that I did know.

Hadn’t read the invitation so didn’t realise where it was, nor that it was black tie, nor that I was supposed to bring the invite with me.

I don’t normally give a toss about dress codes, but over the course of the day I realised everyone was fussing a lot about what they would wear. I went for lunch with 3 of the yanks and they had booked a hairdresser and were going to wear full length frocks! And then I heard GNF (our CEO and my boss) say to one of the guys who was going to wear work clothes “I am sure you can do better than that”.

So had an “important” (ie pom pom, jolly hockey sticks, fake transatlantic rah rah meeting) presentation in the afternoon that was supposed to finish at 4pm and started getting more and more anxious about this Christmas party.  At 4.15 (still droning on and with all the fun of marketing reports yet come) I told Morticia I had a call to take and left – jumped on the tube, shot up to Oxford street and went shopping.  Spent over £200 as I had to buy everything – shoes, jewelery, outfit, the works and just got back in the nick of time for the taxi.

What a palaver – but I noted GNF did notice what I was wearing so I guess it was good to show I had at least changed – but really I don’t know why I go to these things!!

Mirinda