Dog Flu at the Surgery

I was in the surgery this morning. Well, not 'surgery'-I mean the GP. I promised to make my mother an appointment, and as the clock struck 2.30pm, I RAN to the surgery to do so. As I got to the que, I was panting, very heavily, and inconsistently. I slowly regained my breath, and noticed the woman behind me, in her mid-40s, slowly backing off from the que. She was holding a small piece of cloth to her mouth, and looking at me in a frightful, and distasteful manner. This woman had clearly got it into her head that I had some sort of rabid (I was panting like a dog, after all) disease which which hugely contageous' perhaps a rare form of Dog-Flu. Right, I thought. I needed to give her further 'cause for concern'. I am never afraid to embarass myself if it serves a purpose. I therefore began an incessant form of coughing, spewing bits of saliva, and seeming to be suffering from the conditions of the beubonic plague! The woman now looked even more worried. Good. I then began wheezing for breath, pounding my chest a few times as I did so. The woman had now stepped back to the door of the surgery, and was breathing into her hands. Enough, I thought. She had clearly now 'caught' the rare strain of Dog-Flu. I therefore apprpoached the counter, and asked, 'can I book an appointment for my mother, F. Begum please? She's suffering from some pains in her leg?' I am of course, fit as a fiddle, but that woman will clearly be taking every form of medication invented since Penecillin, in order to counter the nauseating effects of Dog-Flu, which she of course caught from me-well, at least she'll convince herself so anyway.

Why the Police Should Never Stop a Muslim MA Researcher.

This MA thesis on walking the streets of the city in the 18th century has taken me to the most interesting of places-the London Metropolitan Archives, Westminster Archive Centre, The British Library, as well as nearly every museum in the city. I have also come into contact with the most esteemed of academics, experts in their fields, and voices of authority on such things as urban anthropology, and antiquarianism. I had, however, never imagined I would during my research come into contact with the highest of authorities-the Metropolitan Police, when I submitted my proposal, but that is exactly what happened last week, when the officers who stopped me learnt why they should never stop an academic Muslim researcher.

The sun was shining, and it was another day in the city for me. I had just collected images of London’s streets (from the 18th century) from the London Metropolitan Archive Centre, and was marvelling at how the city had over the course of two centuries, changed significantly, as well as remaining very much the same. My excitement was such that I decided I would take my own pictures of the city’s streets, and compare them in my thesis, undertaking a bit of original research, and field work. Walking jollily along Newgate street, I found the Bank of England, of which I had an 18th century engraving. I decided, therefore I would take a picture of the Bank in the exact same view as that of the engraving. Of course, this was not easy, as the traffic in Bank is incredibly congested. I therefore took quite a few pictures, and finally got the angle right. Though I did not shout it aloud, the word ‘yippee’, did spring to mind. I turned around, a significantly big smile on my face, to find two very (and I mean very) grim-faced police officers standing there. It was here the dialogue began.

“Excuse me sir, but just what are you doing?” His tone was harsh, and rather accusational-he seemed to have already decided what I was doing, and was just asking me in order that I say something contrary to what was in his mind, in order that he may then tell me what I was doing. I was taken aback, as you would, and my smile faded. “officers…I’m just taking pictures of the Bank of England…for my MA thesis on the streets of the city. His response was quick and sharp: ‘the street, are you having a laugh? Your MA is on the streets of the city? What sort of thesis focuses on the streets?

‘Erm…mine?’

‘Really, and what is so interesting about the street that you’re taking pictures of buildings and the current streets of our city in broad daylight?’

It was at this point I realised what I was being accused of, what was understandable; a bearded individual snapping the city needed to be questioned in light of recent events. I understood, and appreciated that. This wasn’t the “crime” the officer had committed. Oh no. He had asked an MA student, in the middle of August (when I had completed so much of my research) about what he was researching. This just should not be done, for the person asking is just asking to get an earful about all the things the student has researched. It is sort of an unwritten rule among researchers; even us MA students do not ask each other about what the other is researching, as its just asking for trouble. I therefore smiled once again, took a deep breath, and began:

‘Well, its interesting you ask. In 1666 London, the old medieval city, burnt to the ground with the Great Fire of London, regarded by many social historians as the moment in history which caused London in its current metropolitan state, to come into existence (pause for effect). Following the fire, city developers and officials decided that rather than rebuild London as the town that it was, they would re-imagine London as a city. The planning therefore began, with the consultation of such people like Christopher Wren, and John Nash. By the…’

He tried to cut in: ‘sir, that’s fine, we don’t need to’-

-‘hey, you’ve got me started, I have to finish…

‘So, where was I? Ah yes, by the eighteenth-century, London had become what we now understand to be an urban metropolis, and this development spilt onto the streets of the city themselves. The streets during the period not only became wider, but with the passing of the 1762 Paving Act by Parliament, lead to the pavements in London coming into existence. These pavements were designated to the pedestrian, as London became in the period a pedestrian’s city. As the century progressed, the gentlemen of the upper, and upper-middle classes began to walk the streets, and literature aimed to educate these gentlemen of the ways of the street. These walking gentry….

He and his collegue had to stand there listening to the entire narration of my thesis. At the end, I breathed, smiled, and having shown him my QM ID card, asked, ‘so, is there anything else?’

‘No sir, you’re good to go…’ They seemed confused and bewildered; much like a first year undergrad who just sat through his first year lecture. I therefore said, ‘and look, now you’re more educated with respect to the streets of the city than you were before you stopped me, as they say, you learn a new things every day officers, cheerio.’ I went on my way. That’ll teach them not to ever again stop a Muslim academic in the city!

Delivering My First Paper at Literary London 2009

It is said that, ‘when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life’, and feel I must state that I am exhausted after the two-day conference, therefore curtailing Dr Johnson’s statement about the city’s appeal. Yesterday I delivered my first academic paper on eighteenth-century London literature. It was to a floor of academics, proffessors, and PhD students from all across the world (literally) who had come to the Literary London conference held this year at Queen Mary University in order to deliver their own papers, and to hear others.

Of course, I was the only MA student who was at the conference, so I felt incredibly overwhelmed, and out of my depth to start with. On the first half of the first day, therefore, I only observed, and didn’t ask any questions. As Thursday progressed, however, I came to realise that as these lecturers and professors were just as enthusiastic, and just as excited about London as I was, and discussing my ideas with them not only gave me new ideas, but caused me to realise that age-old realisation that every academic comes to at an early part of their career: I was not alone in my field. I therefore began to engage with them more, and I must say, I really enjoyed it. It was so fun, and engaging. All of the lectures were like the best lectures you would have attended during your undergraduate years. Truly inspiring, and I extrapolated lots and lots of ideas for my work-there is a lot of eighteenth-century material I had not known about prior to the past two days. Was so refreshing to hear about London in such diverse, and new ways. Very refreshing.

As much as the conference was enjoyable, having heard a number of speakers deliver their respective papers, I must admit that as Friday drew near, I began to dread giving my own paper more and more. I fully prepared myself, preparing a slide-show, and a handout. Having prepared myself, I went into the Arts lecture theatre to deliver my paper. It went very well, Proffessor Markman Ellis stayed to hear my deliverance, which was very nice of him-considering that he had already read my paper twice! Having Markman there made it all the more exciting to be delivering a paper in such a monumental lecture theatre, commanding a space which had been inhabited by the likes of Anne Janowitz, David Colclough, and other such QM lecturers and professors. The slide worked well, as did the handout, and the questions I was asked in the Q and A session which followed were even more enjoyable to answer.

It was truly a monumental occasion. I had delivered a paper at the Royal Shakespeare Company on teaching Shakespeare prior to this, but I do not really consider that as having ‘delivered a paper’, because though it was on teaching, and was delivered to a floor of Shakespeare academics, it was not on the literature I wish to further research: 18th century London literature. I hope that regardless of where the ever-flowing tide of life takes me in the next two, or three years, it returns me to the shores of Queen Mary. Its where I feel I belong, where I wish to grow old and retire. As much as I love this city, QM is my ‘London’ in reference to Dr Johnson’s aforementioned statement regarding the city.

Gentlemen

I just discovered that 'gentry', is actually a shorter word for 'gentlemen'! Yes, it is not as if I discovered electricity, or Penecillin, but back off, I am a literature student! We don't save lives, we culture people, for without culture, there is no life.

The Perfumer's Touch!

It is said that if a person comes near a coal-man, the likelihood of going away with one’s clothes sullied in some way, was quite high, and that if a person goes near a perfumer, he would most probably come away with some sense of fragrance on him. This truly seems to be the case-even if one does have ideas of insubordination in mind.

I had met a lecturer for coffee in the British Library the other day (well, Expresso to be more precise), and decided I should take a walk in the city. I therefore walked to Oxford Street, to remind myself about the act around which my dissertation evolves; that of walking the street. During my walk, I heard a street-merchant selling his product at the top of his voice. In the eighteenth-century, such a phenomenon would not have seemed strange, nor would it have seemed to peculiar in the market stalls of London. It did, however, seem bizaare that the man was using such a method of advertising his goods in Oxford Street; bearing in mind that he was in the most famous high-street in London, I wondered why he felt the need to, and therefore took a closer look. He was a perfumer. Well, not just any perfumer, he was a prominent employee of The Perfume Shop in Oxford street, which was holding a ‘one day promotion.’ Being an avid fan of The Real Hustle, I thought to myself, ‘we are living in an economic crisis, how could The Perfume Shop, of all places, have a “one day spectacular?” Something was not right, and I therefore took it upon myself to warn the people not to fall for the scam which was about to ensue.

I quickly realised that anything I would have uttered was drowned out by the huge megaphone in the man’s hand, through which he was yelling, ‘£30 for 6 top quality perfumes! Only £30 for 6 top quality perfumes! That is £6 each, ladies and gents!’ The had gathered a small crowd, with 10 people waving £30 in the air. The con was, to all intents and purposes, most definitely on. Each of these people were given a bag, and told they would now receive their goods. So far, I remained a ‘man of the crowd’, to borrow a phrase from one of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales. I did not engage, and remained an intrigued spectator. I watched as the employee began to tell these 10 people how they had ‘bagged the deal of the century’, and would receive 6 perfumes for the price of just one of them: £30. He then bought out these ‘top quality perfumes’. Now, I grew up with aftershave, and can distinguish my Kourus, from my Calvin Klein. Its one of those things, and felt it my duty to finally engage in the spectacle occurring in front of me, rather than just remain a ‘spectator’. Making my silent apologies to Joseph Addison and Richard Steele (composers of 18th-Century periodicals The Spectator), I turned to the last of the 10 customers who had decided to part with £30. He was a young man, who thought (like the other 9 ‘marks’), he was getting a great ‘deal’. He told he so. I began to destroy the myth the employee of The Perfume Shop had created, telling him, ‘you know, these perfume bottles contain 5% perfume, and 95% water.’ Understandably, he did not believe me, and I did not expect him to. At this point, the shop’s employee with the megaphone picked up the first of the 6 perfumes and said, ‘Obsessive for men, I am giving you, for £6 each! Here you all go!’ He put one in each of the 10 people’s bags. I picked up a sample of this ‘Obsessive’. I took the hand of the man I had been talking to, and said, ‘here, smell that’, spraying a bit on his hand. He smelt it. ‘it smells brilliant.’ I instructed him further, ‘wait for two minutes, smell it again.’ He did: ‘the smell is gone.’ By this time, the man with the megaphone was telling everyone about ‘Beauty for women! £6 each, everyone gets one!’ He put one of these into the bag of each of the 10 people. I picked up the sample of this, and sprayed a bit on the man’s other hand: ‘here, wait two minutes and smell your hand again.’ He did: ‘its…gone…I think you were right.’ We did the same for each of the 6 perfumes, as each of the 10 people were handed out bottles containing what was clearly water, for the most part. The man grabbed everyone’s money (including the £30 the man I was talking to was holding), and yelled, ‘ok, sale over! Goodbye everyone!’

Then he looked at me, and pointed his finger. ‘You sir, don’t go ANYWHERE, we have something EXTRA-SPECIAL planned for you!!’ I seriously gulped. The employee had an entourage of two bulgy men, and thought, my game was up. He had obviously seen me informing the man of the ‘scam’, spraying the perfumes one-by-one on his hand, showing him how they contained water. Why had I been so self-righteous?’, I asked myself. I had not even been able to save these people from a scam, and now I was about to get a serious ass-kicking, from a very well-fragranced man, and his entourage! I thought, ‘ah well, at least I’ll go home bleeding, but smelling nice.’ The employee came towards me. I gulped once again. This is it, this is the end, I told myself. The employee, strangely, stuck out his hand. I hesitantly shook it-maybe this is how well-fragranced men begin fights, I told myself, but then he said, ‘thank you SO much for being our official sampler, I watched you spraying each of our 6 fragrances on that man’s hand with such enthusiasm, you really helped me make the sale today, your spraying attracted even more attention, we sold more than the 10 bags!’ Oh dear. ‘Here, this is especially for you.’ He gave me my gift: two batter-operated romantic candles, and these two desk-photo-holders for a husband and wife. Thanks so much again my man, you really helped today!’

I decided to cut my losses, and head off: ‘no problem’, I said backing off, ‘…anytime.’ I then got the next bus home, while trying to make sense of what had happened. He must have seen me talking to the man, spraying each of the 6 perfumes on his hand with enthusiasm and consistency, and talking some more, but had not heard what I had said due to his big megaphone! He thought I was helping to advertise his products when really, I had opposite intentions in mind! What this little adventure reminded me of, was the sheer importance of being able to hear and understand the spoken words of others. Had he so much as heard an inkling of what I had said, he would have most definitely wanted to give me a well-fragranced beating! Hearing, and understanding the English language, never seemed more important.

Trapped In The Toilet At King's

I got trapped in a toilet yesterday. It was at King's, the Waterloo campus. As an ex-student, I showed an old ID, and I ran into the building, because I desperately needed the loo, and couldn’t see one for miles. I ran straight up the stairs, and into the toilet.

Now, King’s have a strange thing about placing the ladies toilet on the first floor, and directly above it, the men’s toilets. Same place, but the floor above. I had forgotten this. I found myself in the cubicle, minding my own business, but wondering why the tissue had a nice little mirror next to it, and why it was so scarily clean. King’s must have got better cleaners, I told myself. Then all of a sudden, I heard a soundd I could never have imagined I would hear in the place I was-well, the place I thought I was (the men’s toilets). I head the odd sound of not one, but two women giggling and coming in, and starting to talk all sorts of things. I don't think I checked the sign on the door, due to my desperation, and had run into the ladies! Now I was truly in a predicament: I didn’t want to stay, like some kind of man-spy, but I couldn't leave, as the two women would think I was some sort of strange man-spy who had perhaps watched Mel Gibson’s What Women Want a few too many times, and decided he wanted to know what women talk about in loos! So, I had to wait.



Ten minutes later, and these women are still talking. I won’t divulge the content of their conversation, but I must admit I found it strange that in the same breath, they were able to talk about their boyfriends, their exes, and, strangely, even their cats!

After about twelve minutes, they finally left, the circle came to a close: they left, giggling again, and I ran out of that toilet, faster than I had run in!

The Cavalry Has Arrived

After meeting my College Proffessor for afternoon coffee at the British Library the other day, I decided to take a ramble through Kensington Gardens. Of course, this involved actually walking to Queensway from Kings Cross, which took a few hours, but I was adamant (for reasons I cannot actually recall!) to walk through Kensington Gardens that day, so I made the trek.

By the time I got there, I was absolutely knackered, and secretly hoped someone would give me a lift in their car as they saw me trudging through the streets of Queensway, or that someone would let me have their bicycle out of pity. It was at this point I heard a slow march behind me. I thought to myself, 'who on earth would be marching in this scorching heat?' Then I turned, and it was truly a magnificent sight. At least 50 soldiers were marching right behind me, all monotonously, step after step, putting my little preamble to shame. I asked one of them. 'are you guys Territorial Army, Royal Marines, or the Commandos?'

He answered in a very manly voice: '...no....we're the Cavalry!'

The cavalry!! I couldn't match them for physical strenth, no matter how much I tensed my shoulders. These guys were made of pure British beef, so I thought I would provide them with a comment on the act of marching, for reflection. I said, 'yes, it is indeed a fine thing, walking, isn't it? It is such an interesting endeavour, as humans, we even invent other ways in which to do it, like marching.' The soldier gave me a 'one more word and I'll thump the life out of you' look, and said, 'yeah, whatever you say.'; Charming, but then, we never associated any charm with the cavalry!

Gauntlets

I desperately, desperately want a certain pair of gauntlets!!

Thought for the Day: Healthy Eating

In a recent discussion I had with a top, personal trainer located in London, I came to the realisation that 'snacking', may not necessarily be a bad habit. That is to say, as long as one snacks on fruits, and healthy elements of food, rather than slowly damaging their body and putting it into a state beyond repair, a person would be slowly improving his or her body. So, the thought for the day is, 'snacking on fruit is great, and one of the best ways to maintain your hunger and receive more energy'!

Going To The Hospital: I'm A Daddy!

Yesterday I had a very strange experience. I had to go to a distant hospital-The Royal National Throat, Nose, and Ear Hospital, to have a doctor look at my jaw, which was giving me a bit of pain. I was waiting patiently in the waiting area, and then this English, rather posh looking woman wheeled her cute little baby into the area. Immediately, the baby looked at me, and smiled. I smiled back, as you would. Naturally, I started making faces, and he smiled a bit. The woman said, 'hi, you alright? He's such a little terror!' in a joking way, and smiled. Strangely, she spoke as if she knew me. Bizaare? Seemed ordinary to me, most people feel they've known me for years after talking just five minutes with me. Meanwhile I was feeling a strange bond with the baby, even though I was sitting about 12 feet away. Then, it was her turn to go and see the doctor, so she started to pack her things away. I moved the chairs out of the way for the pram to be able to wheel out with ease, and gave the mother the baby's shoe which had fallen off. She said to me, 'thanks! ok, we have to go, nice meeting you.' Then, the baby said something which stopped my heart from beating for a few seconds: 'bye bye, Daddy.' The woman looked at me and smiled, just smiled. I was confused, and bewildered. When had I fathered a child who was now 1 years old? My memory was bad, but not THAT bad! I'd never slept with a woman, and yet, here was this immaculate conception! I couldn't breath. He said it again, 'bye bye, da-da.' Oh dear, now he was using alternatives! The woman just stood there and smiledd...was I the miraculousn daddy, or did she want me to be the father figure?! I still had my MA to complete, I didn't have time to be a part-time father to this child! I said, 'wow, when did that happen? I don't remember his birth!' She stands, just smiling, still. Then, 'da-da', again.

It was at this point she cut in, 'no Michael, he's not daddy...daddy is...at work, remember? Sorry, ok, nice meeting you, bye-bye again.' She was gone, and I thankfully, was not the father to the miracle child!

Facing a Nightmare

Today I was told I would once again have to undergo a nightmare experience I had left in the past...its always hard to move on from an horrendous experience, but when you are forced to experience that horror again, it just makes you wonder if there is any point in having a real sense of hope in the concept of improvement and betterment. I must admit that of all the days in my life so far, today, at the age of 23, I feel least happy to be alive.

Aslom Does The Apprentice/Dragon's Den

I recently entered a competition through Queen Mary entitled, XING 2009. It was a competition for business students, but I thought it looked quite fun. Despite having no real 'business acumin', whatever on earth that means, I submitted an application. The next thing I know, I was selected to represent Queen Mary at the competition, held in Goldsmith's University. Donning a suit, I faced entered through its doors.

Strangely, I found that I was actually at an incredible advantage to the other members on my team. Their knowledge of business was 'bookish', and I had the advantage of having had real experience of the business world, as well as the very real world of teaching. I was bringing ideas to the table which they said had not at all entered their minds. The competition was based very much like an Apprentice task: we were asked to brand a drink, and present it to a panel of judges for their consideration. Our presentation would need to include a 3 year plan, a five eyar plan, a strategy on funding, what our aims and goals were, how we wished to advertise ourselves, as well as our target market. All very business-like, but I did not let that deter me. Jumping in head first, I began startegising with my team. We came up with the brand name, 'Frushee', an organic juice drink, which was a luxury item, aimed at the health-conscious city workers who could afford it. I decided not to be Project Manager-I did not want to dominate, and gave the task to one of the girls in our group. I saw though, that as the day passed, she was losing control of the task more and more, and even gave up at one point and said the pressure was too much. I did not want to lose, especially after everyone had worked so hard, and therefore stepped in. Taking control, I made sure we finished on time, and that I was the one presenting our ideas. This decision was made not because I believed I was the most business-minded. On the contrary, all the members on my team had more business knowledge than I could ever hope to attain. They could speak about budgets and margins while I look around, quite lost. I, however, had the bliss of ignorance of all this jargon. I knew our ideas, aims, goals and, most importantly, our business plan like the back of my hand by the end time of the presentation. As a teacher, I had also been trained how to project my voice, how to present ideas in a clear, concise, and coherent way which engages my audience (usually teenagers) and I would therefore have no problem in presenting a business plan to a group of mature adults.

Using all my presentational skills, my knowledge of the Apprentice and, most importantly, genuine flair, I presented our plan. I was, as is evident from the pictures, careful to look thoughtful and engaged when they spoke, while being enthusiastic and seeming sure of what I was taking about when I spoke to them. We got through the First Stage of Eliminations, and got through to the Semin-Finals. Presenting again, I presented our modified plan, and took us through to the final. In the end, we did not win, we came Third Place in a competition that took in about 20 teams across many London universities. We got a £50 cash prize. Not bad for an ignorant English teacher with no knowledge of business! I loved the sense of teamwork, as well as the business style of the competition. I was asked for my number and email by some of the judges at the end of the competition, who were stunned I had not completed a degree in business, and told me I was, in teaching, in the wrong trade!

Knowledge of business, I have not, but I do believe I have some business acumin. Iasked, jokingly, if I should go on the Apprentice. One of the judges, smiling, said. 'I'd watch you, it would be interesting to see how you fare.' Alan Sugar, here I come.

Aslom In The White House

The other day, whilst researching for my dissertation on walking, I decided some 'fieldwork' was necessary and, as it was swelteringly hot, I headed for Regents Park. Unfortunately for me, so did everyone else, which meant it was packed with sunbathers and the like, with no transquility being bestowed by the park upon the walker. I walked the outskirts until I had completed nearly the whole park, and felt I had taken a long enough walk. It was at this point that I realised I had forgotten my wallet...and I was thirsty. I could not just walk up to somebody and ask for a drink, and yet I was incredibly thirsty.

I heard a lot of loud music coming from outside the park itself. I therefore climbed out, and found myself in front of one of the many huge Regent's Park mansions, one of which is owned by Mick Jagger, I believe. One of these walk holding a private garden party. I needed a drink. I untucked my shirt, rolled up the sleeves, put on my shades, and headed in. I waved hello to a few of the refined, posh women who were in the hallway, and apologised to them for being late. Late? I know, I wasn't even invited, but I couldn't blow my cover. They were a bit tipsy and, giving me the once over, said I was right on time, and should head out into the garden. I did, and it was the most magnificent garden I had ever seen. The lawn was beautifully maintained, there was a huge barbecue, a set of swings. I turned around, and saw the huge white mansion I had walked into. It was like being in the White House! I ,mingled, got my drink, had some salad, and five minutes had passed without anyone noticing that actually, nobody was acquainted with me! I decided I should leave before someone did, and had me arrested! I said my farwells, and walked out, right out the front door!

THAT was a stunt I aim never to pull again. I'm only young once though, and know that I will never be on any sort of salary to be able to affor such a place, so I needed to see what it was like. Why did nobody throw me out? Well, it seems that there are certain rules of sociability which are unwritten and, therefore, can be worked within by individuals. I had the apparel, the behaviour, the sophisticated talk of the other posh party-goers, and they therefore mentally accepted that either I was one of them, or was crazy enough to walk into a psoh party uninvited. Though the latter was true (minus the thing about being crazy, or not!), they believed the former was the case, due to its being more probable.

Battle of the Women in Waterstone’s

I was in Waterstone’s the other day on Goodge Street buying a book (boring! I know) and this huge African woman who was obviously returning GCSE books started yelling at the short little woman at the counter, really having a go at her: 'I WANT a refund! Now!!' This woman didn't have the receipt right so she was only allowed to exchange the goods, which the Waterstone’s girl kindly told her. 'I don't CARE, I have RIGHTS, I want the refund, or, if I DO return, I do NOT want to have to explain myself to another member of staff, this little girl CANNOT by any means go to lunch!' By now the shop had silenced. I had had enough: I could not stand by and watch this unfold in front of me like everyone else was. I intervened. This poor little Waterstone’s woman had done absolutely nothing wrong-it was the shop’s policy to only exchange goods which were not accompanied with a receipt, and this huge, overbearing woman was not at all budging. I stepped in, despite behind two people behind in the cashier que: ‘excuse me, but you are being unfair. You need to calm things down a little bit, and look at the situation rationally.’ I said this with firmness, but without any animosity-we get trained as teachers to alleviate and diffuse situations where possible. She turned on me: ‘and WHO are YOU to tell me that young man?! WHO are YOU?’ I simply replied, ‘I am jus another person in the que. You are yelling at this woman who has been nothing but nice to you. She’s been decent enough not to yell back, and you are taking advantage of that. She has offered you an exchange, so if you go off, find some books of the same value of those books, and then return, that will be great.’ By now the Waterstone’s girl smiled; she felt supported in a store in which he staff had all seemed to disappear. The African woman was now in full throttle: ‘is that what YOU think? WHO are YOU to tell me to leave the que, and find new books? You’re just a student, with trainers!’ It was true: against my better judgment, I had worn trainers that day with denim jeans, when usually I would wear shoes, trousers, and a formal shirt. I clearly looked like a student, but I set her straight: ‘actually, I’m an English teacher, and not only do I teach all those books in your pile there, but I know that as kids are soon to sit their GCSEs, they are useless. I wholly understand your reason for returning them, but you need to make a decision on which books you want to exchange them for.’ I had tried to empathise with her. She retorted by yelling, ‘English teacher? I’m…a lecturer!’ She was clearly lying; she’d made that up on the spot. I was slightly annoyed now: ‘lecturer? I imagine you completed your doctoral research in rudeness and vulgarity? Leave the que so we can get on with our shopping. You are clearly a rude woman who wastes people’s time.’ She was fuming now. At this point the store manager emerged, and offered a African woman with a piece of paper which would allow her to find some books to exchange and return without having to explain herself, reiterating that no refund would be given without a receipt. She took it and stormed off. The African woman was fuming, while the Waterstone’s girl was smiling, happy she could go off to lunch, and the situation had been reversed from the way it had been at the start of the woman’s rant. I’d achieved my objective. Not bad for a few minutes in a Waterstone’s que. The girl therefore thanked me, ‘no problem, have a nice day.’ I went off home with my new books, which I am now reading.

Maybe Its Because I'm a Londoner...

I finished work today and decided that the best course of action I should take, to prepare myself for my MA Dissertation on walking the street is, well, to walk home (central London's Edgware Road), from Whitechapel, in East London. Crazy? I didn't think so, after all, its only 45 minutes drive.

It started pleasantly enough: 10 minutes of walking took me from the slummish area of East London where my College is, to the busy heart of Liverpool street. Men in suits, women in black shits and white shirts, all looking immaculate. What was most peculiar was that I was walking home at 5.30pm- a time which, I have seen today, is when the capital decides to 'down a few pints'. Everywhere I looked, the men and women were out in the chairs located outside the pubs, drinking, smiling, and relaxing. In Liverpool street especially, there are whole arcades dedicated to inviting drinkers to gather, and gather they certainly do. I decided to walk through one such arcade, and came out feeling as if I had knocked back a few pints myself! Such is the atmosphere. I mention this at the length I have because I had always 'connoted' (a new word I had taught my students today) Liverpool street and the City with the high end of society. 'THIS is civility', I would tell my friends as we drove past Liverpool street. I believed everything else was just the normal, the vulgar. I have seen from my walk today, however, that these 'high end' civilains are as alcohol crazed as any other people, if not more. They can afford to drink to the excessive levels they do. I have of late been trying to locate the source of the current rise in teenage binge drinking and alcoholism, and I think I have found it. I am not at all saying that the wonderful men and women in suits in Liverpool street are to blame-well, at least not entirely. The blame is on us (well, 'us' in the sense of the entire British society-I myself do not drink), the British public of adults. As we sink to new levels of depravity and excess, we can not expect much from our younger generations who look up to us. If we want to sink to such levels, we can only expeecrt as much from our younger teenagers. We need to be more responsible in terms of the role models we portray on a societal level. It is easy to act as if we are youngsters, perhaps in a vain hope not to accept that we are getting old, and that we need to set an example. If we did so, I believe we would see an improvement in the younger generation. Until we do so, we can not expect anything more from the youngers aspect of society. If we are worried about the levels of depravity and excess they are falling into on a general level, we need only to look in a mirror. We have come out the way we have due to our parentage, whose 'old fashioned' techniques, rules, and requirements which remind us of the 60s and 70s made us who we are today. What sorts of rules do we support, follow, and uphold?

I feel I have spoken enough. This was just something which became apparent to me today. I also ended up walking for 3 hours, realising that one of the better things about London (aside from the above) is that its people are so diverse. I noted the change in behaviour, clothing, even the mannerisims of people as I walked from Whitechapel, Aldgate, Liverpool street, Old Street, Islington, KIng's Cross, Marylebone, and Edgware Road.

When I have rested a while, I hope to relate my findings on the peoples from the above locations, as well as the usefulness of John Gay's poem Trivia: Or, The Art of Walking The Street-I followed its rules today, but here must I retire to my bed.

Sadness Being Felt By Great Individuals

I find it so incredibly shocking, and it saddens me to such a great degree, that I have decided to post a comment reflecting on my feelings in regard to the sadness which I have seen felt by people who are, in my view, great individuals who deserve the highest level of respect, honour, and admiration. When we, the lay individuals of society feel some pain, sadness, or even a sense of sorrow, we accept it. Reflecting on our own faults, we draw the conclusion that we probably deserved it in some way, and find a way of getting over the pain. Such is the normal cycle of the world, we tell ourselves, and try and move on.

When, however, we find people who we have such a veneration and respect for being treated in a horrible manner, it is difficult to make sense of it. I am not following the misconcieved principle that some people are perfect, but I do believe that there are certain individuals who of such potential, and possess such a level of 'amazingosity' (a new term for the Oxford English Dictionary), that we don't care if they do have the tiniest faults. It has saddened me to such a great degree to hear of individuals who I believe make the world a better place, who fill the earth with radiance and sunshine, to have been treated like dirt by others. How is it possible, for a person to be so hurtful to such amazing people?

I do not wish to sound like an alarmist, but I fear that the world is becoming a worser place than it had been 20 years ago. Morality and manners seem to be increasingly replaced with a focus on hedonistic pleasure and immorality, even if we do harm others in the way. It is so sad that people who have the such promise are being treated in such a way that their aspirations, hopes, and dreams are affected. It is not right.

The only solace we can draw, I suppose, is from the notion that 'what goes around, comes around.' These people will, to use the much-used phrase, 'get their just desserts', and will realise just how wrong they had been, just how hurtful they had been, to another individual. I only hope we are around to see it.

Happiness and Frivolity: Is There A Point?

how does one experience happiness, when he or she is aware of the extreme temporality of it? Happiness, as experience has shown many a person, never truly lasts, and we wonder, therefore, if there is any point in engaging in frivolous activity. Such activities which we classify as 'having a laugh', and 'just having some fun' become useless, when a person contemplates upon not only the temporality of such joys, but also, on a wider scale, the temporality of life itself. We have around 60 odd years to make a positive difference upon the earth we walk, upon the people among whom we find ourselves. If laughing and joking achieves no end, what then, is the point of it? A person opposing this argument against firvolity may argue that we engage in such acts to relax, to de-tox in an increasingly overwhelming world of stress and tension. Granted: our lives within the metropolis that is London are full of chaotic tension, and we need some time to ourselves to relax. But a quite half an hour is sometimes all that is needed, for even the most stressful of days. This work-life attitude, of spending 5 days a week working, and spending the last day of the week laughing incessantly among others seems to go against any idea of progress. Surely, if we spend our lives following this rather mundane pattern, we risk becoming repetitive creatures, just living life in a robotic fashion? I ask you this: If we fail to change our lives, to make a positive alteration to our weekly actions, how are we to make a change to society for purposes of improvement? More to the point: If we argue that our aims are not to make a positive improvement to society, we need to start asking ourselves why, and what our goal is-if indeed there is one.

Music and love

'If music be the food of love, play on.' But what is a person to do when a song reminds them of sad times, of heartache, and of having their heart broken? Music may be the food love, and it may indeed excite the heart towards love, but does it not also cause melancholy when a person has been touched by sadness? Far be it from me to accuse the famous Bard of being insensitive to such feelings-Desdemona, Juliet, and Cordelia are a testimony of his high sensitivity, but I do think that something can be said of the aforementioned line from Twelfth Night, with regard to the notion of music also being the food of melancholy. Even Romeo's melancholy seems to be not melancholic-he seems rather tired and bored, as he cycles through his confused oxymorons: 'brawling love, loving hate [...] serious vanity, misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms'. He does, however, hit the nail on the head, as it were, with his words, that 'sad hours seem long.' This is of course the genious of Shakespeare-that he can almost demonstrate to be so out of touch with the feelings of the heart, and then demonstrate that he knows exactly how it works.

Time

They say that time is a great healer, but those that do utter such statements take no account of memory. It is memory which can almost stagnate that healing power which time posessses. We always hope that our painful memories will fade with the passage of time, that they will blur. Yet, it is our capacity to remember and recall that prevents that blurring from occuring quickly, so that our painful memories take longer to leave.

sharing

how comes sharing things is so important to us as humans? why is it that doing something by ourselves is worthless, and yet, there is 100% value added when we do that same action with another person? Such is the plight of man, and yet, the question which remains is, can there bee happiness for those destined to live life alone? Or is it only misery which lies ahead?

Some of the facts of life

It seems that life will seldom dissapoint, and, so we wonder-is everything we fight for worth it? The answer lies in those inspiring individuals who make us realise that there is, despite the bad, a lot of good in the world. Those who cause us to come to positive conclusions about the state of humanity. Those who act as rays of light in the current darkness which envelops nearly all of existence.

Save a life

I do believe I saved a woman's life today, as I clotheslined her when she was about to cross the road...the lived, but was clearly angry...very bizarre predicament! Such is the life of a walker within London.

Sabbatical Videos

Currently, I am completing my MA in English Literature at Queen Mary University. I was recently contacted by the Students Union to assist in the sabbatical elections for next year. These are the videos which have caused my name to now circulate around the QM campus;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rKXqK19dC4&feature=channel_page

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ayG43FReENs&feature=channel
(there are more links on the right, but these two candidates are very colourful)

Taking tha purple board back (which I used to put behind each candidate before filming them several times!) was an absolutely arduous task today. It was in the Students Union and I needed to take it back to the Queens building, and it was raining, so I thought, 'improvise.' It was after my lecture, and my class (of two other women) and I were due at the Dr Williams library to meet Isabel Rivers. So I hailed down the man with takes all the trash out in this useful little buggy he uses. I told the women on my course to wait, standing in the rain, with my bag, so we could head to the train station together as we didn't know where the library was. I convinced the buggy man that i'd spoken to his boss who had okay'd the use of the buggy for the transportation of the board. He said, 'fine', and helped me load the massive board onto the back. I climbed in, and we were off, and it was through the little window of the buggy that I saw the two women on my course looking at me driving off, in sheer disbelief and anger, as i'd left them with my huge bag! I drove the board back to the Queens building, and the Publictaions Office all cheered the safe return of their board. Then I got a call from one of the women on the course, who said, 'we have your bag, come to the station before it goes missing!' Right. Ran down to the station, to find they were fortunately there. Apparently they'd planned to hide it, but it was too heavy, and they hadn't gotten far. We got to the librray in the end, though my day really ended at 7pm, as I had to head back to whitechapel to teach. The sacrifices we have to make for QM!