Would you like an Advice Slip?

Barclay’s Bank never fails to make me think- going to an ATM is no longer just a casual trip , it’s an experience. I like to think of the clean-cut executive marketers sitting around an oak table saying, “how will we differentiate ourselves from every other bank in London? How? I mean, with UBS claiming the serious security face, and Lloyds using the scary looking clay animation/cartoon route to connect to customers[JM1] , our options just seem so, limited.” And then one man stands up and says, “I know- we’ll make a ‘unique’ banking culture. One where we use a different language to say the same freakin’ [JM2] thing. It will make the people feel special[JM3] ! ATMs or cash machines will now be ‘Hole in the Walls’ and a receipt will be an ‘advice slip’. Yes, that’s it!” At which point I’m sure champagne was poured and magical confetti fell from the board room ceiling.[JM4]

So how do I know about this unique culture? Well, every time I go to a Barclay’s machine inevitably there is one out of three with a screen displaying , “our Hole in the Wall is out of service” with a cartoon robot that looks like the soulless avatar of evil. Additionally, I always want a receipt to monitor how quickly the £age [JM5] is disappearing. 'Where is the Cash with receipt button? Maybe this machine doesn’t give receipts.' I think. Then later on a screen of its own- “would you like an Advice Slip?” 'um, advice slip? Sure.' A normal receipt slips out of the machine. No advice, just the ever plummeting sum of money in my account. I get it, advice = You’re broke. Stop withdrawing.

Part II: The Day James Broke the Hole

(Don’t ask me how it is possible to babble this much about a bank- I know what you’re thinking. ‘She hasn’t posted in months and this is what she gives her readers? This!!’)

James was glowing, beaming in fact. It was 6:03, he got off work a little early, got to read a bit of his book, and then I actually showed up on time for dinner and begged him to have Pizza Hut. Life was good. Now just for some quick cash at the cash machine and he would be moments away from supreme bliss. “hmm hmm hmm” James hums [JM6] as he puts his card into the Barclay’s machine. He hits the buttons as he thinks, “lets give the balance a little glance and then its off to pizza.” He clicks the “balance on screen” option and the bank checks his details. James still content thinks briefly about the Alan Greenspan autobiography he is reading- ‘I wonder if he has read the Black Swan’ [JM7] he thinks. The balance is up, ‘looks miserable, looks like I’m going to cry’. “Would you like to make another transaction”, ‘yes, yes I would’ James thinks and presses the button. “Error: System shutting down”… ‘crap’[JM8] .

After a few moments the screen flashes back to its DOS programming, flashing numbers upon numbers on the screen. James waits, mouth curled into a vicious snarl at the flashing numbers; ‘please, please, please GOD NO!!!’ he thinks. The screen goes blank. In a moment of panic he starts testing all the buttons. At first he casually gives a little tap on the “return card” button, and then within the next minute he is systematically hitting all buttons at once. There is a flash of light on the screen and a slight sound, crunch, crunch. It’s gone.decides to wait a little longer. Sure enough the Tin-Man makes his entrance, “Sorry for the inconvenience, but our Whole In the Wall is out-of-service”. “I think it just ate your card” I say. “No, that was something else” James says. More crunching ensues- it’s over.

The hold music invigorated him more. I glance over to see James still at the hole in the wall, pressing the occasional one or two on his mobile. A few minutes pass, “Yes, the Barclay’s Cash Machine near Leicester Square just ate my card”. … “no, the machine near Leicester square ate my card”…”well that information is on my card, which I don’t have now”… “yes, it was swallowed”. The street around bustles with people and noise, thus making it very apparent to the woman that he is indeed still standing at the Barclay’s downtown. James relays some random facts, dates, medical records, and spells his name at least twice. A police car goes by, sirens blaring. The woman on the other end begins to laugh. James hangs up and says, “the new card will be here in 3 days”.

Sure it will…but don’t get me started on Lloyds and snail mail. :-)

James has reviewed and edited this with his own comments:

[JM1]What on Earth is this referencing?

[JM2]No clean cut Barclay's banker would ever use such language

[JM3]See comment two

[JM4]I'm not sure about this.

[JM5]Nice use of £age

[JM6]Factually innacurate

[JM7]He has

[JM8]Crap is much too weak of a word. I am no Barclays banker.

Cutlery

About my 3rd week here I went out to dinner with a local who informed me I had the cutlery skills of a toddler. He pointed that I not only held my fork incorrectly but I leaned my head to the fork with each bite. And try as I might, and with all the practice I have had over the last 6 months, today I’m going to sadly and officially concur: I have the cutlery skills of a toddler and should not be seen eating in public. The scariest thing about this concept is not necessarily the mockery I am making of myself and others (such as you) while eating. The frightening reality is what other things have spawned from my poor utensil handling- what if I speak with a lisp and don’t know it? Or tie the twisty tie on the bread loaf too loosely causing it to mold earlier? Or worse, talk to my computer when writing emails? Oh, wait….

I find it is somewhat similar to my awkwardness with international greetings. Mind thinks: Okay, supervisor Paul from the Netherlands is about to leave London. What do I do? What should I do? Well…Paul is from the Netherlands, I think they do the kiss on the cheek there, right? Or should I opt for a handshake because the kiss may be too personal? Wait, I’m female that could be taken as overly aggressive? Why can’t I just wave? Uh-oh, there goes Paul standing up from the desk…
Paul: Well Becky, it was nice meeting you..send me those stats.
Becky: (stands-up but does not walk towards Paul) yea, will do. It was good seeing you
Paul: (continues to stand…waiting)
Becky: (continues to stand and thinks…which option…which)
Paul: (leaves with bag)
Becky: (still stands and does nothing for a few seconds)

So what caused me to have this amazing revelation of agreement you may ask? Well it was about the time when the chicken was ½ in my mouth and the other half fell off the fork and into my lap. At least 3 of my colleagues saw it. (Damn..why does this happen to me?!) Ever since said friend brought to my attention the visual monstrosity that is my eating, I have yet to eat out without thinking about it…which is like telling yourself not to blink, except messier. At some point in my life I learned to eat “American” style- pick up knife with the right, cut, switch hands and eat with fork in right, repeat. At some unspecified point though I became incredibly lazy…I mean why switch at all if the food is easy enough to cut side-fork style? So I mastered the side cut quickly. My side-cut muscles are now finally tuned to pivot the fork in one swift swoop. If side-cutting was an Olympic competition, I would have a clean sweep of gold in all events from ice-cream to steak.
Here in the UK side-cutting might just be the equivalent of watching a 1st degree murder or even worse, someone about to scrape their finely finished nails the full width of a chalk board. In an effort to remedy my childesque skills I have been working on my British style of eating and can now boast almost a full meal without one side cut. But then you get to the more complex foods like green peas or today’s saucy chicken which brings in the whole new category of knife cultivating. Not to mention their incredible skills with “back forking” British people literally can stack up almost any amount of small food morsels on the end of their fork within seconds using their knife to round-up the pieces, much like a rodeo spectacle. They then can use the same knife to swoop sauces, potatoes you name it on the back of the fork..hints what I call “back forking”. I have progressed in this area..but then comes the tricky part. How they consistently get all of that in their mouth before it falls off the fork is beyond me. (insert moving head towards fork to optimize time and reduce risk) As anyone can testify who has eaten with me at any point over the last 6 months, I don’t think I have made it through a meal yet without the circus spectacular that is gravity driven food headed for my lap, napkin, chin, etc.

To those who eat with me…I apologize.
I also pre-apologize for my new outfits when dining out which will consist of tailored rubbish bags and my own personal spork.

My Life According to James

Flat mates are brilliant and I am so fortunate to be blessed with five of them. There are few days which go by that my inbox does not receive a witty or satirical email from no other than the James (the Black Dart) which inevitably is some creative form of mocking my life. For example the time James wrote a story depicting me as a sorceress amidst a world of ogres and fairies, or the epic poem about how I was beaten in a game of Catan. (both will be posted in due time). Today’s story, like the others, is loosely based on an actual occurrence in my recent life…


Wow... that nap came out of nowhere
by James M.

So I was sitting around last Friday when my phone starts ringing. I glance down at the caller ID and recognize the number instantly. It’s Norman! Truth be told, I’m a little surprised to be getting a call from Norman. Our friendship had taken a bit of a nose-dive as of late. I met Norman a few months ago through a mutual acquaintance, and we really hit it off. Before I left we had gotten pretty close. When I first got to London, Norman and I talked every day through Skype or Instant Messenger. As the weeks progressed, however, the conversations became less and less frequent. Eventually our communication lapsed into simply instant messaging and eventually, to emails. Over the past month or so Norman has become increasingly distant. My long letters to him have gone largely unanswered and once when I attempted to call him he pretended to be his African roommate Brigamutu; and to only speak Swahili.

So it was with an air of incredulity that I answered my phone. “Hey Joe, what’s up?” (I call him Joe, it’s an inside joke).

I heard that deep baritone voice respond, “hey Becky, not much. Just seeing what you were up to.”

“Oh,” I reply, “not much.”

“Cool. Listen. I’m going to be in England pretty soon. Around New Years. You have anything exciting going on that week?”

“No, actually, work is closed down that whole week for New Years and I’m the only person in my office who didn’t know. Turns out I’m coming back pretty early, earlier than my flatmates, actually. I don’t have anything going on that week at all.”

“Oh cool… cool. Listen, my buddy and I were going to be flying into London, renting a car, and heading up to see a football game in Manchester. The thing is, we were planning on having four people come with us, you know, to divide the gas fare, so we bought four tickets, but we can’t get anyone else to go.”

“Oh yeah,” I ask nonchalantly. I’m not the biggest Manchester fan, but it would be nice to see Norman.

“Yeah. So anyways, we are pretty desperate to get someone to go with us. We wouldn’t even make them pay for the tickets, just the gas fair. So… yeah… I was thinking I’d probably ask these two French exchange students that are studying here for the semester if they wanted to come along.”

For the moment I am too surprised to speak. I manage to utter a chocked, “urgggh?”

“Yeah. They are pretty cool guys. Hopefully they will want to come. It’s a bit of a pain for them to get to London though, so who knows. Anyways, what have you been up to?”

“Ummm… I’m doing well,” I manage to respond. Then, getting a second wind I continue, “I actually had the most amazing…”

I hear a bellowing yawn echo from across the phone. “Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnn… Oh man… wow; this nap just came out of nowhere. Listen Becky, I’ve got to go. Nice talking to you.” There is a momentary click, and then the phone goes silent.

-James

Easy Jet Wasn't So Easy Afterall...

All right kiddies, lets do some quick and easy math with your newly Pho-British pal Becky…

Question: Becky’s flight departs from Gatwick airport at 7:10 for Barcelona. Her taxi arrives at aprox. 5:00AM to pick her up. Becky’s bags weigh 12.5 kilos (this is the useless fact, as we all know word problems have useless facts). It takes an hour to drive to Gatwick. The cab driver can not go over a maximum of 80mph (see previous parenthesis). There is 45 minutes of traffic delays. What time does Becky make it to the airport?

Answer: Let me answer your question with a question… Why is Becky now at the airport Café Nero at 9:15?… you do the math!

That’s right friends- yesterday was sublimely perfect that today of course had to begin this way. That’s what I get for sleeping, should have just pushed through it. It’s Tuesday morning and I’m exhausted and people watching at the airport. There is a Christmas tree down the hall just adjacent to the Boots Pharmacy and there are twinkle lights flashing above me which I find somewhat humorous. There’s only patches of lights on the grid ceiling and with the fluorescent lights shining around the effect is somewhat dampened. But good job Café Nero- I applaud your efforts to make the season bright. I am once again seated on a leather, brown, Nero chair- only this time I would say about 10,000 bottoms have visited it before. I just tried to write an MBA paper with no avail, so alas, blogging it is. And I do apologize because given my current condition 1. I might ramble and 2. I tend to be contemplative when I ramble- be advised..reading beyond this point is at your own discretion. (as it was before…but lets not focus on formalities)

I’m contemplating making my way over to get a Panini. Then again, we are at the airport so all basic things like ordering involve quite a deal of effort. Wheeling the bag over, digging the purse out of the one allowed carry-on, which inevitably is a larger purse to encompass the smaller purse and other basic things, like the work Dell with it’s disgustingly small keyboard. (sigh) The whole scenario reminds me of when I was doing research over the summer. I would be all set-up at a café for 4 hours and as you all know cafes and beverage consumption go hand in hand and I suppose I suffer from FSBS (female small bladder syndrome). So then you’re stuck in a bind…do you ask that man next to you to watch your lap top and belongings while you make a run for it? Do you carry it under one arm and take it with you while leaving something less significant to secure your spot by the window? Move to a new café perhaps? It’s the simple choices in life that slow me down, obviously. Packing up and moving to London was a somewhat easy decision in comparison when you have to make such hard choices, such as, do I want the mozzarella and tomato Panini or the ham and cheese?

Two hours later and I have finally located an electric outlet in the airport. Note to self: although knee- high heeled boots are fashionable, they are not ideal for the unforeseen airport mishap. (common sense really- poor feet). Lets talk about last night..how about that?

I don’t know how David Gray has managed to slip past my music radar, but I need to thank my dear friend Juan for introducing me to the wonder that is David Gray live. Last night I went to his concert in Camden and it was a great end to a busy day. Acoustic guitar, piano…I loved it! The venue was somewhat small, intimate if you will and I wish I were going again tonight.

Yesterday miracles happened. I have been preparing material for this upcoming conference in Barcelona for the last 2 months. With all the focus on attendees, meeting packets and tabulating everything down to special meal requests, such as Halal meats and pork free cuisine in Spain (never an easy task),I managed to forget to dry clean my suit- crud. So, I threw it in a bag and went to work, conveniently walked by one that was affordable and same day service right next to my office- nice! Also I managed to make it to the bank, Zara, swung by the ol’ Sainsbury to pick up a pasta salad to go during my lunch break and ended the whole day with a beautiful concert. All in all it was a pretty good day. A day where you have a moment of “please help me” and alas there was help right when I needed it. Beautiful- thank you!

Hhhmm this is somewhat of a long airport blog novel. I suppose I will leave it there and head off to the gate. Thanks for reading. Later I will tell you some more ridiculous stories. I’ll start with one which I think I will title- “Get your hands off my hot stuff!” Until then… ciao! I’m off to brush up on my Spanish and network, wahoo!

"DIDN"T YOU HEAR ME?!?!?!"

Alright friends, I know it has been quite sometime, and believe me when I tell you that I have wanted to write but the time has just been flashing before my eyes. I am currently at Parsons Green tube station waiting just another 3 minutes now for an Edgware bound train to hit the platform. So let me take this tube ride to share with you one or two of my stories from the last couple weeks….ehm…

A couple Saturdays ago I was hanging out with my friend Chad in Oxford Circus. We went for a brief walk of, I don’t know, about an hour and a half to find ourselves situated at the Café Nero having a panini in the basement. There we sat on a comfy brownish leather sofa that had clearly been worn by at least 1,000 bottoms in its short lifetime.

Café Nero is the equivalent to the UK Starbucks, meaning there is one location within at least every major square block in the city. What a perfect destination to walk to for over an hour. We could have settled for the uniqueness of a pub or perhaps even the local Dough Ball sandwich shop, but no, Nero it is...but it was meant to be. So after our long walk I excused myself to the loo, which was conveniently in the basement as well. “Get key from counter” read the sign…and up the stairs I went only to return with the most obnoxious red metal wire basket that had a small key attached. Apparently loo keys are hot commodities and the theft rate is high. Chad and I sat and talked while eating our paninis but couldn’t help noting the people around us and the “loo key escapades” that were going on out of our peripheral. We watched at least 5 people make the trek down the stairs only to read they needed a key, all of whom made some sort of sigh of disgust and trudged back up the stairs. I would say only half returned. One man we noted went in and after about 35 minutes we swore he had fallen in. Chad was holding back from making grotesque comments at the apparent misfortune that had bestowed upon this man to make him occupied for such lengthy time. But sure enough someone else came down with the beloved red basket and apparently the previous man escaped past us undetected. (or fell in- the verdict is still out on that one). The best thing about these situations is looking at all the adults around you who you know are watching the same thing but not wanting to comment because as we all know bathroom talk is for children and we are to “sensible” for such a thing…and yet everyone is thinking about it. About ten minutes later we all note a girl who goes in that doesn’t have the key.

At this point Chad and I are comfortable making some intuitive smirks at each other and we both sit back and watch what is about to unfold in front of us. Sure enough a young guy, probably 30 walks down the stairs with the beloved red basket key and goes to unlock the door. Two chatty ladies sitting at a small table next to the loo tell the man they think someone is in there. He doesn’t hear them and continues to try to unlock the door. “there’s somebody in here” comes a weak mousey voice from inside. The man not paying any attention, focusing on the task at hand, goes to unlock the door again. The suspense builds in those few seconds as the man clearly doesn’t know what is about to befall upon him. The girl inside panics and in a loud, dramatic voice on the verge of tears she shrieks, “DID YOU NOT HEAR ME! THERE”S SOMEBODY IN HERE!!!! WHAT”S WRONG WITH YOU!!!!”. All conversation in the basement went still. All eyes quickly fell to the ground or to the blueish painted walls around us. The man skulks away from the door and sits at a table a few feet away to wait. You couldn’t help but feel bad for the poor girl, I mean who hasn’t been on the verge of tears? Then again it was such a dramatic display that I’m sure everyone did what we did…left the awkwardness of that basement, finally felt comfortable to bring it up with your friend and laughed about the whole thing immensely for a solid 5 minutes. She never did come out of that bathroom- at least for the next 20 minutes we were there…she could still be in there.

After the day I had forgotten all about the incident until yesterday. I was hanging out with Chad again and upon leaving a restaurant we both decide to visit the loo. With the male and female toilets next to each other I just hear through the wall, “WHAT”S WRONG WITH YOU!!! THERE”S SOMEBODY IN HERE!!! DIDN”T YOU HEAR ME?!?!” in this shrill girl impersonation voice. I immediately burst out laughing and have continued to do so anytime a segment of that phrase is muttered.
Are we wrong for laughing at the poor girl’s misfortune? Yes, and I do feel bad- could be why it wasn’t officially brought up until a week later. Perhaps you just had to be there. But life is funny, and sometimes it’s these small moments that just make us laugh.

That was the fastest tube ride I think I have ever had. Maybe it’s time to bring back The Daily Transport….hhhmmm. Off to sleep soon. Ill share more of the random moments of my life soon.

City on a Sunday

One of my favorite questions people from home ask me is usually some form of the following: “How are the British people?..or your new British friends?...or your new British boyfriend?” And I always reply with some version of, “What British people (insert friends/boyfriend as needed)?!” Okay, so of course I have met British people in London, however probably a vast majority of people I have met are from every other corner of the planet and not from England. It may be because I work in a very global office- the other day at a pub table after work I glanced around me- Canada, um…Canada again (a lot of Canadians!), India, France, Netherlands, Finland…
If anything though, I have realized if you really look for it you will see how all people can be so similar in even the slightest expressions….

This morning I woke up at 9:30. Everyone was still dead asleep including about 4 people who had stayed in our living room from the building-wide Halloween party last night. Imagine my horror as I stumbled into the living room this morning to see a knight slain out upon the couch. He clearly had a joust with Smirnoff the previous night and hadn’t faired so well. Having no part in last night’s festivity the lingering traces of it in my flat lit in me a slight spark of disgust and I had to leave. I decided to head out to a new location to attempt working on my long over due MBA assignments.

I got on the ol’ Bakerloo line as normal, still unsure of were I would end up, and scanned the ipod for some inspiring melody. The car was filled with normal Londoners- families, people going to work on Sunday, and the other 1/3 of people just getting home from their crazy night before. (these were somewhat easier to identify since some had remnants of strange costumes and make-up) Two stops later a family of six got in the car. A couple with three kids and an older women- probably a grandma. Despite there being a lack of seats for all six, they all crammed onto 4 seats, which made me smile. I looked at what they were wearing- interesting scarves and parkas, I guessed they were from a countryside somewhere. They were speaking some dialect I couldn’t detect, so I honestly have no idea where they were from-it didn’t matter. The father has his arm stretched out in front of his son and he held firmly to the pole, even though he was seated and secure. He had a smile on his face of pure joy and at one point he kissed his son on the forehead. The son, who I would guess was about 7, quickly wiped it off and made a face of disbelief of the atrocity just bestowed upon him. I never want to forget the look on the fathers face and the tears of joy in his eyes as he watched the tube walls wiz by - you could just see how proud and excited he was to bring his family to visit the city of London. They got off at Baker Street and another family of 4 took their place. A more conservative German family with a 13 year old girl grasping a Beckham poster she had just bought. Sundays are special in London- travelers, families, people relaxing (well some, it still is a city)

So here I sit at the Victoria Station Starbucks- I came here because of the windows on the second floor that let me daydream and watch the bustling travelers below when I don’t want to focus on my paper. I’m drinking my new favorite concoction- A grande, sugar-free hazelnut, classic hot chocolate, with soy milk. What a wordy and complex beverage, i.e. a perfect reflection of me…I like to think its amazing ;-) Now if only I wasn’t splattering it all over my keyboard, ugh.

Belly of the Beast

Sometimes the most random questions enter my mind while walking around London. As I stood at Oxford Circus tube stop tonight I couldn’t help but wonder, how much money does this city spend on lighting the beautiful buildings every night? I’m not saying its not worth it- the antique crown molding and pillar silhouettes are indeed worth the penny, not to mention I thoroughly enjoy it when forced to take a night bus home after a long evening out (much more scenic), but I was just wondering? Any ideas?

I find it’s the little things in London I enjoy. One would be my walk to work, which is a series of small passageways and winding roads that is so random a GPS would probably lead a stranger into a wall. On a good rainy morning the smell of fresh bread pipes out of the bakeries-ah, its incredible. (Incredible how much of it is going to my waste line-yikes!) I also find myself admiring the brick building across from my office that has blue trim. How would I distract myself from endless Excel spread sheets without that building? Most importantly, the fact that my oatmeal packets say “Hot Stuff” always makes me smile- it’s as if the Quaker oatmeal man knows me... haha, only in England!

Jaime just walked into our flat, and exclaimed, “It’s so hot in here! I feel like I’m in the belly of a beast!” We just got our heat turned on this week and haven’t quite figured it out. I constantly fear the dining room chair is going to burst into flames any moment from being next to the central unit. I suppose I could move it- but where would be the fun story in that?! Luckily we haven’t had too many escapades in our flat.

We live in the basement of a traditional London flat building in the northwestern part of the city- it’s a nice residential area. The kind of place that puts fresh flowers on the lamp posts outside. Of course, they cram 60 of us in a building that would normally be occupied by 30 people- but hey, at least we still get the flowers! :) Some of the other flats have not been as fortunate as us and have had some fatalities. It’s not pure schadenfreude…sometimes its revolutionary. Prime example was the neighbor who some how lit her toast on fire one morning. The smoke was bellowing out and we couldn’t get the alarm off. The next week we all had new toasters, with timers. I just had a toasted bagel tonight, and thanks to her misfortune, my bagel not only fit in the slots but was toasted to absolute perfection. With sorrow comes progress my friends- and it tasted good!

Not much to report tonight, I’m just having a relaxing evening. Come to think of it, overall it has been a relaxing day. There have been several stories of course, but I will fill you in on a later day. Yup, I’m signing off- you all take care!