A glimpse of the high life on a commuter train

Commuting is a pretty dull activity – a necessary chore that one gets through on the way to doing something else that is, we hope, more interesting or at least more productive. So it’s great to come across people for whom, on the contrary, it’s a source of fun in itself.

I spotted these two women on the way home tonight. Their smiles, their good cheer were a delight to behold, and highly infectious. And why not enjoy a can of cider on the way home, as one of them was doing? But the touch that really got to me was the green cocktail glass.

Commuter with the cocktail glass

It contained a light coloured bubbly fluid – it might have been cider too but I didn’t ask – I prefer to think it was a fine champagne, to wash down the wasabee peas you can just see on the table, the snack of choice of the discerning commuter. Even if that was merely an illusion, it was one I didn’t want shattered: I was too attached to the idea that here were people who were putting a real fizz into life – with style.

Outlook on car parking and humour

Don’t you just love Microsoft Outlook? I’m completely sold on the way it tells me what I should be doing at any time. ‘Meeting in Leicester in fifteen minutes’ it warns me when I’m already sitting in the room. The alert tone always worries me, as though I’d forgotten something, but when I find that I’m already doing what I should be, the sense of blessed relief is nothing short of wonderful.

What could possibly be more reassuring than an alert that confirms you’ve got things right? Thank you, Mr Gates, for having provided a small comfort in a world usually so perturbing.

I was badly perturbed this morning. I drove to the station and into the car park. I don’t usually try to find a spot on the first floor because it’s usually full, but I thought I’d try it for once, just on the off-chance my luck was in.

It wasn’t. The only free spaces were for mothers and children or handicap card holders only. I drove down the dip at the end of the floor and up the other side, and decided to try my luck again on that level.

It was no better. In fact, to my surprise, the only empty spaces were again all handicapped or mother and children’s. ‘Amazing,’ I thought to myself, ‘how many floors have they reserved spaces on?’

Down I went again and back up again, and as I drove past exactly identical handicapped and mother and children’s spaces, a nasty suspicion began to form in my mind.

A nightmare

Had I wandered into some nightmare world where all the floors of the multi-storey car park were identical? Would I be condemned to drive from floor to identical floor, never finding a spot?

Or worse still, had the car park shrunk, the previous five floors coming down to just one? That was a fear that received reinforcement when I caught sight of the sign saying ‘level 1’. Still ‘level 1’? Despite having gone up twice?

But then it slowly dawned on me that all I had done by going up was to make up for the fact that the end of each level went down half a floor. I hadn’t managed actually to climb a level. There was one further moment of panic when it occurred to me that the up ramp had disappeared, the only explanation I could at first accept for my having failed to see it before, but then I spotted it, drove up, found a space and parked.

What a relief. As good as an Outlook reminder, really.

Not as good though as the supreme compliment I was paid in Kharkov last week.

Friends from abroad have occasionally congratulated me on my ‘British’ sense of humour. At one level this is genuinely flattering, because British humour enjoys a generally good reputation internationally. At another level, however, it has a backhanded quality, as though to say ‘quite funny, but a bit weird – the British are like that, aren’t they?’

So it was particularly gratifying to be told last week that my sense of humour was ‘Ukrainian.’

Nothing ambiguous about that, is there? Surely no one can bestow a higher accolade than to describe a foreigner as being up to the standards of their own nation?

Why that’s even better than the best Mr Gates can do, and more than makes up for any sense of inadequacy in my handling of car parks.

Putting words in their place

In these posts, I return with regularity, some might say monotonous regularity, to the theme of words. It’s a subject that constantly attracts my attention, because I feel that communication through words is a key element of what it means to be human.

So it was an edifying to find myself in one of those situations this week when they are completely unnecessary.

It was during my stay in Kharkov. It often happens to me when I’m travelling that I feel an overwhelming desire to eat some fruit. I’d put it down to a sharpened need for vitamins while I’m away from home, except that exactly the same thing happens at home too.

In a country where you don’t speak the language – I have perhaps 20 words of Russian, the main language in Kharkov (even though it’s a Ukrainian city) – buying fruit isn’t as simple as it sounds. This isn’t like Western Europe: maybe after the European Cup brings thousands of foreigners to Kharkov next year there’ll be a bigger incentive to learn the lingua franca of football and of tourism generally, but for the moment English isn’t much spoken in the streets, cafés or shops.

My first problem was to find a shop that sold fruit. I tried a couple of shops, including one marke

‘Producty’, an interesting name in itself – common, I’m told, in the Russian-speaking world, presumably to distinguish those shops from others that sell non-products. At least it means that if ever I want a non-product, I’ll know not to go to one of them.

My particular ‘Producty’ shop didn’t sell fruit.

I was beginning to get a little desperate, to be honest, when I suddenly saw just what I needed, in the form of a non-verbal announcement of the availability of fruit for sale: a shop front plastered with pictures of fruit and, indeed, vegetables.

No words but no uncertainty

There was a delightfully friendly and helpful middle-aged woman behind the counter. She kept up a steady flow of words throughout the ten minutes I was there, not one of which I understood. But the tone was unmistakeable and it was obvious she was being kind and obliging, so why would I complain?

I took things off shelves and handed them to her – a few bananas (she was kind enough to split three of a bigger bunch for me) – some peaches, some cherries. At one point, she waved a plastic bag at me and I was able to place on of my few Russian words, pozhalusta (please). The one-sided conversation (not entirely one-sided: I did a lot of smiling) continued, and then she looked at me slightly more intensely and pronounced a stream of more pointed syllables in my direction.

‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘the price.’

I smiled again and shook my head. She turned to a calculator, typed in the numbers and showed me the result. I gave her a note and she gave me my change. I collected my bag and placed another of my previous stock of words – ‘spasibo’ (thanks) to which she replied ‘pozhalusta’ – the courteous Russian response to ‘thanks’ is ‘please’.

The shopkeeper had made a little money, I had my fruit. The whole transaction had taken place in an atmosphere of goodwill and politeness. But apart from ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, there had been absolutely no verbal communication.

Words really aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Not all I tend to crack them up to be. In fact, there are occasions when they’re completely superfluous.

A chastening experience which will no doubt be good for my soul.

Friendly city where Lenin still leads in little things

There are things that are obvious when I come to think about them, but I only come to think about them when I actually experience them.

For instance, in my mind Asia is the East and Europe is the West. For the most part that’s true. But there are bits of Europe quite a long way East of bits of Asia – most of Turkey, say, and even a sliver of Syria and Lebanon – and I’m in one of them right now.

Kharkov is the usual English name for this place, which is revealing since it’s the Russian name for a city called Kharkiv in Ukrainian, and though it's right up against the border with Russia, the city’s in Ukraine.

Note that I wrote ‘Ukraine’ not ‘the Ukraine’. I’m told that it’s now viewed as faintly offensive to use the definite article with names of countries like Sudan or Ukraine. Odd, given that the last such country I visited, the Gambia, is terribly keen on its article, insisting that it always be used.

In Europe but east of bits of Asia

It’s a bit like the pronoun ‘she’. In England you can still be ticked off for referring to someone present as ‘she’. Now I’m sure none of us like being talked about extensively in the third person when we’re actually there, but only in English do we regard using the feminine form as particularly reprehensible. Or is it only the English?

Of course, the Japanese don’t like pronouns at all. Someone wanting to ask me directly whether I wanted tea would say ‘Does David San want tea?’ My inclination would be to say ‘you’d better ask him’ but they’d be unlikely to appreciate the joke and would simply reply ‘I just have.’

Anyway, what of Kharkov? I’ve just been out running along tree lined boulevards and through parks beginning to fill with warm June sun, so I approve. Whether I would have felt the same if I had been here in January, when the temperature was down to -20, is difficult to say.

Why was I out running? Because I've been met by some of the kindest and friendliest people you could hope to have welcome you to a new city. And they’ve taken me to some remarkable restaurants. I’ve run about as far as I can manage but I’m still left with the feeling that I could have gone twice as far without making much of a dent in the effects of their hospitality.

Photographer photographed, in the courtyard of a Jewish Institute.
It also contained the first fine restaurant I enjoyed.

The most curious aspect of the run was the statue dominating one of the squares I crossed: none other than Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known as Lenin, not a stone’s throw from a boulevard full of shops offering 30% – even in one case 70% – sales discounts on luxury goods and designer clothes. A salutary reminder that contradictions from the still recent past have yet to be resolved in the former territories of the Soviet Union.

Lenin shows the way to relief in Kharkov

Lenin as always bestrides the scene, showing the way forward. Or at least, if you follow the direction of his right hand, the way to the toilets in the park.

He always wanted to be the champion of the masses. It may be appropriate that he continues to serve the convenience of the public by guiding them towards the nearest public conveniences.

Station trap

It 's so unfair.

I had travelled down to Torquay for a presentation. You don’t know Torquay? Seaside town in the glorious county of Devon. I thought I knew it but discovered I didn’t, although I’d been there several times. It was only last night that I first saw the little fishing harbour with the old town clustered on the slopes around it. Quite charming.

The meeting went well too, but I’m not here to talk about work. The important thing is that the meeting was brought forward a couple of hours which meant I could get an earlier train home. Since my ticket wasn’t the type that could be used on other trains, I had to buy a second one.

The train left from the market town of Newton Abbot. It holds a particular place in my affection. It was there that I heard a Devon accent for the first time, an accent which no description can really make you appreciate if you haven’t heard it, and nothing can ever drive from your memory if you have. So I’m fond of the place. It was horribly disappointing to discover just how tricksy and devious it can be, at least if the station is anything to go by.

Newton Abbot station: a charming exterior but a base personality

I turned up in plenty of time for my train and headed for platform one to wait. Only to realise with horror that the platform I was on, nearest the ticket office, the platform with the café, wasn’t platform one at all but platform three. So my train came in and I had the pleasure – using the word in a loose kind of way – of watching it collect lots of passengers, of which I wasn’t one, and then pull gently out of the station again.

So back I went to the ticket office to buy a third ticket. This time I was determined not to fall into the trap. I went and sat on platform one and patiently waited the hour and more for the next train to arrive.

Only to realise that it was coming in on platform three.

Desperation lent me wings. I’d been caught by Newton Abbot syndrome once, I wasn’t going to be denied departure by the malignant demon that inhabits the place again.

Panting and sweating, a bag on each shoulder, I got to the train as the final door closed. With the last of my strength, I dragged one open and flung myself onboard. The door shut again, but behind me. The train pulled out of the station, but with me on it. I’d made it. I had escaped the accursed place. With three tickets to bear testimony to my determination to do so.

It hasn’t done any good to my previously favourable disposition towards Newton Abbot.

Of course, I can imagine that some people might be inclined to put the difficulties I'd experienced down to incompetence on my part. But surely that’s not an idea we can entertain? It must be more plausible to believe that a malign spirit sent to torment me inhabits the town, or at least its station.

Mustn’t it?

The Guardian Angels seeing to my financial sicuriti

There are times these days when the institutions we have to deal with became faceless, anonymous, uncaring.

For instance, I hardly ever go into a bank these days. For years, I managed my account through occasional conversations with disembodied voices on the phone. More recently, even the voice has gone, replaced by the cold indifference of web access. So it’s wonderful, and reassuring, to know that there are still people who take a personal interest in our affairs, even in the wellbeing of our bank accounts.

Having lived out there for ten years, Danielle and I still have a bank account in France. So when I saw ‘Crédit Mutuel’ on an e-mail I received the other day, I thought I’d better take a look and make sure nothing untoward was happening.

Well, it was just as well.

The e-mail concerned a possible unauthorised use of the card associated with the account. It asked me to complete an attached form so that proper checks could be carried out and the card blocked if necessary.

Obviously, it was important or they wouldn’t have brought it to my attention.

Equally obviously, it was an urgent matter. So urgent, in fact, that they didn’t even have time to proof read the form properly. So there were occasional, excusable errors – the ‘security’ that was their principal concern on my behalf came across, for example, as ‘sicuriti’, which is odd because if I say it out loud, it reminds me of an accent I’ve heard somewhere.

In any case, when someone’s looking out for you, it would be churlish to cavil over such trivial points of detail.

Indeed, so anxious were they to protect my sicuriti that they didn’t limit themselves to considering only one bank card. On the contrary, they thoughtfully allowed space to enter the details for fully eight cards, helpfully providing a box where I could record the PIN for each.

As it happens, however, I no longer have a card with the Crédit Mutuel, so I didn’t avail myself of their kind offer of service.

Still, isn’t it great that someone took the trouble to write in the first place?

Nice at least that someone cares



First prize for effort

There are films that leave you asking ‘how on earth did they make that?’ For others the question is ‘why?’

We watched one of the latter the other night. I was divided between one friend strongly warning us against the film and another strongly recommending it. Unfortunately we listened to the wrong one and watched Black Swan.

Nathalie: top marks for trying

As far as the plot is concerned, it's just one more in a lengthening series about how tough it is to be at the top of your profession in music, the theatre or, as in this case, ballet. Everyone wants the role you’ve been given and is just waiting for you to trip up so they can pounce. Plenty of dramatic material there, and it’s been mined many times before and will be many times again.

What was different in Black Swan is that they took it all much further, with a descent into madness by the key character, where scenes of rivalry or attraction – or both – degenerate into gory violence or passionate sex – or both – only for them to be revealed to have been fantasies.

The final act of (literally) bloody violence turns out to have been a fantasy about something that really happened. Or perhaps not. It’s never made fully clear. I guess it depends on whether you can believe that someone bleeding to death from a fatal wound can dance a particularly gruelling passage of ballet. You decide just how far your capacity to suspend disbelief will stretch, and you make your choice.

All that being said, obviously I can't really be in any doubt as to why the film was made. It was a money spinner, up into the seven figures. As H L Mencken put it, ‘The movies today are too rich to have any room for genuine artists. They produce a few passable craftsmen, but no artists.’ That’s Black Swan to a T: craftsmanlike, professional, uninspired and uninspiring.

The real ‘why’ question concerns Nathalie Portman’s Oscar for her performance. Now she may be an extraordinarily good actor, but how could anyone tell from that role? She seemed to spend practically the whole film looking frightened. A woman at the top of her profession, the envy of all around her, supremely gifted and supremely capable – and she spends the whole time looking like a child outside the headmaster's study. Or was that what the Oscar was for: best performance in a leading role as a frightened woman?

I’ve been assured, however, that the Oscar wasn’t for her acting but for the way Portman danced so much of the role herself. OK, right, but however fine an actor she is, she certainly isn’t a top flight ballet dancer. Do they really hand out Oscars for doing better than one might expect at something one doesn’t do terribly well? Has it become a prize for effort?

Dr Johnson once said that ‘a woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.’ Underneath the misogyny, there’s insight in Johnson’s point about the sense of wonder at something being done, however badly, by someone you wouldn’t expect to be able to do it in the first place.

Feels like Portman got a Johnson Oscar. In a Mencken film.