Workin' in the Gherkin (I wish!)

I'm working in the Liverpool Street Station area and it's a relief to earn some Pounds. I don't think I could have had too many more spaghetti marinara or steak dinners on my unemployed budget. That said, walking through my area in a suit to the bus station each morning and night does attract a few stares, given that normally here, shoes are optional. Holloway is, euphemistically and diplomatically speaking, multicultural.

Braving the stares, and then the stairs to the front of the top of the double decker big red bus, coming closer to the centre, we see this building:
As far as Anth and I are concerned, if we don't get to work in this building, nicknamed "The Gherkin", we have not made the most of working in London. The only problem is finding out which companies work there. All office buildings here have rigorous security - as in you can't even enter without a security pass, and all visitors need appointments. The foyers of some buildings (eg the Barclays building at Canary Wharf) resemble a terminal at Heathrow.

The last time I tried to walk in to the Gherkin, I felt a bit like Homer Simpson trying to walk past the guard at the Stonecutter's... and duly I pivoted and walked away, whistling all the while.

But the point is, I'm working and earning money now, so I better head down to the butcher for a nice steak...

Four weeks down

Approaching four weeks in London and so much of it is still a mystery to me. I'm sure after a month in Copenhagen and Florence I felt a 'veteren' of those cities. There seems to be no thoroughfare. Anywhere. There is no such thing as a straight line. London weaves around in bends - I will never know the winding streets that could take me from my home in Holloway to the Square Mile because I should never choose a taxi over the ubiquitous and effective tube, or the all-night red double decker buses.

And why would you miss the character that defines public transport here? I prefer the buses. Actually, I love (to hate) the bus drivers. The first time I jumped on a bus was as I exited the local tube station. There the bus was, right in front of me. The red monstrosity gleaming in the London sun. Seemingly too good to be true, I slipped onto the bus through the gaping side doors. The doors closed. I already had a week-long pass. Perfect, I'll be home in no time. "Awright then, guv, get awf! You gotta come frough the front door!" The door opens (and I know he means me) so i jump off and skip to the front. No problems, I think. And he closes the door before I can step inside, smiles and drives off.

One reason I came to London was to earn money to repay the debts accumulated in Copenhagen, Iceland, Russia and so on. Finally I have earnt some pounds to begin the slow process of achieving some semblance of fiscal balance. My previous situation was a lot like the US economy: spend, spend, spend - although at least my spending was focussed domestically and not on the Middle East. (Nor do I have a vendetta against an axis of evil, although those bus drivers do really annoy me). My first week of work was a very tenporary stint at a smallish London law firm - the insolvency practise needed to bring its filing system up to date. The secretaries didn't want to do it so they called me... My first few days I was close to internal hysterics as the office I was in seemed to be a faithful reproduction of the BBC's The Office. Generally, the staff spent their time discussing which biscuits in the kitchen were best, and making tea after tea. I'm no Frederick Taylor, but it doesn't take much effort to notice that efficiency was not a high priority for them. I imagine I won't have the same experience when I begin my 'real' job next week at Deutsche Bank - I'm expecting maximum German efficiency.


I should head down to the Nag's Head market across the road and get some mussels and clams. They go well in linguine with parsley and cherry tomatoes.

Our Home, Holloway

The Sherrin in the London Sun

Pickles at Piccadilly

Housemate Pickles abreast of the news

Golden Square