Seeing Red

It is confession time. Yesterday, I actually found myself uttering the words 'you posh hipsters', in public, directed at a resident from that part of the street that is all Victorian terrace on the outside and undergoing constant renovation within. 'Uttering' is perhaps too demure a verb to use in this instance. It was more yelling in a crazy woman kind of way at a man who, when I busted him using our bins for his overflow of waitrose leftovers, made the mistake of justifying his behaviour by saying 'I pay my taxes, I can put my garbage wherever I want'. No, sir, no you can't.

In the past when I have found people fly tipping on my doorstep I have employed all the non-violent communication and buddhistly skills I have been trained over the years to deploy. I've taken their hand, introduced myself, quietly and calmly explained the obvious situation - that if they keep putting their garbage in our bins then the bins overflow and we have rats and foxes spreading germs and half eaten babies' nappies all over our front yards - and then I have watched them smile and continue to put their garbage in our bins. Probably, I suspected, because they think it's a scummy estate and they pay their tax and can put their garbage wherever they like, or at least anywhere but in front of their own heavily mortgaged homes.

Enough is enough. It is time for outrage and justice. It is time for some name calling and yelling in the street, in front of everyone. It is time for Luther and Alice to kick some butt!

Now I know that I also shop at Waitress most of the time (actually I get it home delivered - an obvious sign of gentrification when delivery trucks with kale or blueberry paint jobs feel comfortable parking in your neighbourhood). I could possibly earn more than the man I called a posh hipster. I am petite bourgeoisie from my toe nails to my hair follicles. And I know that yelling at the man in the street will probably only increase his desire to place his garbage on our estate (and he did at least separate out his recycling and put it in the bin rather than leave it lying on top or on the ground as so many others do). But I have to also confess that for the few minutes it took to berate him for his selfishness, no matter how lacking in coherence and logical argument,  it did feel pretty good.

Ultimately though this madness is a symptom of the housing crisis that leads to middle class residents buying tiny two bedroom Victorian conversions for a sum, on average, 16 times their London salary according to the National Housing Federation; a space in which they find it impossible to store themselves, their kids, their flat screens and their garbage if they miss collection day, which perhaps leads them to say things like 'I pay my taxes and can do what I want'. It seems the only leverage they have is to piss on down the hierarchy. Private renter activists like DIGS highlight the growing resentment felt by this squeezed Middle that must spend too much on a basic necessity that has become part of an artificial market created by previous governments who now keep it propped up by transnational mobility and investment. Parts of this Middle, with few rights in the face of absent landlords and short term leases, look at the low rents and charges of social housing with an aggrieved eye and seemingly little comprehension that we're all of us, private tenants, leaseholders, freeholders and social housing, living with a precarity of ideological making. Where we put the garbage will be the least of our problems if the politics of London and nationally with regards to housing don't change.

Labouring under five stars of false pretences

www.tajhotels.com

In a short break from austerity I recently had the chance to occupy a room in Jaipur's Jai Mahal Palace for a couple of nights. Somehow though, despite appearances of conspicuous leisure, I've always found staying in a Five Star Hotel to contain an underlying current of work. This is not to say I would ever turn down the opportunity to stay in one: I have known too many bed bug infestations and snot stained walls to be so inversely snobby. But after the novelty of clean sheets and a concierge have worn off, the whole experience can become somewhat labour intensive.

First, adjustments must be made. I learnt long ago how to contort myself through a Five Star lobby so no-one would stop to ask which room I was staying in (none in my student days) as I made my way to the pool side. An air of entitlement usually does the trick. However, this then gives rise to the labour of over-compensation towards staff to make up for the actual entitlement felt by other guests: the abusive consultant, so offended because his fork had been placed in the wrong position on the table, always my favourite example.

Second, there is the feeling of dread that the cleaners think I am so posh I am incapable of folding my own pyjamas, or removing the decorative pillow from the bed in the evening lest I should break a finger nail, so they must come and do it for me as part of the 'turn down' service (the most useless piece of labour ever invented in the hospitality industry).

While I must ooze impeccable manners and the cultural capital of knowing which fork to use, remember to wear shoes, not to put my feet on the seats while wearing shoes, and try to make an effort to accessorise, staff must ooze emotional labour, being inconspicuous and attentive at the same time, constantly smiling even if they have had to commute two hours to start a 0400 a.m. shift and have a two hour commute home again, while in the meantime namasting me whenever I, or any other guest, walks by. I'm surprised anyone gets any work done so much time is taken up by false pretences.

So I'd like to suggest a more hospitable future for luxury hotels in which guests calm their expectations, place our own napkins and adjust our own chairs, turn down our own beds, don't expect anyone to bow when we walk by, and enjoy that refreshing cocktail brought to us poolside by a professional waiter who gets a fair share of the ridiculous sums of money we pay to stay there.

Landour, 1997

I am inconsequential

to the river’s roar,

the mountain’s fall,

the earth’s grumble,

the winter’s cold.

Notes to self for the New Year 2016

1. No matter what happens, do NOT assume the brace position. Given the amount of crash landings imminent on the horizon this will only lead to rigour mortis setting in. Instead follow Wonder Woman's example and engage deflector shields to ward off as many of the slings and arrows of fear and wilful ignorance as possible, and keep moving.
   
   
2. Look up. Find other people looking up. Go have coffee with them. But do NOT drink red espresso. Whoever thought of running rooibos tea through a coffee machine, adding milk and honey, should never be let into an independent coffee house ever again.
   
   
3. Go to the nail salon once a month. It is the last refuge of organic conviviality in East London.

Christmas cheer ...

Could there be any place more joyous than a Christmas market. I'm not talking about the flimsy thing they throw up on Southbank each year, but a proper, weighty German Christmas market where gluhwien, cheese, sauerkraut and sweets are produced and consumed on industrial, yet convivial, scales. Where raclette and scented candles are sold side by side with devastating impact on the olfactory neurons. Where ice skating becomes a spectator sport for the amateur acrobatics and the gravitationally challenged (I would be the one hanging onto the fibreglass penguin safety slide along with the three year olds). And where no-one even pretends to be looking at the nativity scene. Like architecture in Berlin (a melange of fascist, stalinist and hipster), any of its 60 Christmas markets offers the kitsch to the sublime.

Who then can  help but forgive Germany its trashy house taste in music, as long as it keeps churning out brie and black truffle cream cheese, at least a dozen versions of sweet and savoury strudel, and plum liqueur. All of which are best consumed in an atmosphere of roasting potatoes accentuated by fairy lights, and overseen by several angels on stilts who keep the real world at bay for at least a few hours.

Happy pagan festivities.

Of raffles, tights and gala affairs ...

Only in Hackney would prizes in a black tie fundraising raffle include 60 rolls of toilet tissue. Pleased to say I won the 7th prize ... an electric tooth brush. This at least meant that I got to display the magnificently price-tagged tights (see previous blog) when I went up to collect my winnings. Most tables seemed to be made up of property developers, housing associations, and assorted mayors, mayoresses and consorts from other boroughs who spend each weekend attending each others' galas. They are identified by the subtle competition of 'my ceremonial chain is bigger than yours, and did you see the car that I arrived in'. The charities we were raising money for weren't allowed to make a presentation lest they lower the bon vivant tone (we're talking food banks, domestic violence and youth work) but fortunately the Speaker filled the gap by engaging in a bit of karaoke until the real Elvis Presley impersonator came on for his act. I love Hackney.

Why I should never be let into Westfields on my own ...

There are many reasons to dislike Westfields: ugly buildings, temples to consumerism, crowds, bad food. But mostly I just dislike the fact that it seems to be able to make me do things I would never do in any other spatial dimension.

Admittedly today I was in a hurry. I had given myself 30 minutes - get in, get out - buy your Mary Janes, a pair of gloves, and a pair of tights to match the dress being worn to a black tie dinner tomorrow night (yeah, we're socialising at a fundraising gala - Hackney style).  All three purchases made and I'm heading for the door with a hot jalapeño and cheese pretzel in hand. But then, bastards, they put a lingerie shop near the exit with just the nicest looking tights in the window. 

'I'll grab those too just in case', I thought. And so I did. And another pair just in case. And then I handed over the plastic and punched in the numbers. Alas, too late,  I finally noticed the sum total flashed up on the screen. 

'How fecking much?! £100!! You have got to be kidding me!!!' I screamed in silence. Through the blur I vaguely recalled something being said about 'hand stitched' but I really should have been paying more attention.

Seriously! Who pays £100 for tights!?! Well .... me apparently. 

'They will make your outfit' said the shop assistant valiantly.

'For that price, love, I'd expect them to make me a cup of tea at the end of the night and give my feet a massage'. 

If those tights don't make it into the socialite pages of the Hackney Gazette I'm going to be well pissed off.