London is like an onion.  Layer after layer of history and interesting facts.  When we were house hunting I asked why all the fireplaces were blocked up or not in use and I was informed that it is illegal to light a fire at home in London and that all the chimneys are defunct.  No one could tell me exactly why but I suppose it has something to do with the fear of the return to the days of smog.  Since the great fire of London in 1666 which raged for three days and destroyed over 13,000 dwellings, 87 churchs and St. Paul’s Cathedral,  thatched roofs were consequently banned and the only thatched roof to be found in London today, for which a special permit was obtained, is that of the recently constructed replica of Shakespeare’s Rose Theatre, The Globe on the South Bank. 

Perhaps it is because I have lived a quiet life for the past sixteen years in this small farming community that I find myself so engrossed and fascinated by the rich historical facts and idiosyncracies of my next home.   I recently read this about London which has crushed any lofty ideals I may have formed during my absence over the years:

“There is a lingering idea among tourists that London is a place of Victorian propriety, full of well-mannered, uptight ladies and gentlemen.  Apart from a very brief 19th century flirtation with moral rectitude, the character of the city has always been base – drunkenness for its own sake is still very much a London pastime, as is fighting.  This wildness and cruelty was at it apogee in the eighteenth century, when a man could be hanged for stealing spoons.”

That’s a relief.  Moral rectitude has never been my forte.

 Another fascinating fact.  Do you know where the word “tip” originates from?  If you go to the Twinings Tea Museum in The Strand you will find out. 

“The  most remarkable exhibit is a plain wooden box bearing the initials T.I.P. – short for “To Insure Promptness”.  Patrons of coffee houses (where tea was first served) would drop a few pennies into these boxes to encourage swifter service”.

Mr. Jules likes that last one as he can add it to his interesting facts about the UK knowledge base alongside the origins of the term POSH.

Back in the UK , pre-volcano, we waited like naughty children in a glass and steel edifice on The Strand watching the Koi in a Japanese inspired pond.  Don’t be fooled by the modern architecture,  the British banking system is still Dickensian, in fact I think it may even be governed by medieval law, only appearances have changed.  I had to bite my tongue several times as it wanted to say “Please sir, can we ‘ave some money?” as we were led to a wood panelled room and I sat trying to shake off the feeling of being back in the Headmistress’ Office.  The Headmistress/Banker had beautiful manners and was highly skilled in the art of retrieving information through inane conversation.  It was a marvellous performance with excellent timing but  alas minus the laughs.  He kept coming back to my whereabouts between the years 1986 and 1990 – a kibbutz perhaps, terrorist cell? his intonation implied.  My vague reply of “travelling” without further elaboration made his eyebrows knit together and I silently chalked up a one on my side of the table. 

We’ve developed a sort of comedy routine now with those wielding the power.   Mr. J. is the serious one, razor sharp on-the-button with the figures handling all the papers.  I am the dipsy sidekick whose precise role I have yet to determine.  The most I can say is that I provide a bit of light entertainment and humanise Mr. J., who can be a bit frightening in his manières Suisses. Note to British Bankers: the Swiss don’t understand polite, inane questions or euphemisms they only state facts and answer all questions directly and honestly.  Yes I know it is astonishing, even marvellous as you say,  AND  BECAUSE OF THIS they (the Swiss) get a smidgen impatient at times.  (I noticed that at one point the Banker’s coffee cup was shaking as the steely blue eyes of my Swiss man bore down on him waiting for him to catch up.  I know how powerful that look is as I occasionally get it when I baffle him).

I have begged not to come along to these meetings as my neck aches from nodding knowingly at well timed intervals and I fear my eye balls may permanently glaze over but Mr. J. explained that as I will be a co-owner I have to, apparently, show up and sign my name on lots of pieces of paper in my best handwriting.  There was one suppressed snigger moment when Mr. J. had to provide a personal code and he used the dog’s name.  I mean here we are in Coutts, on the Strand, in a wood panelled meeting room drinking out of bone china cups  and he writes not chuchichäschtli (Swiss German for kitchen cupboard pronounced hooheehayshlee, as you know) which would have given them something to think about or even the regal sounding Jungfrau,  just plain old Molly.  That’s the Swiss for you,  nothing bloody bollocks about them at all. 

 When we were leaving we were politely asked as to our plans for the rest of the trip and Mr. Jules, fooled again, answered honestly and enthusiastically that he was going to queue up for tickets for The Comedy Store.  I wanted to kick his shins but desperate for a laugh at this stage I threw my hat into the ring and said I was going off to a Vinyasa Flow yoga class in (stinky, full of hippies) Soho adding in my intonation that yes there would be incense and, heaven forbid, even a bit of chanting.  The Banker’s eyebrows knitted together again and I gleefully upped my one point to two.  I could sense we  had disappointed him by not having a appointment at Sotheby’s followed by lunch at Claridges but ho-hum.

As a treat I told Mr. J. I would come with him that night to the Comedy Store so he went along and queued up for an hour to get the door tickets.  (I only huff and hum about going so he offers to do the queuing while I go back to the hotel for a nice shower and to change out of serious would-be-first-time-buyers gear: pearls, cashmere sweater, Hermès scarf and Tod’s ballerinas to girl about town: leather jacket, jeans, pony tail).  It is rather sweet that he loves English stand up comedy, lui, mon homme Suisse.  The last time we were there too many girls were squeazed into too few clothes wearing bunny ears and standing around drinking pints. The women still drink masses (mostly pints) but there were more properly dressed females this time.  I even spotted some families up from the home counties and worried that maybe they had got the wrong venue and were supposed to be across the road watching Mama Mia.

You’ve got to know where to sit at the Comedy Store.  When our friend Young Dave was last there he was late back to his place in the front row after the interval and the comedian spent the rest of the session picking on him.  The fact that he is a chartered accountant probably didn’t help either.  I always make Mr. J. sit a few rows back as the answer of Switzerland in an accent heavy with German undertones to the question Where are you from?  would be the equivalent of winning the stand up comic’s lottery to them.

The French call jogging  “le footing” and that is more of an exact terminology.  One foot in front of the other in a bouncing motion.  Anyway I don’t even get to start my “footing” until I arrive at the flat bit at the top of the hill in the woods.  For the moment I am power walking down the hill towards the river when  I pass the couple-without-children-with-the-four-cars going off to work.  I say “bonjour” politely although without the heart chakra engaged  because I harbour a fury towards their his and her minis, the four wheel drive and the porsche.  A few years back they were burgled and ALL her expensive underwear was stolen.  In fact the claim for expensive underwear outbid the other items taken during the robbery.  I know all this because we have the same architect and Georges is our friend.  Along with the fury at the conspicuous consumption is the curiosity as to how couples-without-children live.  A life where sensible, flesh coloured underwear for easy washing is banished, I presume.  I know they spend most evenings in their jacuzzi because I can see the steam.  (This is the second jacuzzi, the first had to be torn down because they failed to ask the Commune for planning permission as it was more than the size of a garden shed – of course it was this is a couple with four cars!).  After downing a jamboree of champagne – I swear I can hear the cork popping all the way up the hill to  my house – they have wild, rampant, loud sex in every room in the house, every night.

I am now at the river.  I soldier on up the snowy path listening to JB Glazinger.  This guy makes me laugh out loud.  He is a self-development guru and has to be the biggest bragger in the world.  He is a martial arts expert, has an MBA and PHD and is taking his pilot’s license which he somehow manages to remind us about in every podcast.  I giggle inbetween pants making my way up the wiggly footpath crunching in the snow as he tells me that I am a magnificient spiritual being living in a material world.  That’s me!  I finally reach the flat bit on the running trail and start my footing but my mind, which is inclined to always take the easy way out, says “Stop!  You’ll fall and break something!” This morning it sounds uncannily like Madre.  “It’s icy and then you’ll not be able to go to London this weekend.”  I take small steps gingerly avoiding the shiny patches then remember what I learned in Martin Brofman’s seminar about perception and reflection knowing full well that if I tell myself I am going to fall then I will.  I pick up the pace and sure enough the ground is firm and compact.  

Friday I leave for London. It is my nephew Myles’ sixteenth birthday celebration weekend so we have tickets for X Factor Live!  I know it’s lame but that’s the kind of family we are.  Aunty Sally, Godmother to Lexi, is even printing off Masks from the X factor website.  Madre has opted out as she is more of a Strictly woman and Mr. Jules is skiing with his Norwegian buddy. First, before the fun starts, Lexi has an interview and exam to get through.  We have been doing mock interviews over dinner and trying hard not to snigger when she articulates carefully and puts her posh accent on.  Mr. Jules told her to write “examining nine year olds is ridiculous” next to any questions she cannot answer.

I am squeezing in an afternoon of flat hunting with Casper, Edward and Jeremy who have some bijoux broom cupboards in fabulous locations to show me.  Heehee.  I am still amazed that people speak this way, I thought the Labour government had eradicated Hurray Henrys and any self-respecting ambitious London men spoke like Sir Alan Sugar.  Perhaps it is just property-speak.  My favourite is Stephen Lovelady, who speaks normally and whom I have been unwittingly calling Ladyfinger.  I think I have some sort of disease where I garble words or mishear them at times.  The girl on reception told me that they have a poll for the best alternative surname for Stephen and mine was topping the bill so far. I am a little ashamed to show my face at the uber-trendy Foxton’s on the King’s Road Friday at 4pm.

Over in London this past week for two days with Mr. Jules.   We are looking for a place to live.  THE BIG NEWS IS that as from next September we are transferring over to the UK for a couple of years.  I KNOW!  I’m excited.

 As you faithful readers of this blog already know, Ollie, my eldest,  is in the UK, studying binge drinking and rugby at Loffbro Uni and his departure changed the whole family dynamic and my “raison d’être.”  I wasn’t the only one.  Early in 2009 Sophie-G. started her offensive with the winning sentence:

“I can’t stand the idea of studying Maths and a science until I’m eighteen and I know I will have to give up my dancing in the final year of my Bac if I am to get anywhere near a pass.”

  She was preaching to the choir having hopeless failed my maths O level with a U grade.  The A level system was starting to look a better option for her and when we  found a school with a dance and theatre programme just outside London it all started to make sense. It was time to move on.

 I realised that I too had to think about growing up along with the kids and so I’m looking at an MA programme in Creative Writing at London Uni which is my old stomping ground and so the circle is complete.  Plus Mr. J. rather likes the idea of going out with a student.

The trip over last week was great – Mr. J. proudly drew his Oyster card from his wallet as we got off the plane whilst I had inexplicably lost mine – saw lots of friends, drank too much and viewed many, many apartments which you can imagine is not easy with a Swiss property developer in tow.  What the public school boy/estate agents call “charming” i.e., windows that no longer fit in their frames, dodgy pipes and drafts that could knock an infant flat, Mr. J. calls dégueulasse, dangereux and gonflé.  But what was really nice and genuinely “charming” were the manners of these chappies who showed us around like glorified butlers managing large estates.  We went to see an abandoned project in Basil Street on the market for a king’s ransom and it was an oscar winning sales performance given by Harry as he avoided the bags of cement, bricks and old pipes strewn around the floor.  Mr. J. needed a sit down and a double decaf to recover from that one.

Delightful Edward got very excited about a property he wanted to show us.  “It’s very quiet, all you can see are views of the park.”  I had a hard time convincing him that I essentially live in a park in Switzerland and what I want is to hear the rumble of traffic with the wiff of a London bus in my nostrils as I skip along to the wine bar and M&S Simply Food on the corner.  

 You will still get updates from the riveting life of a Swiss village because we will be here in the school holidays so if it this that you are thirsting after (and not the neurotic musings of a writer/mother/wife trying to make sense of the world) it will be here alongside London life in the shoes of a more-Swiss-than-she-thinks returnee.  Sort of Heidi goes to London review.  For once Mr. J will be  the foreigner with the dodgy accent.   In a sense I will also be a bit of a foreigner in my own country having last resided there in 1982 and never as a tax paying adult.

I hope you will continue to enjoy reading the new blog, with a London slant, as I monitor my progress in one of the world’s most exciting capitals.

“I usually have The Big Issue but they were too wet to sell,” he said as an apology.

I looked at him and realised that he was younger than me under his stubble.

“Are there no shelters that will take you?”  I said fishing in my purse for a few coins.

He explained that a shelter cost ten quid.

“What about getting a job?”

“I need an address.”

“What about unemployment benefit?”

“I’m getting that sorted I just came out of rehab…”

“Drugs or alcohol?”

“Alcohol”

He spoke well,  he didn’t grovel or pester just looked sad and wet.

We gave him what he needed to spend a night in a shelter and with a “god bless you all” he ran up the street…towards the pub. 

We lost sight of him but whether he went straight to the pub is irrelevant.  The cynic in all of us would guffaw and say how we were conned and how stupidly gullible we were. 

But what if?

What if he ran straight to a shelter had a hot meal, dried out and went to sleep knowing that strangers can be kind and that we all want him to succeed.  He may have spent every last drop on alcohol and got completely pissed in which case there is no hope for him and his days are numbered but if he didn’t maybe the next day he felt proud enough and strong enough to find a job and maybe one day he will look up those three kids of his and feel responsible enough to invite them back into his life.

I know it is a bigger problem and one not solved by randomly dishing out cash but too many people turn their backs.  You’ve got to spread it around, whatever it is you have, money, time, compassion, food  but keep the cynicism away because…what is that wonderful quote?  Never judge a man until you have walked in his shoes.

I went to bed happy, there was a chance, a slim one but a chance, that we turned someone’s life around today.

 What if?