Friday 24th November, 2017

It’s not that I’m feeling flush.  Actually, as a sign of how tough times are, we are on a mission to convert the old Hen House into a very desirable AirBNB spot for anyone looking for a weekend up in Suffolk.  I’ll let you know when you can sign up.  That’ll be a weird weekend!  Anyway needs must as MiFID2 looms.  By the way, on that subject, I’ve been pondering what I can do to in order to keep in touch with you in the unlikely event you decide not to sign up to pay for Nomura Research.  My reading of the guidelines, and I’d be very interested to hear your take on this, is that I will still be email you without causing any undue problems with the authorities, so long as my email can’t be construed as providing “intellectual rigour using original thought, analysis or information”.   Pondering this briefly I conclude I don’t need to change much, if anything at all.

 

Hmmm. Oh yes, I know what I was trying to tell you. As its Black Friday we’ve decided to buy a new telly.  Well actually, if I’m revealing all, I should confess Sophie informs me she’s also ordered a new bed and a Dyson hoover.  Yeehaaa.  But anyway, our current TV is over ten years old.  So what we thought we’d do is move it over to where you’ll be staying and get ourselves a brand new one for the big hoose.  Well, not really big, but whatever, where we settle down in these long, dark evenings, to watch Masterchef, Strictly Come Dancing and, of course, Peaky Blinders is a lovely old room.   When I sit there I feel I am in the Captain’s Cabin on HMS Surprise, the boat in “Master and Commander”.  Without the decanters of port.  Oh dear I’ rambling this week.

 

I didn’t want Soph to think I was being impulsive so I asked her to measure our television and send me the dimensions which she duly did, somewhat reluctantly I might say.  Nevertheless I received measurements from her of both the screen and the TV set  as a whole, but it was only when I set out upon a bit of research that I realised I needed the measurement across the diagonal to get a proper sense of how much larger our replacement was to be.  I don’t know about you, but these days across a slightly dark room, log fire a-crackling, I can barely see Tommy Shelby, never mind make out what he’s saying in that Brummie accent of his. 

 

Well, when I Whatsapped Sophie to ask her for the additional measurement did I not get it in the neck.  “Ffs. Will be an hour or so x” was the cursory response.  I quaked in my boots.

 

And then I had a brainwave.  I had the width and the height.  I could do something with this.  I had heard about that fellow Pythagoras.   I imagine the first time was ahead of sitting my common entrance exam which I scraped through and then more specifically for my Maths O level which I only passed on the third attempt, but hadn’t he had something to say about this?  Admittedly I had to Google it just for a refresher purposes, but oh what satisfaction!!!  27.5” wide x  15.5” high = the square on the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides…….   32” on the diagonal!!!  I can’t tell you, when I popped into Richer Sounds, on my way to lunch at Wright Bros, to have a look at various models it was all I could do to stop myself relating this story to the guy helping me choose the 49” Sony over the Samsung.

 

So how’s that for research and analysis?  And am I still MiFID2 compliant???  Heck no!

 

PS.  Recall my adventures when I was looking for a taxi in East London last week?  Well I was walking to Liverpool Street last night when I passed a guy shouting repeatedly down his phone “5 Old Bro’ Street”…. I puzzled on this for a while as I wandered on and then it dawned on me.  He was French, needed a taxi and at least he had the wherewithal to try to order an Uber.  But I wondered how long it would be before they realised it was Old Broad Street, not Bro’.  (I know.  It loses something in the telling but it made me chuckle at the time.)

Friday 17th November, 2017

I know you feel I rail against my lot rather too frequently, so you may be surprised to hear that the other day I found contentment in the most trying of circumstances.  I havn’t told you a story for a while so if you are sitting comfortably here goes.  

 

My commute had been a shocker even by the standards of a Monday morning.  I arrived at the station to find that a points failure meant there were no trains running or scheduled to do so for another few hours.  Yes, I’ll admit it.  For a fleeting moment, standing there on the platform in the cold and dark and a hint of drizzle in the air, I thought of retiring home to bed, but being the dedicated soul I am, I got back in the car and drove all the way down the M11 to the outskirts of London where I took a tube into the City arriving at the office just a few minutes later than normal.  Go me.

 

After the start to the week I’d had and having put in a decent days work I felt I was owed a prompt departure that evening.  Anyway I had a 7pm appointment in Newmarket with the Real Tennis pro.  So I snuck away just before 5pm and made it down to the Central Lone only to find that some so and so had fallen under a train and the line was closed indefinitely.  Swearing gently at this further misfortune I pulled myself together and by way of the DLR, requiring a detour south to Canada Wharf, I eventually arrived in Stratford where I found a few other people had had the same idea.  I knew immediately that the taxi ride I had been banking on was a pipe dream.  Six miles lay between me and my car which I had left at Redbridge station.  Now I don’t know about you, but I rarely set foot east of Bishopsgate.  So I don’t mean to be rude when I say this, but I wasn’t at my most confident when I concluded that there was nothing for it other than head out into the night and tromp my way through this less than salubrious part of London.  Reassuringly a policeman pointed me in the general direction and I set off, nerves a-jangling, at a decent and concerted lick, albeit with frequent glances around me both for security purposes and in the forlorn hope that an unoccupied taxi would miraculously pop up.  

 

About fifteen minutes later I had pretty much given up hope of a lift and I’ll tell you I was beginning to regret that impulsive streak in me.  The side-roads to the right, which I knew I was going to have to negotiate at some point on my way towards the Wanstead Flats, another foreboding obstacle between me and my car, were getting darker and more ominous.  And then suddenly an Indian guy walking alongside spoke to me.  Obviously sensing my predicament he helpfully pointed out that there was a taxi firm’s offices located on the other side of the road.  A good idea indeed I thought and very nice of him.  But then he paused to ponder further upon my plight and told me he had a mate who was a taxi driver offering to call him for me. It seemed churlish to decline.  He dialled a number and had an unintelligible conversation after which he suggested it would be easiest if I followed him to where his friend was rather than risk the taxi getting snarled up in all the traffic.  Just five minutes away.  In for a penny in for a pound thought and we strolled on together down Leytonstone High Road.  He was a livewire for sure, but we had a nice chat.  I banged on about the trials and tribulations of commuting daily from Newmarket and he told me all about his legal processing business.  That’s serving writs to you and I.  We were having such a high old time I was a bit sad to say goodbye to him when we arrived at the appointed location.  There indeed, Eve Road I think, for the record, parked behind a portacabin, was his friend in what might have been a licenced cab though I can’t say I looked particularly closely.

 

Easing into the back seat I was chuffed with myself that I had the presence of mind to ask him how much it would cost – no flies on me eh?  We agreed on £20 and off we pootled.  Well didn’t I just have another great conversation with this fellow too.  We discussed his friend who had introduced us.  “My mate’s English.  He was born here, but I’m Indian” he told me.  He’d lived in England for 23 years and insisted he loved it.  It was home.  But he was born in Mumbai only leaving when he was 19 and that’s where his heart was.  Gosh we covered a bit of ground he and I.  Let me see.  We talked about the Indian diaspora, Bolton ( he arrived there from India and, would you believe it, my family lived for three years a while back ) , Zambia ( where his brothers ran an electronic goods shop ), the Chinese in Africa, Brexit ( briefly ), the restaurants of Leytonstone from where we went on to discuss the importance of exercise given unhealthy diets and sedentary lifestyles such as taxi-driving and stockbroking.  He agreed with me on this and whilst he was somewhat in awe of the fact that I had had set out with the intention of walking six miles he claimed that, remarkably, the last minute call up to drive me to Redbridge had interrupted him in his resolve to do 20 minutes on the treadmill that evening, the first such work-out he would have had in ages.  I was wracked with guilt needless to say.  Of course we then had a long chat about sport in general and specifically India’s most popular activities.  Cricket, obviously, hockey, squash and table tennis.  Table tennis??  It was when I heard myself telling him, whilst I didn’t like to boast, that I was really excellent at table tennis, probably the sport I was best at, and ambidextrous too, that it struck me this bro-mance was getting pretty weird, but luckily it was that point that we arrived in Redbridge.  The 5 miles had taken over half an hour, though they had passed in a flash. 

 

And would you believe it, my NBF refused to take any money from me?  Of course I insisted and we agreed he would accept the money on a promise that he would go for that run as soon as he got home.  And so we went our separate ways.  I had 70 miles to drive back to Gazeley which I negotiated in a happy state of mind indeed.  I cared not a jot that my commute that day had taken a combined 5.5 hours, nor that I missed my Real Tennis lesson.  Not the most riveting story ever.   It’s hard to beat the journey home I had when I met the girl with her bottle of Glenfiddich on the late night train from KX to Cambridge, but those were two super nice guys I’d stumbled across on my East London adventure.  And hey, I was back in time to watch Howard’s End.  “Only Connect.”  That’s what it’s all about isn’t it?

 

Talking about connecting, a dreadful thing happened this week.  We caught up over lunch at El Pastor in Borough Market with some friends we’ve only seen a few times since we were at University together, on one of their occasional visits from Australia.  I almost choked on my quesadilla when they announced proudly they were about to become grandparents.  Forget East London, this is properly scary.

Friday 10th November, 2017

Perhaps you missed me last Friday.  Remember I told you I was off to France to catch up with a girl in a van.  I meant to drop you a line on the Thursday, but I had a sore back.  Slightly lame excuse I know and it was such a silly thing I should probably quickly tell you.  

The thing is I was packed off by Sophie the previous Saturday morning to give Lottie’s horse a bit of a stretch in her absence that weekend ( DofE Gold training don’t you know ).  Uncharacteristically I took my phone with me.  Having a phone with one is a strict and sensible rule laid down for Lottie but one I invariably ignore, however on this occasion taking it was my undoing.  At the very far end of my ride I arrived at a bridleway which opens up onto a wide path and allows for a decent stretch of the legs.  It was at this point that I had the idea of videoing my ride and, spotting to my surprise that my current location enjoyed 4G coverage, I decided for some weird reason to try out Facebook Live-video for the first time.  

You may well ask what was I thinking of? It’s not as if I was unaware of the risks in this escapade.  As the camera started rolling I told anyone watching that if they were lucky they might even see me falling off, and with that I kicked on and Bertie broke out of trot into a canter and a developing gallop as I clamped my legs tightly holding onto the reins with one hand.  Fifty yards further we were in full flight when out of the corner of my eye I saw catastrophe looming in the shape of red deer stag which shot out of a hedge immediately into our path.  I remember feeling quite proud of myself because I caught the approaching deer in the video feed, but this all happened the instant before Bertie spotted the creature.  When he did, and who can blame him for this, he startled and swerved sharply to the left.  I went right however and, still clutching my iPhone, flew out the saddle landing on my bottom in a humiliated heap on a mercifully soft grassy patch.  I shook myself tentatively off as I watched the deer and my daughters beloved horse careering side by side across the field into the distance.

It was at that point, dear reader, I decided to delete the video.  Partially out of shame, but mostly because with a loose horse to attempt to reconnect with it wasn’t a good moment really.  Nearly an hour later spent haplessly chasing Bertie around the fields and hedgerows of the Dalham Estate and eventually having to call on help from Sophie – you can imagine how thrilled she was – Bertie finally succumbed to the allure of some pony nuts Sophie held in an outstretched scoop and I was able to remount and gingerly we made our way home. 

So with all ending well enough, apart from my bruised pride and backside, it’s a bit of a shame the video is lost.  Bob and his friend Felix watched it in hysterics when I got home.  It had stayed on my phone for one showing only before disappearing into the ether.  

Ah well.  We live and learn.   

Friday 27th October, 2017

Fresh as a daisy me.  Stayed in town last night having hosted dinner for a visiting Philippines corporate.  That was a treat.  Our guest kindly brought three delicious bottles of wine to the restaurant.  Lynch-Bages 2001, Clos du Marquis 1998 and Lafaurie-Peyraguey 1989.   How wonderful is that?  I was booked into a Travelodge in the middle of nowhere, well, underneath some arches east of Tower Bridge, for the bargain basement sum of £79 and I must say I slept like a log, at least until the early hours when the rumbling of trains above my room and a strange noise next door – which transpired to be a car wash – roused me from slumbers and I pottered out, past the Tower and was at my desk before 6.30am.  Go me.  

 

I’ve stayed in an East End Travelodge once before.  Earlier this year in fact.  On that occasion, however, I thought better of bragging about how cheap it was.  Now that some water has passed under the bridge I can tell you I fell victim to a sting which added £40 to the overall cost of the evening. 

 

I had been invited by a very generous to friend to dinner at his club where he also treated us to the most exceptional line up of wines from the personal cellar he stored there.  Needless to say I was full of bonhomie when I made my way, albeit somewhat warily, along a dark foreboding street leading up to my hotel.  It was just as I was going through the safety of the hotel’s front door, which the night-guard had unlocked for me, I noticed a young woman sobbing uncontrollably.  There was a man nearby her and for a moment I’m ashamed to say I was tempted to leave things to him to sort out.  I didn’t, don’t worry.  I went over and enquired what the problem was. I wouldn’t say it was the gallant in me that changed my mind.  More like the couple of bottles of fine wine I must confess.  

 

It was a strange situation indeed.  Between her sobs I gathered she had had lost her handbag, phone and wallet.  She had nowhere to stay in London and missed the last train to Cambridge ( that struck a chord ).  When I asked where in Cambridge she lived ( that was me testing her story, nothing else ) she explained that she lived with her parents, not actually in Cambridge, but in Waterbeach or some such place. I can’t quite recall.  Up in the Fens anyway. 

 

In the cold light of day, which eventually dawned on my very sore head the following morning, it was so obviously a con-job that I don’t know how I fell for it, but there we were, sometime after midnight and struck by her plight I pulled out the last two £20 notes I had in my wallet and told her, somewhat ungraciously perhaps, that would pay for a taxi at least part the way home.  And off she headed into the night to spend my money on goodness only knows what.  Ah well I’d had a splendid evening and I suppose what goes around comes around. 

 

OK…early bath…I’m off to play Real Tennis.  I first took it up when we were renting in Cambridge twelve years ago.  I got totally hooked and although I admit I was a little disappointed at how difficult I found the game I nevertheless quickly established myself with a world ranking of 1,458 if I remember correctly.  Eventually though I lost interest when I found I was being beaten by 70 year olds.   But I’ve decided the time is ripe for a comeback and so watch this space.  My initial target is to get in the world’s top 1,000 and we’ll see where we go from there…..