We’re all trying to get ahead including the immigrant woman who has set up her market stall with several heads to which, perhaps, she may add wigs, possibly hats, or maybe it is the heads that are for sale. Get a head.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Getting ahead
We’re all trying to get ahead including the immigrant woman who has set up her market stall with several heads to which, perhaps, she may add wigs, possibly hats, or maybe it is the heads that are for sale. Get a head.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Shame!
A couple of nights ago on the BBC World Service I heard a middle-class American couple speak about their lives. It appears they live day to day in fear. Fear that they will end in poverty. With two children and living in a country where 47 million people have no health-care coverage, the woman said she didn’t dare leave her job because it provided health insurance for the entire family. She hated her job, but each day she made herself go. To get there, she drove in a car that’s inferior to cars she has previously owned. The same is true of her husband’s car. ‘We’re going down, not up,’ he said in bewilderment. Their underlying fear was the erosion of the middle class.
Is it any wonder when average earnings in the US have actually declined, while CEOs are wallowing in salaries amounting to hundreds of millions of dollars. There’s only so much to go round.
Take it from Barack Obama: ‘At a time when average workers are experiencing little or no income growth, many of America’s CEOs have lost any sense of shame about grabbing whatever their plaint, hand-picked corporate boards will allow.’ To America’s first black presidential hopeful, I say amen.
Is it any wonder when average earnings in the US have actually declined, while CEOs are wallowing in salaries amounting to hundreds of millions of dollars. There’s only so much to go round.
Take it from Barack Obama: ‘At a time when average workers are experiencing little or no income growth, many of America’s CEOs have lost any sense of shame about grabbing whatever their plaint, hand-picked corporate boards will allow.’ To America’s first black presidential hopeful, I say amen.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Coming clean
Exfoliate your face not with a product tempting you to part with £9.99, but with a flannel and a bar of soap (I recommend olive oil soap). After working up a lather and rinsing with cold water, moisturise with almond oil (250 ml of organically produced almond oil costs about £4, and your skin will love it).
Laundry: use half the recommended amount of washing powder. Occasionally, to brighten whites, use the full amount. Don’t bother with rinse conditioner. It’s unnecessary and smells like babies’ sick. And, for those delicate fabrics that need to be hand-washed just reach for the Fairy Liquid.
Don’t get taken to the cleaners with clothes that must be dry-cleaned. They’re costly to your pocket and the environment.
Laundry: use half the recommended amount of washing powder. Occasionally, to brighten whites, use the full amount. Don’t bother with rinse conditioner. It’s unnecessary and smells like babies’ sick. And, for those delicate fabrics that need to be hand-washed just reach for the Fairy Liquid.
Don’t get taken to the cleaners with clothes that must be dry-cleaned. They’re costly to your pocket and the environment.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Free lunch
If you’re watching the pennies and missing the pounds, you have to be a tad opportunistic. Such as this bird: the Pied Wagtail. As I walked down a street in Peckham, it flew past me and straight into a bakery where it helped itself to lunch, posed for a picture and was off. Not that I'm suggesting you go nicking your lunch...
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Labour's new spotlight
The government is hot on the trail of the lying, thieving benefit cheat. Buses in my part of town feature advertisements for this campaign including one that depicts a thin, mixed-race, young woman who looks like she wants to fold into herself. The ad tells us she thinks that because she hasn’t declared that she has a partner living with her she’s not guilty of ‘benefit fraud’.
She is! Indeed, she stands accused of being a ‘benefit thief’. But, allowing my imagination a brief flight I can conjure several scenarios. She’s lonely and has met a new lover and he has moved in. Will he stay a week? Will he be gone in six weeks or six months? If she declares him as living with her and he leaves her, how long before the benefits are reinstated? What if he is only there some of the time and has kept on his own accommodation? At what point has he moved in? Perhaps he’s living with her but has not the means or desire to financially contribute to her home life. What if, his living in her home actually costs her money?
She’s a pariah. But not so the tax fraudster, cheat, thief. That person is wealthy and therefore not to be harassed.
I confess that these days I hear the word benefit in a quite benign context and I jump. I’m a person in the spotlight of the benefit police.
She is! Indeed, she stands accused of being a ‘benefit thief’. But, allowing my imagination a brief flight I can conjure several scenarios. She’s lonely and has met a new lover and he has moved in. Will he stay a week? Will he be gone in six weeks or six months? If she declares him as living with her and he leaves her, how long before the benefits are reinstated? What if he is only there some of the time and has kept on his own accommodation? At what point has he moved in? Perhaps he’s living with her but has not the means or desire to financially contribute to her home life. What if, his living in her home actually costs her money?
She’s a pariah. But not so the tax fraudster, cheat, thief. That person is wealthy and therefore not to be harassed.
I confess that these days I hear the word benefit in a quite benign context and I jump. I’m a person in the spotlight of the benefit police.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Subway romance
This is a romantic image, I think. I took the photo in the subway at the heart (some would refer to another part of the anatomy)of the Elephant & Castle. For anyone unfamiliar with the Elephant & Castle, romantic it is not.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Green poo
Pundits representing the save-the-planet lobby are to be heard fervently extolling the virtues of public transport. ‘Leave the car behind,’ they say (not even considering that you might not have a car to leave behind). ‘ Take the bus,' they say in a way that makes you think they’ve only just discovered that buses exist. Or, the train. Let it take the strain AND save the atmosphere.
The atmosphere on the top deck of the 63 is KFC. No one appears to be eating crumbed stringy bits of hammered chicken flesh right now, it’s just a residual smell. I spot that the seats at the front of the bus are vacant. Happily, I head for them but, just in time, spot the reason. Faeces. It could be animal or human. By it lies a crumpled smeared tissue. Protruding from the brown mound a Q-tip.
On the bendy bus I endure every nerve in my body being juddered. When I’m not being shaken I experience nausea with the way the bus swings out to take corners. A whippet of a white man, shod in trainers and limp tracksuit attire, gets on the bus with bedraggled woman and thin children. The man is smoking. There is no one who is going to remonstrate.
These are but two journeys on one day in London. Yeh, go Green, take the bus.
The atmosphere on the top deck of the 63 is KFC. No one appears to be eating crumbed stringy bits of hammered chicken flesh right now, it’s just a residual smell. I spot that the seats at the front of the bus are vacant. Happily, I head for them but, just in time, spot the reason. Faeces. It could be animal or human. By it lies a crumpled smeared tissue. Protruding from the brown mound a Q-tip.
On the bendy bus I endure every nerve in my body being juddered. When I’m not being shaken I experience nausea with the way the bus swings out to take corners. A whippet of a white man, shod in trainers and limp tracksuit attire, gets on the bus with bedraggled woman and thin children. The man is smoking. There is no one who is going to remonstrate.
These are but two journeys on one day in London. Yeh, go Green, take the bus.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
With or without a crutch
Here's another instalment of my putative book about life on the dole. It describes my first appointment at the Jobcentre in March 2005:
"At the Jobcentre I am directed upstairs to a department all pinks and purples. It is airy, or would be if the windows were open. The sun streams in.
I approach a woman at a desk. I say that I have an appointment but I’m worried I have filled out the wrong form.
'If you don't ask for the right one that's what happens.'
'How can I ask for the right form? I don't know what they're called.'
'What are you applying for?'
'Jobseekers I think.'
'Can you work?'
'Yes.'
'Then, it's Jobseekers.'
She peruses the form, decides that even though it's the wrong one, it'll do, stamps a couple of pages and tells me to take a seat on a sofa. But, before then, after I confess I’m new to all this, she advises quite out of the blue:
'Drop out, dahling. That's what you need to do. Just drop out.'
I sit as directed. The sun is streaming in and I begin to feel hot and claustrophobic, but I’m temporarily diverted by the supervisor.
'You know me, ‘ard as nails,’ she says to a colleague. ‘Customer had a crutch, didn’t he? Only tried to hit me with it. Another customer saved me. Frightening.''
Then another diversion when a couple of the women working there joke about whether one of them has a hickey on her neck.
'Go on, show us!'
I think I'll just walk over to the window. I want to move my limbs and catch sight of the elusive air out there. This place has virtually none. To reach the window I have to walk past an adviser dealing with a young pregnant woman with broken English. Strolling past the desk, I feel the temperature plunge. I have transgressed. The adviser is threatened by my unplanned-for movement.
'Sorry, I need you to go back there,' she says firmly as if dealing with a child (or a criminal).
I return to the nylon sofa feeling for a moment as if I’ve inhabited the body of a crazed petitioner capable of lashing out, crutch or no crutch."
"At the Jobcentre I am directed upstairs to a department all pinks and purples. It is airy, or would be if the windows were open. The sun streams in.
I approach a woman at a desk. I say that I have an appointment but I’m worried I have filled out the wrong form.
'If you don't ask for the right one that's what happens.'
'How can I ask for the right form? I don't know what they're called.'
'What are you applying for?'
'Jobseekers I think.'
'Can you work?'
'Yes.'
'Then, it's Jobseekers.'
She peruses the form, decides that even though it's the wrong one, it'll do, stamps a couple of pages and tells me to take a seat on a sofa. But, before then, after I confess I’m new to all this, she advises quite out of the blue:
'Drop out, dahling. That's what you need to do. Just drop out.'
I sit as directed. The sun is streaming in and I begin to feel hot and claustrophobic, but I’m temporarily diverted by the supervisor.
'You know me, ‘ard as nails,’ she says to a colleague. ‘Customer had a crutch, didn’t he? Only tried to hit me with it. Another customer saved me. Frightening.''
Then another diversion when a couple of the women working there joke about whether one of them has a hickey on her neck.
'Go on, show us!'
I think I'll just walk over to the window. I want to move my limbs and catch sight of the elusive air out there. This place has virtually none. To reach the window I have to walk past an adviser dealing with a young pregnant woman with broken English. Strolling past the desk, I feel the temperature plunge. I have transgressed. The adviser is threatened by my unplanned-for movement.
'Sorry, I need you to go back there,' she says firmly as if dealing with a child (or a criminal).
I return to the nylon sofa feeling for a moment as if I’ve inhabited the body of a crazed petitioner capable of lashing out, crutch or no crutch."
Monday, January 08, 2007
The F-word
Here's an excerpt early in my story (March 05) of going from self employment to no employment.
'Walking home from my shopping spree -- porridge, tea, pears, two bananas and no flowers despite the cheapness of daffodils, I cry. I know I'm crying because in the neutral rain, I taste salt. I hope to see no one I know. When I do, and she asks how I am, I avoid eye contact. An F-word comes out: fine. Just fine. How do you tell someone that you've been blubbing in the bathroom, the dining room and the stairs in between. That the phone doesn't ring. And my only e-mail is asking me to contribute to a charity fun-run. I leave off the make-up. I do eat lunch, though, and that must mean I haven't reached absolute rock bottom with depression. I can't exercise. Can't fill out the numerous forms that await scrawls. No one comes. No one goes. I'm going to lose the power of speech.
I've cleaned the crumb-tray in the toaster. Aired the mattresses, changed the sheets, bagged twigs from various pruning forays. Wiped off years' worth of finger staining on doors where the handles are never used. Mopped the floors. At least that's one task that bears infinite repetition, so I need not be without anything to do.
Benumbed. Becalmed with an occasional storm of anguish. Then the placid surface reforms. My head is down. My spirits too. How long before I can have another cup of tea? How long before I can switch to a glass of wine? How much longer can I afford wine? Should I start going to mass for the teaspoonful I'll get in the Eucharist? That's not enough. At 50+ you're thick-skinned, hard-bellied, bitter and it takes adulteration to keep that slippery smile. Without the addictions, the smile might not even appear. So far, I can still smile. But, joy? I feel joy as an absence. I've lost her. Sometimes I call to her.
I turn on TV. It is sometime past noon. This is another blip. I don't do this. I sit. I watch the news three times in patches on three different channels and in between inhale the many aroma advertisements. Air fresheners that last for hours and days, ones that spurt on opening and closing the toilet door. 'What does your loo say about you?' I turn off the TV and listen to the news on Radio Four. Jamie Oliver is on every programme. He's a fine chap. A wife, two children, a heart, a soul, a mission and a money-generating empire. See, he's a success.
I am not. I am an F word.'
'Walking home from my shopping spree -- porridge, tea, pears, two bananas and no flowers despite the cheapness of daffodils, I cry. I know I'm crying because in the neutral rain, I taste salt. I hope to see no one I know. When I do, and she asks how I am, I avoid eye contact. An F-word comes out: fine. Just fine. How do you tell someone that you've been blubbing in the bathroom, the dining room and the stairs in between. That the phone doesn't ring. And my only e-mail is asking me to contribute to a charity fun-run. I leave off the make-up. I do eat lunch, though, and that must mean I haven't reached absolute rock bottom with depression. I can't exercise. Can't fill out the numerous forms that await scrawls. No one comes. No one goes. I'm going to lose the power of speech.
I've cleaned the crumb-tray in the toaster. Aired the mattresses, changed the sheets, bagged twigs from various pruning forays. Wiped off years' worth of finger staining on doors where the handles are never used. Mopped the floors. At least that's one task that bears infinite repetition, so I need not be without anything to do.
Benumbed. Becalmed with an occasional storm of anguish. Then the placid surface reforms. My head is down. My spirits too. How long before I can have another cup of tea? How long before I can switch to a glass of wine? How much longer can I afford wine? Should I start going to mass for the teaspoonful I'll get in the Eucharist? That's not enough. At 50+ you're thick-skinned, hard-bellied, bitter and it takes adulteration to keep that slippery smile. Without the addictions, the smile might not even appear. So far, I can still smile. But, joy? I feel joy as an absence. I've lost her. Sometimes I call to her.
I turn on TV. It is sometime past noon. This is another blip. I don't do this. I sit. I watch the news three times in patches on three different channels and in between inhale the many aroma advertisements. Air fresheners that last for hours and days, ones that spurt on opening and closing the toilet door. 'What does your loo say about you?' I turn off the TV and listen to the news on Radio Four. Jamie Oliver is on every programme. He's a fine chap. A wife, two children, a heart, a soul, a mission and a money-generating empire. See, he's a success.
I am not. I am an F word.'
Friday, January 05, 2007
Dinner reprised
Technology (actually, the culprit is my ineptness) ate picture number two of my healthy/cheap meal. Here it is (see below for context). This dish of food was eaten last summer but ingredients appear to be quinoa (yes, you’d have to be a city-zen to get hold of it; basically it’s a protein-rich grain that once fuelled the Incas!); roasted vegetable; butter beans enhanced with lemon, olive oil and a little red onion; flat leaf parsley, and dressed cooked beetroot with spring onion. Enough of food: you get the idea.
I’ve been told to start inserting into my blog some parts of the book I’m working on which is a journey to Hades. To be less dramatic it’s about the madness of signing-on and confronting in my middle-class middle-age the trials of life on the dole. Enlivening the story is the fact that the journey takes place in south London.
Coming soon to a screen in front of you.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
nosh for dosh
Here are a couple of pictures of meals I cooked and enjoyed eating at an approximate cost of £1.30 per serving. The photos are the proof of the pudding. You can eat cheaply and well.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Two kings
A young man unemployed, bored, and living in a caravan just outside Sheringham, north Norfolk, has a brainwave. At a cost of £15, he changes his name by deed poll from Nick Copeland (regular serf and nobody) to King Nicholas. He thinks, rightly, that this will add a certain frisson to signing on at his local dole office, and to life in general. His caravan becomes a Kingdom, and in doing this cheeky thing, he acquires notoriety and a book is published on his elevation from commoner to royalty. Hail King Nicholas.
If only I’d thought of it first. Actually, I haven’t been thinking of much recently. I had a virus and then I had the blues and then along came Christmas and the blog…well, it has been ignored. But, no longer…I am back; still poor in that relative way we in the developed world are. Still not gainfully employed. Still hoping for a break.
And there’s nothing like a new year -- 007 -- to get warm pink optimism going. Talking of 007, have I mentioned that in the late 1960s I was in a drama group with Pierce Brosnan? In those days, he was an Irish guy of no discernible talent; now a Hollywood king. Fortune has smiled on him. She's capricious is Fortune. Let's hope she smiles on us, too. Happy New Year to all my readers -- there's at least 18 of you!
If only I’d thought of it first. Actually, I haven’t been thinking of much recently. I had a virus and then I had the blues and then along came Christmas and the blog…well, it has been ignored. But, no longer…I am back; still poor in that relative way we in the developed world are. Still not gainfully employed. Still hoping for a break.
And there’s nothing like a new year -- 007 -- to get warm pink optimism going. Talking of 007, have I mentioned that in the late 1960s I was in a drama group with Pierce Brosnan? In those days, he was an Irish guy of no discernible talent; now a Hollywood king. Fortune has smiled on him. She's capricious is Fortune. Let's hope she smiles on us, too. Happy New Year to all my readers -- there's at least 18 of you!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Hanging out the laundry
A blog. How personal to be? I’ve resisted the laundry option but somehow a blog needs to be a picture of the whole and the intimate. I shall briefly focus on the intimate.
First, something trite. Technology and I are not bedfellows. This site might look a lot better if I was, and odd things like a picture of a live parrot and a dog with feet of clay might not hover between a headline and copy. But, so be it.
Less trite. I was talking to a friend. I said I felt that my identity was being eroded. In fact, like a well-skied slope I feel almost featureless. Signing on, subjecting myself to the little indignities, the powerlessness, the development of brown-envelope phobia, the gloom, the penny pinching have seriously reduced my sense of being someone. I feel I am no one. No one going nowhere. Shuffling not striding.
Once upon a time I met a man in San Francisco. In the 1960s he had changed his name to Nobody and ran as a candidate in a US presidential election with the slogan: ‘Nobody for President’. He received lots of votes, but not enough. Say what you like about the value of absurdism (which my spell check reckons to be an error) but it can redeem us. The very memory of meeting Nobody has given me a chuckle. And if you can laugh, you know the bastards haven’t quite got you.
First, something trite. Technology and I are not bedfellows. This site might look a lot better if I was, and odd things like a picture of a live parrot and a dog with feet of clay might not hover between a headline and copy. But, so be it.
Less trite. I was talking to a friend. I said I felt that my identity was being eroded. In fact, like a well-skied slope I feel almost featureless. Signing on, subjecting myself to the little indignities, the powerlessness, the development of brown-envelope phobia, the gloom, the penny pinching have seriously reduced my sense of being someone. I feel I am no one. No one going nowhere. Shuffling not striding.
Once upon a time I met a man in San Francisco. In the 1960s he had changed his name to Nobody and ran as a candidate in a US presidential election with the slogan: ‘Nobody for President’. He received lots of votes, but not enough. Say what you like about the value of absurdism (which my spell check reckons to be an error) but it can redeem us. The very memory of meeting Nobody has given me a chuckle. And if you can laugh, you know the bastards haven’t quite got you.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Many happy returns
Pick up any newspaper, particularly the well-upholstered weekend ones, and you’re bound to come across a columnist complaining of personal poverty. Rosie Millard, famously overdrawn on her credit cards, started the trend although the subsequent discovery that she owns several pricey properties has stemmed the outpouring of grief. Even so, she continues to earn a few bob whinging about her debts in the Independent every Saturday.
Then there’s India Knight. In her Sunday Times column she observed that ‘One of the mysteries of 21st century life is why people who earn decent salaries are still relatively poor.’ She recounts a sorry tale of holidays in Blighty, clothes from Topshop, and DIY fingernails. But she’s happy that children of the ‘newly impoverished middle classes’ are learning to share bedrooms and expect modest Christmas presents.
No wonder the pips are squeaking. The cost of raising a child from birth to age 21 destined to enjoy the privilege of private schooling is reckoned to be £251,187. Stick your kid in state education, and it’s a steal at £180,137 (saving you £71,050).
Since the price tag is similar, a question is beginning to surface: a mortgage or a child? Which will give better returns?
Then there’s India Knight. In her Sunday Times column she observed that ‘One of the mysteries of 21st century life is why people who earn decent salaries are still relatively poor.’ She recounts a sorry tale of holidays in Blighty, clothes from Topshop, and DIY fingernails. But she’s happy that children of the ‘newly impoverished middle classes’ are learning to share bedrooms and expect modest Christmas presents.
No wonder the pips are squeaking. The cost of raising a child from birth to age 21 destined to enjoy the privilege of private schooling is reckoned to be £251,187. Stick your kid in state education, and it’s a steal at £180,137 (saving you £71,050).
Since the price tag is similar, a question is beginning to surface: a mortgage or a child? Which will give better returns?
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Just like that
Thousands of women on limited incomes decide on the prudence of saving for Christmas. They join a hamper club. A quaint notion that sits with warm beer and home-made apple pie. Reliable. Unostentatious. Some start saving from January to fund the festive season. These women do this (it’s almost exclusively a female thing) because although they struggle to pay for the extras in life, when it comes to Christmas they want to see the light of delight in the eyes of the children. And, they want to put on a spread that skimps on nothing. Diligently they save.
But, then, several weeks before the women are to crack open their piggy banks, they discover they are empty. Their savings have disappeared. Just like that.
Described by an MP as ‘legalized money laundering from the poor to the rich’, the Farepak Christmas Saving Scheme debacle is a casebook study in corporate cynicism.
But, then, several weeks before the women are to crack open their piggy banks, they discover they are empty. Their savings have disappeared. Just like that.
Described by an MP as ‘legalized money laundering from the poor to the rich’, the Farepak Christmas Saving Scheme debacle is a casebook study in corporate cynicism.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Making records
Have you noticed that we appear to be living in a record-making epoch?
By the end of the year, more of us will be declared insolvent than at any other time. Insolvencies are set to exceed the 100,000 annual barrier for the first time ever.
We are the record holders when it comes to borrowing: we are the biggest borrowers in Europe. On average, each of us owes £3,000 in unsecured loans.
There’s a record that we may be on course to beat. And, that’s the one set in 1992 for home repossessions. Currently, our homes are being repossessed at a rate not seen since then (think recession and Black Wednesday).
Wages are falling in real terms and unemployment is rising. Now, where’s my Ian Drury record? ‘Reasons to be cheerful…’
By the end of the year, more of us will be declared insolvent than at any other time. Insolvencies are set to exceed the 100,000 annual barrier for the first time ever.
We are the record holders when it comes to borrowing: we are the biggest borrowers in Europe. On average, each of us owes £3,000 in unsecured loans.
There’s a record that we may be on course to beat. And, that’s the one set in 1992 for home repossessions. Currently, our homes are being repossessed at a rate not seen since then (think recession and Black Wednesday).
Wages are falling in real terms and unemployment is rising. Now, where’s my Ian Drury record? ‘Reasons to be cheerful…’
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Little abominations
Why not raise the economic merits of the vacuum flask? I’ve been thinking of doing so for some time, but hesitated. I don’t want this blog to be mimsy and mumsy. But I kept feeling the urge to mention that when (long ago) I was in Japan I observed that in the mornings the lady of the house would fill a vacuum flask with tea, helping herself to a cuppa whenever she fancied. It saves on running water and on powering up the kettle and therefore on grid and personal energy. I’ve been doing the same. And, now, I find that I’m in the company of celebs. Gwyneth, Madonna and Halle have all been photographed with vacuum flasks. The flask is trendy. For a while there I thought I was being un-cool. But, no, I was a leader of the pack.
And, I can highly recommend bringing one (a flask, not a celebrity) with you on rail journeys because not only does it save a whopping £1.50 for a cup of British Rail tea, but the horror of ‘non-dairy milk’, yes, that’s vegetable fat to you and me, which you are expected to add to your tea.
It’s the little abominations that get you.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Cockles
Poverty sucks. But poverty must eat. My latest passion is roasted vegetables. This is what I ate the other night. I put thick wedges of red onion, courgette, a field mushroom and pumpkin, plus a few unpeeled garlic cloves into a baking tray. I added sufficient olive oil, gave it some thyme and time, say 30 minutes at 180 degrees. Put couscous in a bowl, added boiling water, covered. Sat down, leafed through a newspaper. I served the colourful veg on its bed of couscous with, on the side, left-over beetroot salad and half a chopped avocado. Cost? Approximately £1.30 per portion. Vitamin intake: maximum.
The following day I roasted the left-over bits of veg plus a couple of tomatoes, put pasta on to boil, sat down, poured a glass of cheap wine. Once cooked, I tossed the lot in a little virgin olive oil combined with grain mustard, lemon or whatever came to hand. Added torn flat-leaf parsley and slivers of parmesan. Delicious.
Today I’ll make a big pot of leek and potato soup, with a difference. I'll include a sweet potato. Eaten with buttery toast, I guarantee your cockles will be warmed as nights sparkle with a forgotten iciness.
The following day I roasted the left-over bits of veg plus a couple of tomatoes, put pasta on to boil, sat down, poured a glass of cheap wine. Once cooked, I tossed the lot in a little virgin olive oil combined with grain mustard, lemon or whatever came to hand. Added torn flat-leaf parsley and slivers of parmesan. Delicious.
Today I’ll make a big pot of leek and potato soup, with a difference. I'll include a sweet potato. Eaten with buttery toast, I guarantee your cockles will be warmed as nights sparkle with a forgotten iciness.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Existentialism
Sometimes you can’t quite put your finger on it. Then I read about Mauro Brunetti. He has put his finger on it. Mr Brunetti is suing his local Italian train company for causing him ‘existential damage’.
The newspaper reports that Mr Brunetti is ‘so exasperated by the constant uncertainty of whether his train will arrive on time that he sometimes wonders if his life has any value or meaning.’
How that resonates with anyone who has stood sodden and whipped by the wind at a bus-stop wondering whether indeed a bus will ever arrive and if it does will it stop? One night, I stood in the aforementioned state for 10 minutes before a bus appeared on the horizon. I stuck my hand out to stop the bus but, oddly, it seemed to pick up speed and, yes, it swept past me. I was so distressed I thought about returning home and missing the art event I’d been invited to attend, and so frustrated I kicked a bollard in a way that suggests that yobbish behaviour is not the exclusive domain of the yob. Ten minutes later another bus appeared. This time I stood in the road to stop it, and wondered if this is what it takes. The driver said she’d never seen anyone do that before. When I told her my tale of woe, she said: ‘Probably the other driver didn’t see you.’ Quite.
The newspaper reports that Mr Brunetti is ‘so exasperated by the constant uncertainty of whether his train will arrive on time that he sometimes wonders if his life has any value or meaning.’
How that resonates with anyone who has stood sodden and whipped by the wind at a bus-stop wondering whether indeed a bus will ever arrive and if it does will it stop? One night, I stood in the aforementioned state for 10 minutes before a bus appeared on the horizon. I stuck my hand out to stop the bus but, oddly, it seemed to pick up speed and, yes, it swept past me. I was so distressed I thought about returning home and missing the art event I’d been invited to attend, and so frustrated I kicked a bollard in a way that suggests that yobbish behaviour is not the exclusive domain of the yob. Ten minutes later another bus appeared. This time I stood in the road to stop it, and wondered if this is what it takes. The driver said she’d never seen anyone do that before. When I told her my tale of woe, she said: ‘Probably the other driver didn’t see you.’ Quite.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Still Rich
Do I sense a possible money-making opportunity for the New Poor? Each day some pundit or other attacks the Still Rich for their planet-destroying pastimes. Whether it’s plasma screens, gas-guzzlers or frequent flights to the bijou second home, the affluent are leaving a legacy of destruction for their expensively educated wee ones. So, say the environmentalists, politicians and, increasingly, god’s representatives on earth.
The rich, it is argued, must learn to live on less. It’s an unexpected irony of capitalism that the affluent (or, as my Auntie likes to say: the effluent) are being targeted to curb their avarice. Stop spending, they are being told. Oh, dear. And, just how do you do that, some of them may be wondering. And, here’s where the poverty consultant comes in. For a fee, s/he can show the Still Rich how to reduce their carbon footprint on the planet and thereby ensure a future for their children and ours, too.
Basically, we will explain that what you do is you live on less and we will show them how. Once they learn that they will become free of the abuse aimed at them on radio, TV and in the press. To help them achieve that is rather priceless, I think.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)