This morning K and I are off to see some of my Stepdad's family in Kent, as well as to conduct the long-delayed present exhange with my mum and Stepdad. This involves getting the high-speed train from St. Pancras and changing at Faversham - and while we're skating across the ice towards the tube station with the forecast of heavy snow in the back of our minds, we briefly wonder whether this is a particularly good idea.
We arrive at St. Pancras where there are no timetables to speak of - just signs that "all trains are subject to delays and cancellations". Hmm. We head up to the platform from which the high-speed train departs and get on the first one we can see, which happens to be heading to Faversham and also happens to be running on time. So far so good - but the snow starts coming down on London just as the train pulls out of the station, and gets progressively heavier as we head south.
We reach Faversham in under an hour to find that the train we had supposed to be catching has been cancelled - and that all trains are now leaving from a single platform. This means a 20 minute wait, but now we're worrying even more about getting home later this afternoon. We may have to cut short our visit to a simple exchange of presents - but I figure that as long as we're going again by four then we should be OK.
The train pulls into the little village of Aylesham at around two, where Mum, Alistair and Alice are waiting to meet us. We say hello and skate up towards Alistair's mum's house - at which point the snow really, really starts coming down. We sit in the living room and gaze out at the whiteout - at which point all hopes of getting back to London today vanish steadily. The family have fun poking fun at me for worrying and feeling a bit trapped and agitated; and while there couldn't be a nicer place to be stuck (there's plenty of food and drink in the house and it's nice to catch up with Alice especially, whom I haven't seen for a over a year) I can't deny that the hot bungalow and the snowy little village leave me feeling a bit claustrophobic.
The Network Rail phone line confirms that the trains are all cancelled until tomorrow morning, and one glance at the news suggests that the whole of the south of England has ground to a halt. No flights out of Heathrow, all Premier League games cancelled and lots of weekends ruined. Too bad - but when the snow stops K, Alice and I head out into the unbelievably deep snow to the shop for provisions while Alistair sorts out a tasty dinner of duck and pork belly. The rest of the family watch Strictly Come Dancing while I - in order to to avoid it - offer to do all the washing up (which at least spares me 35 minutes of Bruce Forsyth's chin and Gavin Henson's pectorals).
After a cosy evening of telly, K and I grab some sheets and I make myself fairly comfy on the floor - hoping for a way home in the morning.
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Friday 17th December
Tonight is our work Christmas do, which is being held conveniently close to my house/the office this year. In order, therefore, to avoid being stuck in the office for two hours after work finishes, Georgie, Susie and I head back to our flat for some pre-party drinks. There's been a couple of bottles of wine sat behind my desk for quite a while (courtesy of an unknown benefactor - but we're hardly going to share them out at work are we?) so I sneak them into my backpack before we leave, meaning that we have plenty to be going on with back home.
After some customary work-bitching and a galvanising shot of whisky, we head out into the light snow and up towards the restaurant where the work meal is to be held. On walking up to the door I'm immediately accosted by a burly security guard, who patiently explains the dress code to me (of which we'd had no prior knowledge). I inform him that I'm here for a pre-booked party and that I have no intention of going home to change out of my usual trainers/jeans ensemble just to get into his dodgy venue. He concedes - but points out that "when I've had my dinner" the dress code will be brought back into force. Not the nicest welcome I've ever had.
The restaurant itself seems to have a sort of nightclub upstairs - the sort of tacky, gaudily decorated place that lower-league footballers are usually caught in; along with a separate VIP area and even more burly security guards. The bar upstairs is cocktails only, so when I want a pint to drink while we wait for our tables to become free (the place having screwed up the booking) I have to order it downstairs and have a member of staff carry it up. Already, I can't be bothered with this place.
We finally get our table - but the food takes another hour or so and when it arrives it is singularly underwhelming. By this point, though, almost everyone in our 40-strong party is getting drunk and irritable and completely not in the mood. The guy who organised the party is shouting at the manager and one of the directors spends the rest of the evening negotiating the bill. In short it's an unedifying display and a complete car crash of a Christmas party.
I last until midnight, and trudge the short distance home in the snow and the ice, briefly swearing not to bother with one of these next year.
After some customary work-bitching and a galvanising shot of whisky, we head out into the light snow and up towards the restaurant where the work meal is to be held. On walking up to the door I'm immediately accosted by a burly security guard, who patiently explains the dress code to me (of which we'd had no prior knowledge). I inform him that I'm here for a pre-booked party and that I have no intention of going home to change out of my usual trainers/jeans ensemble just to get into his dodgy venue. He concedes - but points out that "when I've had my dinner" the dress code will be brought back into force. Not the nicest welcome I've ever had.
The restaurant itself seems to have a sort of nightclub upstairs - the sort of tacky, gaudily decorated place that lower-league footballers are usually caught in; along with a separate VIP area and even more burly security guards. The bar upstairs is cocktails only, so when I want a pint to drink while we wait for our tables to become free (the place having screwed up the booking) I have to order it downstairs and have a member of staff carry it up. Already, I can't be bothered with this place.
We finally get our table - but the food takes another hour or so and when it arrives it is singularly underwhelming. By this point, though, almost everyone in our 40-strong party is getting drunk and irritable and completely not in the mood. The guy who organised the party is shouting at the manager and one of the directors spends the rest of the evening negotiating the bill. In short it's an unedifying display and a complete car crash of a Christmas party.
I last until midnight, and trudge the short distance home in the snow and the ice, briefly swearing not to bother with one of these next year.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Thursday 16th December
K isn't feeling very well this morning, so I leave her in bed and reluctantly craft some disappointing sandwiches to take to work with me (they never taste as good when I know how little of my own effort went into their construction). I also have one last go at resetting the new Virgin box - sure that it might just work eventually. Well, it might. It's also slightly annoying in that I have to leave poor ill K in the house with no TV to watch, but then there are plenty of DVDs around.
Things take a turn for the better, though, when I call K later - as she's apparently brightened up enough to get on the blower to Virgin and, in her inimitable ball-busting style, managed to force them up off their arses long enough to send the correct bunch of signals "down the box" and that we now have a fully-working V+ HD box. This is great news, and I resolve never to turn it off again.
I get home later and K is snuggled up under a duvet on the sofa. Not keen to get too close to her germs (though, if I'm honest, I probably already have them) I snuggle up with her and we have fun learning how to program TV shows and films to record. When I'm done radiating joy over the idea that I've series-linked Match of the Day and what remains of Peep Show (I would never in a million years have been allowed to do so on my parents' Sky+ box back when I lived at home), we stick last night's penultimate Apprentice on. This is the always-entertaining interviews episode, which recalls every horrible interview anyone's ever had while allowing the viewer the delightful opportunity to watch previously-swaggering business-cocks squirm under intense pressure. It's a good one - and it sets up an intriguing final between Chris and Stella for Sunday night (which, yes, we have now set to record).
Things take a turn for the better, though, when I call K later - as she's apparently brightened up enough to get on the blower to Virgin and, in her inimitable ball-busting style, managed to force them up off their arses long enough to send the correct bunch of signals "down the box" and that we now have a fully-working V+ HD box. This is great news, and I resolve never to turn it off again.
I get home later and K is snuggled up under a duvet on the sofa. Not keen to get too close to her germs (though, if I'm honest, I probably already have them) I snuggle up with her and we have fun learning how to program TV shows and films to record. When I'm done radiating joy over the idea that I've series-linked Match of the Day and what remains of Peep Show (I would never in a million years have been allowed to do so on my parents' Sky+ box back when I lived at home), we stick last night's penultimate Apprentice on. This is the always-entertaining interviews episode, which recalls every horrible interview anyone's ever had while allowing the viewer the delightful opportunity to watch previously-swaggering business-cocks squirm under intense pressure. It's a good one - and it sets up an intriguing final between Chris and Stella for Sunday night (which, yes, we have now set to record).
Wednesday 15th December
Annoyingly, after all the plugging-in thrills of last night, the V+ box doesn't seem to be responding. K resolves to call them this morning, and their helpful staff assure us they'll "send some signals down the box" which all sounds terribly technical to my layperson's ears, but sure enough after a reboot it starts receiving channels. When K goes to work I poke about with the box a bit but can't seem to get the actual V+ recording bits to work. No problem, I reason, this probably takes a while to load up. I leave it on and head off to the office.
Getting home later, it has become clear that the V+ stuff isn't working - so I reset the unit. Ah. Now it doesn't work at all. Slightly furious with myself for resetting what was, I suppose, a working box but also with the box itself for taking so long to get to the error message each time (AP:43, for the record), I call Virgin. After chatting to one of their friendly UK-based staff I'm soon forwarded to a crackly line to India, where a nice but uncomprehending lady assures me she's booked an engineer (not, of course, actually trying to fix anything). Fine, I say, and grumpily retire to the sofa to look at the blank screen projected by my crocked birthday present.
This gets boring, of course, so I decide to get myself in a more festive mood by watching Die Hard. It seems to work, too. Good old reliable Die Hard.
Getting home later, it has become clear that the V+ stuff isn't working - so I reset the unit. Ah. Now it doesn't work at all. Slightly furious with myself for resetting what was, I suppose, a working box but also with the box itself for taking so long to get to the error message each time (AP:43, for the record), I call Virgin. After chatting to one of their friendly UK-based staff I'm soon forwarded to a crackly line to India, where a nice but uncomprehending lady assures me she's booked an engineer (not, of course, actually trying to fix anything). Fine, I say, and grumpily retire to the sofa to look at the blank screen projected by my crocked birthday present.
This gets boring, of course, so I decide to get myself in a more festive mood by watching Die Hard. It seems to work, too. Good old reliable Die Hard.
Tuesday 14th December
Tonight my fine colleagues and I are off for a pre-Christmas meal to celebrate a year in which we've all worked hard - and to have a bit of festive fun before the proper work Christmas do. First, though, I need to pop home as (excitingly) my early birthday present from K has been delivered to the office in the form of a Virgin V+ HD box. That's right, we're upgrading - and I'm excited enough about being able to finally go out on a Saturday night AND manage to see Match of the Day that I head home before the meal to plug it all in.
With unending faith in my own plugging-in-TV-equipment skills, I use the 20 minutes I have to clear out the old box, fanny around with some stupid wires that are wound around plastic Guitar Hero peripherals and get the new thing all plugged in. I don't, however, have time to see if it works - so I leave it switched on and head out of the door towards Crouch End.
I'm a bit worried that I've spent too long at home so I get a bit of sweat on motoring up to the restaurant. Inevitably I get there far too early - so sit alone watching the people go by and having a quick pint while the girls from my department wander up from work.
We all order slightly fancier drinks (I opt for the Don Draper-esque whisky and ginger) and chat merrily, being careful not to bitch too much about work. After dinner - I have the spectacular jerk chicken burger - we move up the road to the King's Head for another drink, after which we all say goodnight. It's nice to spend a bit more time with work folks, and in a setting away from the insanity of the bosses - that particular joy awaits on Friday night.
With unending faith in my own plugging-in-TV-equipment skills, I use the 20 minutes I have to clear out the old box, fanny around with some stupid wires that are wound around plastic Guitar Hero peripherals and get the new thing all plugged in. I don't, however, have time to see if it works - so I leave it switched on and head out of the door towards Crouch End.
I'm a bit worried that I've spent too long at home so I get a bit of sweat on motoring up to the restaurant. Inevitably I get there far too early - so sit alone watching the people go by and having a quick pint while the girls from my department wander up from work.
We all order slightly fancier drinks (I opt for the Don Draper-esque whisky and ginger) and chat merrily, being careful not to bitch too much about work. After dinner - I have the spectacular jerk chicken burger - we move up the road to the King's Head for another drink, after which we all say goodnight. It's nice to spend a bit more time with work folks, and in a setting away from the insanity of the bosses - that particular joy awaits on Friday night.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Monday 13th December
Our train back to London isn't until 1pm, so we head into Bristol for breakfast. It takes a little while to find a decent-looking cafe but eventually we have a seat and a decent fry-up in front of us. Properly fed (and finally having recovered from Saturday night) we stroll through the Galleries in search of some vaguely last-minute Christmas presents while K hunts for a new dress for her work Christmas party next week. No luck, though - and by the time we decide to make our way to the station I'm thoroughly sick of shopping and actually looking forward to getting on the train.
The journey is as quick and smooth as it was on the way down and I manage to get a little bit of writing done on the way (in between episodes of Community and Louie). K is due to go the doctor's on the way home, so we go our separate ways at King's Cross and I head home with the bags. By the time I'm there I'm totally shattered and not exactly looking forward to heading back out to go grocery shopping - but after a shower and a change of clothes I'm relatively rejuvenated and ready to do some shopping. Amazingly, having managed to avoid finding a dress she likes in the whole of Bristol, I find K happily paying for a dress in Harringay on the way to Sainsbury's. We needn't have bothered going at all!
The journey is as quick and smooth as it was on the way down and I manage to get a little bit of writing done on the way (in between episodes of Community and Louie). K is due to go the doctor's on the way home, so we go our separate ways at King's Cross and I head home with the bags. By the time I'm there I'm totally shattered and not exactly looking forward to heading back out to go grocery shopping - but after a shower and a change of clothes I'm relatively rejuvenated and ready to do some shopping. Amazingly, having managed to avoid finding a dress she likes in the whole of Bristol, I find K happily paying for a dress in Harringay on the way to Sainsbury's. We needn't have bothered going at all!
Sunday 12th December
Feeling undeniably delicate, we wake up late and are treated to bacon and eggs courtesy of Matt's culinary skill. We watch last night's X Factor before grabbing our bags and heading back into town. The girls want to go to New Look and the like, so we go to the Apple Store and gaze lovingly at the iPads and giant-screened iMacs. What's funny is that the Apple Store mostly seems to be used as a free internet cafe for 12-year-olds to check their Facebook accounts.
When the girls return we head to Harvey Nicholls (which is a place that is firmly "not for the likes of me" but we have fun laughing at the ridiculous prices - £9 for mince pies? very reasonable) and when hunger sets in we seek out Bristol's very nice German Christmas market. It is here that I manage to source my first taste of currywurst since back in Berlin - which does the trick temporarily and takes me back to much warmer days.
A few shops later we say goodbye to Matt, Ellie, Sam and Heather and head towards the waterfront to find our hotel for tonight. The bags are heavy and I'm feeling rough after sleeping on the floor last night, so the first thing I do at the hotel room is have a refreshing shower and a lie-down before heading back out for tonight's gig. We have to get moving quickly though - we're both so tired that if we stay too long then we won't leave at all.
We walk up Park Street via Fopp and the Design Guild, scouting out somewhere to have a drink before going to the Anson Rooms. We end up in the Scream bar at the top of Park Street, where the Tottenham v Chelsea game is just finishing - managing to catch Didier Drogba's missed penalty that leaves the Blues fourth in the league. Gutting. Undeterred though, we have a pint and some dinner in an attempt to liven up before going to see Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
By 7pm we're on our way through the chilly night to a gig venue I have been to many times, but not for several years. We're also going to see a band I haven't really listened to for a few years but also one I never thought I'd get to see, since they first "broke up" some seven years ago. The place is packed with nerds and there's no lighting beyond that created by the four film projectors in the middle of the room. This makes for a kind of intimate atmosphere to go along with Godspeed's long, thoughtful and atmospheric music (they play six songs in a 2+ hour set) and the film loops they use are uniformly eerie and beautiful. The only problem is that K and I are so knackered that we're almost falling asleep on our feet - so by 10.45 we're totally done with the gig and we head back to the hotel for some much needed rest.
When the girls return we head to Harvey Nicholls (which is a place that is firmly "not for the likes of me" but we have fun laughing at the ridiculous prices - £9 for mince pies? very reasonable) and when hunger sets in we seek out Bristol's very nice German Christmas market. It is here that I manage to source my first taste of currywurst since back in Berlin - which does the trick temporarily and takes me back to much warmer days.
A few shops later we say goodbye to Matt, Ellie, Sam and Heather and head towards the waterfront to find our hotel for tonight. The bags are heavy and I'm feeling rough after sleeping on the floor last night, so the first thing I do at the hotel room is have a refreshing shower and a lie-down before heading back out for tonight's gig. We have to get moving quickly though - we're both so tired that if we stay too long then we won't leave at all.
We walk up Park Street via Fopp and the Design Guild, scouting out somewhere to have a drink before going to the Anson Rooms. We end up in the Scream bar at the top of Park Street, where the Tottenham v Chelsea game is just finishing - managing to catch Didier Drogba's missed penalty that leaves the Blues fourth in the league. Gutting. Undeterred though, we have a pint and some dinner in an attempt to liven up before going to see Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
By 7pm we're on our way through the chilly night to a gig venue I have been to many times, but not for several years. We're also going to see a band I haven't really listened to for a few years but also one I never thought I'd get to see, since they first "broke up" some seven years ago. The place is packed with nerds and there's no lighting beyond that created by the four film projectors in the middle of the room. This makes for a kind of intimate atmosphere to go along with Godspeed's long, thoughtful and atmospheric music (they play six songs in a 2+ hour set) and the film loops they use are uniformly eerie and beautiful. The only problem is that K and I are so knackered that we're almost falling asleep on our feet - so by 10.45 we're totally done with the gig and we head back to the hotel for some much needed rest.
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