Raising Azaria

As everyone knows by now, Kate Moss has given in to pressure and publicly apologised for the 'behaviour' that had gone 'unnoticed' by all the people who work for her, or for companies that she worked for. I imagine they didn't 'notice' her 'behaviour' because they were too busy in the work toilets, cutting up a line.

What I want to know this week is how I have managed to not know until now that a young 25 year old Australian woman came forward in August claiming to be Azaria Chamberlain? How could this sensational and salacious story escape the news-gathering reach of NNN, Nick's News Network? I am obsessed with the Azaria case, being one of those sentimental memories of my childhood like yo-yo tricks, Lego, and those elusive VHS video recorders that could skip the ads. Here's the story about the confused young lass. How exciting if it were true? Apparently she wants Lindy to provide DNA samples to settle the matter.

Today is the second week anniversary of having started work. I'm not liking it anymore than last time I wrote. I spend most of my day managing to be busy at pretending to work, and it's an arrangement that seems to sit comfortably with my co-workers and management. But still I've become concerned about my outrageous internet usage. What started as a necessary distraction through extreme lack of work, has now expanded to occupy my time when not distracted by work. I was called into my manager's office today, causing my paranoid brain switch into overdrive as I catalogued every site I'd visited in the last week. Rather than castigating me, my manager said he's happy with my work, and would like to extend my contract beyond the three months originally negotiated. I've often heard complaints about the English work ethic, but this is ridiculous.

I think the extension has little to do with me being the right guy for the job, and more about being the right now guy. The Afrikaan resigned on Friday in a brazen, hissy tantrum, all because he was asked to move to a desk three metres away. And if the worker droids are allowed to diminish to unacceptable numbers, then there is nothing for the management droids to do. So this probably has a lot to do with manager preserving his job.

Continuing a lifetime of shunning gift horses, I made a mess of things when offered the extension. Some people might argue that the only suitable answer to an extension offer is "yes", especially when there is a 28 day quit clause, but that is far too simple for Nick. Basically I told TeamLeader that I'd like a week or two to "think if I really want to work here". You can stop for a moment and question my sanity, as who wouldn't want to get paid to look busy and read about Kate. But this is I.T. contract code. I explained to TeamLeader that I'm used to Australian I.T. contracts, which are fixed-term and lack a quit clause. So I am naturally cautious to extend until I am totally sure about the job at The Firm, and the work I will be doing. What all that means is that I want to be doing interesting work, similar to the job description I applied for. TeamLeader seemed okay with that, and dangled a carrot of .NET development, which is exactly what I want. If I'd stopped there, I'd be laughing, but I then (foolishly) went on to (stupidly) say, "then again, I could renew and if I don't like the work I could always give 28 days notice". TeamLeader visibly flinched, convincing me finally to stop digging and shut up. I later smoothed things over with my recruitment agent, so I think everything will work out swell.

I MSN chatted with Kerby today and mentioned the potential for a contract extension. I also said that even if I hate winter here, which is quite likely, it would make sense to stay in London until this time next year to enjoy the beautiful summer. Kerby seemed okay with that. It is a possibility that we originally discussed, provided everything worked out well here, and it has. Hopefully Kerby will be able to get vacation time in the middle of next year and so we'll end up seeing each other every three or four months from now on.

Today the temperature was minimum 10 and maximum 18. The bad news is that January's record maximum is 14. Just repeating, the RECORD MAXIMUM is 14. The average is 2 to 6, meaning that the average maximum is almost half of today's minimum. I'm going to try and take advantage of the 'warm' weather before winter gloom arrives. I'm thinking of a little road trip in a few weeks time, perhaps to Dover, Devon, or Cornwall, followed up by short trips to Paris and Belgium.

My friend Doug arrives today. He's my (first) house guest for the next two nights, and on Friday we fly to to Madrid together for the weekend. I'm flying back to London around Sunday lunchtime, just in time for the 7th Birthday Salvation party. Yay!

Human Hoover, Kate Moss

Am I the only person in London OBSESSED with the Kate Moss press coverage? For an entire week now, the newspapers have been covering the unfolding 'scandal' on every front page.

I'd love to see a documentary about the making of this story, because I think it has been brewing for weeks. About two weeks ago I read an article in the Metro, the free tube paper, which was glowing in its deference to Moss' diabolic ability to party until daylight and then show up at a function the next day looking like a milliion dollars. Did that article invite readers to send in (read: sell) photographs of coked-up Kate? Or was it merely designed to lay a foundation for what was to follow. Regardless, within the space of a week the story is turned right around. Front page photographs showed Kate snorting a line that could stretch from London to Bristol. The accompanying text describes her Herculean effort of five lines in the space of forty minutes, flying in the face of her own description of one-time 'occasional dabbling'. From the five-pound note in her hand (and up her nose) I think it fair to assume that Kate was oblivious to the camera-snapping, otherwise she surely would have reached for a larger denomination. But things just seem to get worse and worse for Kate. When the story breaks, the newspapers score a second goal as Kate has a public breakdown telling a horde of photographers and journalists, "Fuck off, I don’t want to know. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!" Has media-savvy Kate secretly retained the services of Tom Cruise's PR people?

I actually didn't see the photos when first published. Walking home on Aldwych last week, I caught the Evening Standard's headline, KATE MOSS COCAINE SHAME. I wondered if that meant she was caught totally sober at a fashion parade. After all, does anyone really expect anything different from an industry where cocaine is consumed like Splenda? Days later, I got the full story. The newsprint is salacious, the photos grainy, and the facts attributed to anonymous friends. The tabloids here are very cruel, and even if she is the mega-bitch portrayed by scurrilous local gossip, one wonders if she deserves being singled out for behavior that otherwise goes unchecked in swinging new-millennium London. The only difference between Kate Moss and the habitual City users is that she isn't control of pension funds, criminal appeals, or a human life. And yet, it seems to be so very important to the newspapers to out her. The cynic in me wonders how much this 'scandal' has more to do with the bumper-to-bumper Fashion Weeks in New York and London this past fortnight.

Still, I've seen some classic headlines:
MODEL SNORTS LINE TO WAKE UP
COCAINE KATE'S £200 A DAY HABIT
END OF THE LINE FOR KATE AND PETE

It'll be interesting to watch the upcoming fall-out from the case. The Metropolitan police chief Sir Ian Blair has vowed a police investigation. She has lost the Chanel and Burberrys contracts, Dior is in doubt, and even H&M (similar to Jeans West) has dropped her, claiming her behaviour could influence the young girls targeted with their Kate Moss campaign. H&M's high moral ground response is the funniest, as they don't have a problem manufacturing clothes in Thai sweatshops.

Despite the mass media coverage, my stodgy English co-workers could care less. Maybe a lifetime of English tabloid exposure can desensitize you. I, on the other hand, can't get enough of the celeb-obsessed salacious kick that comes from reading about someone who snorts their human body weight in cocaine, the value of my weekly rent, every single day.

Out of Chancery, into Chancery Lane

As I write, I am sitting in the staff cafeteria in the basement of The Firm's offices. It's my fourth day on the job, and already I can see the cracks emerging in what might have been a picture-perfect job.

Day One was easy, of course. Most of the time was spent meeting with staff, being shown the loos, rustling through the stationery cupboard, and receiving some training. The Firm's office's span a sprawling multi-building campus just off Fleet Street, on a site that was once home to the printing presses of The Daiy Mail.

The present buildings are mostly new builds. Either way, as seems to be the case the world over, the I.T. Department was given scant afterthought and located in the basement. A glass-roofed atrium attempts to convey sunlight into the bowels of the building, but mostly the atrium is for show. Which is okay, because it looks really, really good. After all, what matters more than that at a law firm?

My team consists of around 8 people, and is responsible for the support for existing software applications. This is very different to how it worked at QR, where a software developer would design, write, test, implement, and then support the program he/she wrote. Here there is a team of analysts, a team of developers, a team of support staff etc. And that's great, because the assembly line approach allows people to focus full attention on a smaller part of the life cycle. The only problem is that assembly lines require adequate communication between the teams. The software needs to be documented, so that the next team understand what to do, and despite the expensive suits, and the steel and glass atrium, this simply isn't done. Even if it were done, believe me when I say that the least interesting place to work in software development is in doing support, because it's handling all the crap problems that users manage to find themselves in, without any of the glory of writing the solution in the first place. And so, right now, the support team is precisely where I am.

I didn't plan for this to happen. I was trained to be a software developer, which is where my experience lies, but the lack of local experience perpetuates the nexus of finding good I.T. jobs in London. Another antipodean developer (from South Africa), who we'll call NFG2, started the same day as me. We interviewed for the same job, and NFG2 got it, which is great for him because he's a lovely guy. It's just mildly annoying that he has 6 months experience in the latest stuff, and I have 2.5 years!! When NFG2 says stupid things and asks silly questions, I wonder how much he actually knows. But I suspect he interviewed a lot better than me, partly because I was nervous, and partly because I was very honest about my strengths and weaknesses... and that's why has a 12 month contract doing all of the team's interesting work, and I got the 3 month consolation. Still, I need the money (albeit a fraction of the good deal I thought I had) and The Firm needs someone to do crap work, so regardless of whether I renew beyond the three months, everyone wins right now.

I sit next to an Afrikaan guy, who reminds me of me at QR. After 5.5 years he can barely conceal his contempt for The Firm and his job. The Afrikaan is a subversive smart-arse. I think we're going to get on just fine. Nearby sits AstroNerd, the team's middle-aged resident nerd who's claim to fame is that he once self-published a book on astronomy. Nowadays AstroNerd mostly likes to scream obscenities as he battles his computer. But the good news is that apart from these occasional ejaculations, my team's workspace is library-quiet. Gone are the days of the noisy QR workstations.

The team is filled with the other usual suspects, like the the bookish woman programmer who ignores pretty much everything and gets on with the job. Then there is the well-meaning but totally weak and ineffectual guy who is our deputy team leader. I can't wait for him to bend under pressure and throw me to the lions when the shit hits the fan. Completing this picture is our heoric Team Leader, who closely resembles The Office character David Brent. This guy is fond of bad ties, rude haircuts, and coining terms like "communication conduit" to describe a monthly staff meeting.

One good thing about the management, is that they actually understand the work I do. Sounds simple enough, but for the entire seven years that I worked at QR, I never worked for a team leader or section manager who had experience doing the very work performed by the people he managed. Can you imagine the difficulties this caused?

The Firm makes oodles of cash. According to a recent newspaper article given to me by the Afrikaan, The Firm turns a 45% profit on its revenue. Either that's coming from high fees or employee's asses, but I'm betting that it's a bit of both.

Mind you, it's pretty easy to see the money just by walking around the complex. Everything is high-tech. Everyone has a brand-new computer with a 17" LCD screen, and most people also have a laptop. There are kitchens every thirty feet of office space, each containing free espresso machines, tea machines, fruit bowls, biscuit containers, the usual fridges and microwaves, and an LCD screen streaming cable news 24/7. These TV screens are everywhere. I can check the weather on my way to the bathroom, and believe me, there's nothing like watching violent war footage to get the blood pumping heading into a meeeting.

As is often the case these days at big companies, staff here are issued with security cards to access locked doors and floors. The difference being that at The Firm, every second door is locked! I have to unlock six locked doors just to get to the cafeteria.

The security cards also double as charge cards for the cafeteria. This is so cool. I deposit notes and cash in a vending machine, which adds the credit to my security card. Then at the cafeteria I buy a meal and wave my security card over a reader, which debits the transaction. Apart from the cash I feed the machine, it's a totally cashless society. The cafeteria seats 200 people, with hundreds more choosing takeaway. The menu changes every day, and the food is very inexpensive (for London) and very good. Perhaps because of the weather here, I've discovered that staff cafeterias are a big thing. And our cafeteria isn't a patch on the best out there. A friend of mine recently started at De Beers, and he tells me that their cafeteria is even more over the top. Three course meals, with desserts like that served in a top restaurant, and it's all completely free.

I find I'm often comparing the work and environment to QR. Here, the facilities are amazing, but the work is mired with red-tape, and the staff whine that they aren't being treated well. At QR, the facilities were very average, the work was interesting, but still the staff whined they weren't being treated well.

It seems that my three month contract will be spent doing all the crap work that the other workers have put off for months or years. My first task is to clean up a list of users in a software application. Of course, I ask all the stupid questions like "wouldn't it be easier to get this list from ActiveDirectory?" etc etc, and I'm told "no, that's not how we do things here". This task is something that started two years ago, and has passed through three other developers, without ever approaching completion. The funny thing is that while developers have been playing hot potato, the original problem is far worse now than it ever was.

Anyway, after a strenuous first day, trying to appear busy and look interested, I headed to the National Film Theatre at Waterloo, the repertory cinema centre run by the British Film Institute. That evening I watched Dr Strangelove, followed by a live Q&A session with the film's production designer, Ken Adam, who worked with Kubrick again on Barry Lyndon (inducing a nervous breakdown, but winning an Oscar for it). But Adam is probably best known for his work on many early Bond films, from Dr No to Moonraker. I'm a big fan, and have found him to be an interesting interview subject on DVD supplements, so it was a pleasure to hear him live.

Now well into his eighties, Adam's life reads like a novel. He was born into a fairly well-off Berlin family, that moved to England sometime before the start of WW2. While not an English citizen, Adam enlisted with the RAF, and has the distinction of being the only German to fly for England!

One of the best stories he told concerns Stanley Kubrick and the Bond picture, The Spy Who Loved Me. Adam was completing his huge supertanker set, at the time the largest and most expensive ever built. The set was so big the production team did not know if they could properly light it.

Concerned his work wouldn't be seen to best advantage, Adam asked Kubrick, a friend and previous collaborator, to help out. The director reluctantly agreed, but Adam had to promise to keep it a secret forever. Kubrick was terrified he'd be spotted by a Pinewood Studios worker, and the whole world would know he was secretly lighting Bond pictures... Whatever that means! Adam agreed to the deal, Kubrick visited the set, provided the crucial advice, the film was successful, and the whole thing remained a secret for many years... Until Adam attended a memorial dinner for Kubrick, a few years ago in the USA. Adam broke his promise and told the whole story, believing there to be no better way to honour the man who became one of the best directors of the 20th century.

Ken Adam didn't stay on stage for very long, and he seemed quite grumpy and unbelievably disinterested when he was signing books. I shelled out 25 quid for a copy and I don't thnk he even looked me in the eye, preferring to keep the assembly line moving! Still, like Tippi Hedren talking about Hitchcock a few years back at BIFF, I am very grateful for the opportunity to hear first-hand stories about the working habits of these remarkable directors.

Banks, Bridges, Books, and Beggars

It's on days like today that I wonder how this country ever managed to pull its head out of its ass and become the world power that it once was. I was trying to do the most simple of tasks, open a bank account. But as I've discovered on this trip, it's the simplest things one does back home that are the hardest things to do when abroad. So far I've spared my blog the three week long dilemma of where to purchase a bucket. Apparently, it would be too helpful to sell buckets in supermarkets, like in Australia, so one must trundle from store to store in the hope of finding a bucket for sale. Meanwhile my wooden floors got murkier, while I agreed more and more with Paul Jones' observation that Australian supermarkets are quite amazing, simply for the variety of items they sell. The story of today's disaster, the bank account, actually begins yesterday. But to serve the chronology of things and in the interest of telling short stories in the longest possible way, I'll begin last week.

At the risk of sounding over-confident, I had a feeling that the law firm job would come through, from the moment the recruitment agent responded to my original e-mail. As previously noted, that he responded was a good sign already. So around and after the time of my interview, I tried to fit in the odds and ends remaining on my to-do list.

The Museum of London was built in the early 1970s, and is the world's largest museum devoted to a single city. It's located in the City of London, on London Wall, a road that follows the original line of the Roman fortification around ancient London. Which is not hard to tell, given its absurd winding course, and absurd mad street numbering (sequentially up one side, then sequentially down the other). Around the City, there are open pits exposing the few remaining fragments of the wall, which I photographed and will post pictures of soon as I get a chance.

The museum's exhibits are being overhauled to be more interactive, but I did get to see the "London before London", "Roman London" and "Victorian London" exhibits. London has a 2000 year history, which pales in comparison to the history multi-millienia history of places like Rome or Athens where thje antiquities flow like wine. But I think it's the Brits' obsession with history and archaeology (the very tradition that built the British Museum) that has ensured that newly-discovered old things are appropriately documented, put into safe-keeping, and summarised with photographs and diagrams in museums such as the MoL. So while there is no Parthenon or Colliseum, there is tremendous respect for even the smallest of discoveries. Bits of the London Wall were exposed during the blitz. Roman terazzo floors were discovered during the construction of a new office block. In similar circumstances were revealed the ancient wooden foundations of London Bridge, quite a distance from the river bank as the Thames has never been narrower than it is today. And the museum is quick to point out that for almost as long as London has existed, thre has been a bridge within twenty metres of the current London Bridge.

The Victorian London exibition was very interesting, given the size of the Empire at that time, and how England was leading the world with technology. Naturally, a lot of exhibition space is devoted to Queen Victoria (such a pretty young thing, such an ugly old woman). Interactive consoles allowed me to view captivating film footage of Victoria at her Jubilee, as well as other early footage of Victorian London filmed by the Lumiere and Edison companies.

Over the weekend I did very little, trying to nurse myself back into health after a cold and a helluva-weekend the weekend before. My only non-domestic outing was to see Downfall at the Prince Charles Cinema, a repertory cinema just north of Leicester Square. Downfall relates the story of the last two weeks of life within the Fuhrerbunker in downtown, shell-shocked Berlin, as witnessed by his secretary who survived and wrote the book on which the film is based. Downfall attracted attention as the first German film to represent Hitler, and was criticised for humanising the dictator. I think those critics are on drugs, because I can't imagine a more balanced representation of Hitler's final hours. While there are moments of humanity towards his underlings, which are to be expected given that he was human, he comes off no better than the mad, obsessed, manipulative tyrant that history portrays. It's not a short film, but I really enjoyed it. Maybe 4.5 kerbies out of 5.

This week, knowing that I had the job, I decided to wrap up a few personal tasks such as open a bank account and sort out the National Insurance nonsense, as well as a couple of sightseeing things. Yesterday morning was spent at the offices of the contracting umbrella company who will manage my employment. This is a separate company to the law firm where I will actually work, and the recruitment agency who got me the job. The purpose of the umbrella company is to manage my employment as a PAYE salary earner. For providing the service, they take a cut of my precious hourly rate, as do the recruitment agency. What is left is divided between the government and me, and barely in my favour at that.

Just before leaving the umbrella company's offices, they prepared for me a letter which confirms my employment, my personal details, and requests the bank to open an account in my name. This letter was addressed to the Fenchurch Street branch of the HSBC, the very branch used by the umbrella company for its own accounts. By using the same branch, the whole process is supposed to be significantly easier. To those who have been spared the heartache, it is painfully difficult to open a bank account in the UK.

So I walked down to Fenchurch Street, where I delivered the letter to the reception clerk, a smarmy individual who seemed to misunderstand on which side of the desk he stood. He asked me, outright, whether I had a visa to work in the UK. I produced my Greek passport, and explained (as I often have to) that, by virtue of dual citizenship, I am entitled to live and work anywhere within Europe. England's xenophobia bears its ugly face around this time, when the other person says something like "oh yeah, Greece recently joined". Gritting my teeth, I explain that Greece has been a member almost as long as the UK. It must bug modern Britons to discover that France was a founding member of the EU's predecessor, some twenty-one years before the UK joined.

Having leaped the hurdle of my entitlement to work, we move on to the next battle. It was explained to me, in oh so condescending terms, that HSBC subscribes to the Banking Code, an industry standard setting very strict minimum standards on who may open a UK bank account. In short, passport identification is not sufficient (as it would be in Australia). And a letter from my employer is not usually sufficient. My umbrella company had clued me in to this fact, as other contractors have been knocked back for something as simple as a generic letter confirming employment (ie not addressed to HSBC). The clerk said he would phone me back later in the day after having spoken with the person in charge of opening accounts. Naïve to the nonsense playing out before me, I figured all was in hand, and so I decided to go sightseeing.

I headed to the tube station marked as King's Cross St Pancras. London is dotted with the huge Victorian-era train stations that have inspired a thousand tales. Paddington Bear comes to mind, named for the station where he was found. And then there is the inordinate wins and losses manipulated by strategically navigating the Monopoly board. One such station, King's Cross is located right next to the St Pancras mainline (read: above-ground) station. They share a common tube station. King's Cross still provides mainline services, but St Pancras is in the throes of renovation, readying itself to become London's new Eurostar terminus. With all it's Victorian Gothic glory, it will be a far more beautiful station than the present terminus at Waterloo.

But I digress. The reason for my trip to the area was to visit the British Library, now resident next to St Pancras station in its purpose-built new home, opened in 1998. The library was originally the British Museum Library, and created when George IV presented to the museum the personal library belonging to his father, George III. The only condition was that the books from the original endowment must be kept separate, in perpetuity, from any future collections and acquisitions. While the library's exterior is much-maligned (contemporarily bland), it's interior space is the very essence of spacious and clean design. The public areas are mostly white in colour, exaggerating the proportions of the space, but dominated by a central dark-coloured column rising perhaps five or six stories in the atrium. Known as the King's Tower, this library-within-a-library showcases George III's original collection. The book spines face outwards, on all four sides of the tower, drawing special attention to the building's purpose and history. The King's Tower is one of those architectural delights that is genius in its simplicity.

The Library is not open to the general public, and I wasn't in the mood to bluff a reading pass. But I did visit the galleries. There was a mildly interesting temporary exhibit on Hans Christian Anderson, a very interesting permanent exhibit on the history of movable type, and an outstanding permanent exhibit showcasing the library's treasures. Where else can one expect to see, in the one place, the Magna Carta (one of four surviving originals), the Lindisfarne Gospels, a treasure-laden binding of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khaiyam, the original hand-written copy of Alice in Wonderland, and the hand-written scrawl of Yesterday's lyrics, among many, many other fine objects. My favourite item is a letter written by Queen Elizabeth to parliament where she ran out of space, before deciding to turn the paper sideways and write in the margin... just as we do these days when we run out of space on notepaper! Its awkwardness tied in perfectly with a famous sequence in the 1998 biopic, Elizabeth, where Cate Blanchett, as the virgin queen, practises her coronation speech in front of a mirror.

Late in the day, I got a call from HSBC. They informed me that the letter I had was sufficient, and that I only needed my passports to open the account. If only it was to be that easy.

Which brings me to today, my last day of freedom. I decided to savour it by watching other people lose theirs, when I visited Bow Street Magistrate's Courts. Located opposite the Royal Opera House, and within spitting distance of my flat, this institution has a long and very important history. Here, in the 1820s, a magistrate formed the Bow Street Runners, which became the world's very first non-military police force. Later, the magistrate's courts were to play host to some of London's most important committal hearings. Oscar Wilde was brought here immediately following the collapse of his disastrous libel suit against the Marquess of Queensberry, which backfired and resulted in the author's prosecution for gross indecency. Still in use today, the alleged 21 July Bombers made their first court appearance here just some weeks ago. In movieland, Bow Street turns up in Hitchcock's Frenzy. Despite its history, the courts will soon close, explaining why I wanted to see them in action before I started work. The word around at the moment is that a foreign consortium will build a boutique hotel on the heritage-listed site.

I sidestepped the Ashes ticker-tape parade (anything to do with cricket bores me intensely) and headed for the umbrella company's offices. There I uploaded some photos to Flickr, and investigated how to register for my National Insurance number. Like a tax file number or social security number, the NI number is my passport to the riches afforded by this welfare state. I also need it for taxation purposes. But with a bureaucracy that could only make Sir Humphrey proud, I can expect to wait eight months for that magic number to be issued.

NI out of the way, I headed back to Fenchurch Street. I presented my passports and the letter, which were duly copied, and the bank clerk started to create the account. We got as far as entering my name. The clerk insisted upon using the spelling of my name as provided in my Greek passport. I explained that everything in my name uses the Australian spelling, and everything was to remain that way, excepting the Greek passport which is limited by an alternate character set. The clerk spoke with his manager, twice, but was determined in his resolve that I must use the Greek spelling because there is no visa in my Australian passport, and supplying copies of two passports will simply confuse the admistration staff in India. As strange as it sounds, I was told that a Chinese bank considers itself worthy of enforcing English immigration law, through its clerical staff based India. I posited a few different scenarios, all perfectly sound things like what if I hadn't supplied my E.U. passport, but each suggestion was knocked flat as the clerk scrambled to hide behind the Banking Code. After some time, the clerk offered his opinion of the importance of this code when I was informed that it exists to discourage money laundering and fraud. I countered by telling him that his insistence on using my Greek passport's spelling would create two sets of documents and cards, which while legal will easily be construed as fraudulent. He agreed with my logic but said he was helpless to help me, bound by this most-important Banking Code.

I gathered my documents, and left. After a quick phone call to Denise (also a dual Australian/Greek national) to confirm that her bank accounts are in the Australian name, I walked straight across the road to Barclays. There I waited twenty minutes to be served, begging the question of why I would want an account there, only to get the Banking Code stonewall once again. But something the clerk said made me realise that there was more to this Banking Code than represented. The Barclays clerk said I only need a passport and a utilities bill. I don't need a letter from my employer. How could there be a difference if the oh-so-important Banking Code was truly as rigorous as these underlings were telling me.

I rushed back to the umbrella company and asked for another letter confirming employment, but addressed to whom it may concern. I walked over the road to Lloyds, where I was promptly served by the most polite bank clerk. He looked at my Australian passport (I didn't offer the Greek one), the letter from my employer, and a bill from the local council. After the shortest amount of time, the clerk said everything was in order to open the account immediately. The only problem was that it was almost closing time, and he was about to go into an appointment, and no-one else was available at that branch to open an account. Just to state the obvious, I am trying to give them money and no-one is available to help me. But it didn't bother me, because by now I realised that the Banking Code was a meticulous wank imposed by pompous bank clerks, its interpretation entirely variable according to which bank and which clerk was attending to the matter.

I headed for the nearest Lloyds, which thankfully in a city the size of London was only a few hundred metres down the road. There I was informed that accounts can only be opened with an appointment - another branch-determined fabrication. But again, it didn't bother me. I was going to walk from bank to bank, branch to branch, until I settled the matter today. I walked out of Lloyds, looked twenty metres up the street, and saw another HSBC branch.

Now a part of me was adamant that I should not give HSBC my business because (i) the bank is staffed with idiots and (ii) they think nothing of outsourcing their call centre to India to save themselves a few measly pounds. But another part of me was curious enough to disprove the arrogant nonsene sprouted by the Fenchurch Street branch. So in I went.

The clerk seemed a little abrupt, but I steamed ahead. I presented my Australian passport, and the generic letter confirming my employment. She disappeared for more than five minutes, and came back with photocopies... And proceeded to open my bank account. I eventally did produce my bill for council taxes as secondary proof of my address, but that was all I needed. All my details were entered into the on-line system which verified my identification and checked my credit history, the latter being easy as I have no credit history in the United Kingdom. Without a single hitch, I walked out of there about 45 minutes later with a bank account (with the correct Australian spelling), a savings account with a £300 overdraft, a debit card, a credit card with a £1500 limit, and... wait for it... a mortgage certificate pre-approving me for a £150,000 loan. I actually said I didn't want a home loan as I've only just arrived and only started work, but out it printed. Everything signed, above board, and approved. And not once did the bank clerk ever utter those loathsome words: Banking Code.

My cards are only days away. Meanwhile I might look at real estate.

I celebrated with my last stint of pre-work sightseeing by taking a trip out to Canary Wharf. On the site of what once was the world's largest working port, now rises a steel and glass skyscraper city. It's the only part of London I have seen where everything, and I mean everything, is brand new. There was originally only one skyscraper, One Canada Square built as Europe's tallest. It's still the tallest in the UK, but it's just one of several skyscrapers in this satellite city. The dock's waterways still exist, and look exactly as they did in 28 Days Later and The World Is Not Enough, which were both filmed on location at the Docklands. I was tipped off by an Australian who lived here for a few years that if I ever felt homesick I should go to the shopping centre at Canary Wharf. I went, and Jane was right, as it's the most Australian-looking place I have seen on my entire trip. Actually, the more I think about it, Canary Wharf is England's commerce-focussed answer to the Gold Coast. New, clean, and slick, but unavoida
bly sterile.

Canary Wharf has a fantastic underground station, one of several keystone stations in the ever-upgrading system. The one thing missing from Canary Wharf is the multitude of beggars that work London streets. I'm not talking about the genuinely ill and disshevelled homeless people, of which there are a few, but the clean-shaven, well-spoken men and women that professionally work the London streets. What annoys me the most is that England is the original welfare state. I will be paying more than 20% of my hourly rate to fund National Insurance's variety of health, education, and social security programs... And that's on top of the normal income tax with a top rate of 40%!!! A few weeks ago I was bailed up outside a nightclub by a man asking for "a few pence". I emptied my pockets of the coins I had (amounting to a few measly pence) and gave it to the man. He looked down at what I had given him and objected to it. I had to explain that I was unemployed and paying for thin
gs with Aussie dollars just to get him to leave me alone! The next time someone queries my donation, I'm asking for my money back.

More Primrose Hill

This is the view looking up the hill, which from this angle doesn't look that steep! Still it is quite high!

As you can see there were many, many people enjoying the sun with a picnic lunch.

I Got The Job!

My days of stressing about work are coming to an abrupt end. Yesterday, I got the job!

The morning started with my HR interview. I was scheduled to meet my contracting agent 15 minutes beforehand, at a nearby coffee shop. For a multitude of reasons, none of which are sound excuses, I was late, and found myself running the ten minute walk from my flat in Covent Garden to Fleet Street. How I can be late for an appointment, when I am that close, is something only those who truly know me will understand.

I arrived at the designated Starbucks sweating up a storm. I tend to sweat a little when I'm nervous , but coupled with the run, I was like a faucet left running. I used some Starbucks napkins to try and dry off, but within seconds even more moisture magically appeared in the same place, as if my body was trying to compensate. It didn't help that the agent looked on at me with a look of disgust normally reserved for leper patients. For the first time in the process of interviewing for this job, I felt I was on shaky ground.

The HR interviewer was running very late, so after a very length delay (which gave me sufficient time to drip dry), I was ushered into the HR department's offices. Now I thought there would be a psych test to the interview, but it's not that sophisticated. The HR interviewer has to use her own methods, basically just by talking with me, to determine if I am psychotic, arrogant, or will just not fit in. Fortunately for me, it seems, I will fit in.

At this stage it seems I will start on Wednesday. I've decided it's probably not wise to blog the firm's name. Not that I'm being secretive about it... just e-mail me if you're curious... but I want to have room to move in case there are some funny stories to tell. Needless to say it is a very old and very large international law firm, that places somewhere in the top ten (exactly where is a function of the measure). It's also a Magic Circle law firm, which is one of those terms that only self-important lawyers could dream up. Basically, it's mean they're old and respected. But in reality, only two groups of people care about the Magic Circle thing. Lawyers, for obvious reasons, as well as recruitment agents, who slavishly follow such pretentious nonsense. Upon reading my CV in the future, I half-expect the agents to immediately fall to their knees, to relieve the stress of my unemployment.

All throughout this process my contracting agent has asked questions that I consider strangely direct, coming from a recruitment agent that is, but still sutably bizarre. Questions like, "if you're offered the job, would you take it?" I want to know what that means? All jokes aside, I really don't have a choice in the matter. London is a very expensive city, more so when paying with Aussie dollars, and if I turned it down, Westpac will surely get an injunction forcing me to take the job.

It is very ironic though, that the job is with a law firm. In the interviews I was half-expecting to be asked if I had law firm experience. My answer was prepared in advance. "No, but I was a litigant for many years. Does that count?" Probably just as well they didn't ask.

Regent's Canal

Regent's Canal was built to ship coal. Now it's just used for leisure, lending a beautiful European feel to some of London's prettier areas.

I'm steadily uploading more photos into the Regent's Canal photo set page.

Primrose Hill

Such a pretty spot, and one of London's treasures. Located just north of Regent's Park, the park is a steep hill offering near uninterrupted views over London.

You can view more hill-top photos on my Primrose Hill photo set page.

Angel Escalators

The escalators at Angel tube station are not only the longest escalators on the underground network, but also the longest in Europe, rising 27m. More tube photos are on my Underground photo set.

Dodgy Agents

My flat smells like steak. It smelled like steak last night too. Thankfully, tonight's steak smell is a fresh steak smell, not last night's, but I still only have myself to blame. On both nights, and other occasions in recent times, I have forgotten to switch on the stove exhaust. Sometimes I even forget to switch off the stove when I'm finished cooking. I also forgot to reply to Kevin's e-mail for seven days, and on Sunday just past, I forgot that it was Father's Day. Now in my defence, Father's Day is celebrated on a different date in the UK. But I have no excuse for the other stuff.

My point is that lately I have been so busy I forget to do stuff, let alone have time to do anything. True, I'm not working, but in recent years I have rarely been as busy as I am right now. It's like the less I do, the busier I get. And as the joke goes: the trouble with doing nothing is you never know when you're finished. The solution is that I need to get a job, as abhorrent a thought as that is to me right now. But help is finally at hand.

My interview with the law firm went well yesterday, according to me, and according to the feedback I received this morning. The interviewers, two in number, threw me a few curve-balls, but I think I handled it okay. I've come up with a consolation prize of sorts. My agent advised me that they were happy with me, and would like to offer me a job... Just not the job that I was going for. See, when asked yesterday if I liked supporting existing software applications, I stupidly replied, that yes I did like supporting stuff partly because it's an easy job, but preferred doing totally new stuff. My zeal for honesty worked against me, proving yet again that it is wiser to lie to get the job. The job offer is to use software tools I have never used before, to do something I have never done before. They're happy for me to learn on the job, which I'm not happy about, as it will require me to think. I have abandoned all hope of a brainless job to fill the time. Still, it's a job, and I am officially in the red, living on credit (but surviving). So it would be wise to take the job immediately. And it's not like there are any other offers, but more on that in a minute.

The firm is one of the oldest and largest international law firms in the world, so I count the fact that it will look good on my CV as a positive. And the workplace is on Fleet Street, in a flash new building, only a ten minute walk from my steak-stenched flat. Plus plus. On the negative side, I may have to wear a suit (or at least a tie), and the environment is a little stuffy. Imagine a funeral home, run by IBM. The suit/tie thing is depressing me, because for two years I have fantasised working for a funky West End media company. But Westpac don't deal in dreams, so the here and now job is the best job. Mind you, it's not mine yet. I have yet to pass an HR interview, which is office bullshit for a behavioural/psych test. Officially they are testing to see if I will "fit in with the team", meaning no serial killers. Still I'm hopeful that all will work out okay.

A few weeks ago I wrote of my Polanski-esque paranoia that I have been applying for jobs that, in fact, don't exist. Just in the last 48 hours I have learned a few things that vindicate my sanity, but don't make me feel any easier.

I blogged some weeks back that every agent has asked me the same vague questions: "how are you finding the market?", and "do you have anything else on?". I have since learned that both questions mean the one thing. With few exceptions, the agents are asking me if I am going for a job anywhere else, and if so, where is it at. Until this week I have sheepishly avoided a direct answer (having no prospects or interviews) in case the agent's decide that I am eminently unemployable. But this week is different. With nothing to hide, and figuring that it will present me as a viable candidate, I told a half dozen agents about the law firm job. Every agent asked me for the name of the law firm. Some agents even asked me the name of the contact at the law firm, and the only reason they could want that information is to poach the job.

That's bad enough, but since telling the half dozen agents on Monday I have had at least eight phone calls from agents offering me jobs. Every phone call follows the same pattern. Firstly, the agent offers to put me forward for a job that sounds fabulous, like at the Royal Bank of Scotland, or the Department of such-and-such. Then he mentions, almost in passing, that he has another job...at a law firm... in fact, the very same firm where I interviewed. I explain I am already represented for jobs at that firm, and so decline their offer. Then the agents go into overdrive. Have you interviewed? Yes. Who with? Oh, I can't remember. Was it Joe Bloggs? Sorry, I really can't remember. etc etc

Now you might be thinking one of two things. Maybe these agencies do have a job at the same firm? Maybe there are other jobs with other managers for the same firm? Well, those questions were answered for me when I met my agent a half-hour before the interview. Without any provocation from me, nor hint of these phone calls, my agent mentioned in passing that his recruitment company have an exclusive contract with this law firm to provide all I.T. contract placement, and have done so for nine years!

It's very lucky that I wasn't near a computer when I received the first of these bogus calls on Monday afternoon. I couldn't remember the name of the law firm contacts when asked, but promised to look it up when I got home. That agent offered me a job with "a huge international insurance company" called Acton Insurance. He promised a whopping 45 quid an hour, with the option for double-time if I volunteered to give up the occasional Saturday. I'm hardly going to refuse that job. When I got home, I googled Acton Insurance, and came up empty-handed. The agent claimed to be with a well-known agency that I had dealt with. So I called them, and asked the switch to connect me to the agent dealing with the Acton Insurance job. The switch said the agency didn't have a job with an Acton Insurance. When he used a seach engine to locate the insurance company, and also came up empty-handed, we both knew for certain that the insurance company simply doesn't exist. The dodgy agent was trying to spoof the details of my job.

Then the next daay, the agent had the audacity to call me back and try again. He used the same bogus name, and the same bogus company name, reminding me that we had "chatted before", in the way that someone says "we've known each other for years". Without delay he was asking me about the law firm interview, which had just happened. (I told him the interview time the day previously). Specifically, he wanted to know who interviewed me. I brought the conversation back to the insurance job, and that's when he really messed up. He said the name of the insurance company was something like Mercer Willis. I played dumb, saying "oh, I thought the job was with Acton Insurance. "Mercer Willis own Acton", he bluffed me with absolute confidence in what he was saying. "Oh", I said, "It's just that when I googled Acton I could find no mention of it on the net." He told me I should search for Mercer Willis, then tried to steer conversation back to the law firm job. The trouble for him is that this time I was at a computer. I googled Mercer Willis, and told him that the search had come up blank. He then went through the excruciating process of pretending to seach for it himself. I eventually let him off the hook, and asked him to e-mail the details of the job, knowing they'd never arrive, and haven't.

And that's pretty much how it's been for the last two days. The same basic strategy, but with slightly different approaches. One agent, when realised he was caught out pretended that the line went dead. I'm having a little fun with it now, though I expect my fun will be short-lived. Oh, yeah, I mentioned to my agent how I thought I'd been applying for jobs that don't exist. Without flinching, or seeming surprised, he said, "It happens quite often. It's called trawling. And in this country it's illegal to advertise a job that doesn't exist." I liked that... I'm going to remember it for the next time I deal with a dodgy agent.

The Serpentine at Hyde Park

A bevy of swans at the Serpentine. Click here to view more photos from Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens photo set.

More, More, More...

Continuing my Thursday story, after I managed to escape from Charles, I headed west through Hyde Park. I had read about the park's man-made lake, The Serpentine, but was not prepared for its size or beauty. Stretching for close to two kilometres in length, filled with geese, swan, and other water fowl, its banks are lined with dozens of striped deck chairs. The sun was shining, and there were several hired rowboats out on the water. If I didn't know better I'd think I was somewhere, anywhere, other than London. The Serpentine's other great convenience is a glass-walled cafeteria at its north-east corner. I couldn't get wi-fi net access, but it was a great spot to eat an ice cream and contemplate life and the view.

From the café I headed west, along the Serpentine's southern bank. The park land of Kensington Gardens is right next to Hyde Park, and I'm not sure where the boundary falls... Quite possibly Exhibition Road which cuts through the parks, spanning the Serpentine by way of a beautiful arched stone bridge. Near the bridge is the permanent memorial to Diana, Princess of Wales. It takes the form of a shallow-depth waterfall that cuts through a grassy slope. Apparently there have been problems with the memorial since it opened. Not sure how a waterfall can break down, but it has. And then there's the matter of visitors who have decided to wade in its waters. On the day I visited there were two park rangers permanently posted around the waterfall to keep an eye on things.

J.M. Barrie, playwright, author of Peter Pan, and subject of Finding Neverland, met the young children who inspired The Lost Boys while working in Kensington Gardens. Somewhere near to that site, there stands a memorial to Peter Pan. Donated by Barrie himself, it presents the character playing his flute, and forever young. Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens are collectively huge, with sections maintained in an unkempt, rustic style. But the Pan statue, like Diana's memorial, are magnets for the tourists.

The biggest tourist drawcard in the area is surely Kensington Palace. Home to Diana at the time of her death, I could somehow tell that a great number of visitors around the palace were making a pilgrimage of sorts. Admission to the palace is £11. For that, visitors can view selected pieces from the wardrobes of the Queen, the Queen Mother, and the Princess of Wales. I am sure there is a market for this type of attraction, but I fall squarely out of the target demographic. And I hardly think the tour guides will point out the nearby telephone booth which Diana allegedly used to stalk Oliver Hoare. The tour's only attraction for me is the opportunity to view Princess Margaret's state rooms. She always struck me as a fun-loving royal, to appropriate a euphemism, and I know I'd get a salacious kick out of viewing her apartment. But I'm trying to be budget-conscious, at least until I get a job, so I will have to make it back here some other time.

Friday and Saturday were spent desperately trying to rest up and mitigate the head cold that had been brewing for a few days. Monday just past was the last Bank Holiday for this year, so there were a zillion things on in London over the weekend. I consulted with Kerby as to which I should attend, and we both agreed that the huge day party at Clapham Common was the go. In Australia, and with the exception of something like The Big Day Out, the day dance parties usually only attract one, maybe two, big name DJs. Here in London, there is a festival on nearly every weekend (which maybe a summer thing admittedly) and the flyers are crammed with top DJ listings. The Clapham Common party featured Paul Oakenfold, Tall Paul, Carl Cox, Armand Van Helden, and Fatboy Slim. Quite amazing. But stil I couldn't get any of my friends to go, because technically it was a straight party, and my straight friends were either not interested or out of town.

Now this is probably a good time to mention how I'd sum up the general difference between the gay and straight parties, in terms of organisation and marketing. The straight parties will use a flyer or poster featuring an abstract image overlaid with the names of the aforementioned DJs, in very large print, and dominating the ad. The gay parties use a photograph of one or two very well-built guys, near naked, that dominates the ad. The name of the party or club night is stylised like a product, pushed as much as the photo, forcing the DJ listings to be printed in as small an area as possible... Hopefully so small that it doesn't conceal anything of vital importance in the photograph. Sex sells, it seems. There are many exceptions to these general observations of course, but these patterns seem to be common. I find it funny how the promoters seem to know that they don't have to spend top money on a well-known DJ to draw the crowd.

While on the subject of sex-selling advertisements, the Transport for London people, who manage public transport here, have banned an advertisement for Jerry Hall's new reality tv show from all underground stations. It featured the lithe, long-legged Texan restraining-by-leash a gaggle of mostly naked men who are on all fours in front of her. The irony, of course, is in the double standard. According to a letter to the editor of Metro, TfL showed no compunction in allowing recent advertisements featuring Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears, both appearing near-naked and similarly submissive. Not that the Jerry Hall show people probably care - I'm sure it's been great publicity.

That reminds me of something else I learned this week. A few days ago I visited the Tate Modern, Britain's foremost gallery of modern art. In the permanent collection there is a room devoted to Degenerative Art. All the works in that room were owned by German galleries or private collectors prior to the rise of Nazism. Some time after coming to power, Hitler declared modern art to be degenerative, setting in motion a campaign to collect and destroy almost all modern art. An exhibition was held in Berlin, featuring the most prominent works of the confiscated art, hung alongisde critque and quotations from the Fuhrer with the sarcastic observation that these abominations were paid for with the taxes of working German people. This exhibition was held concurrently with another in Berlin, which showcased examples of proper German Art. The plan backfired, with the Degenerative Art exhibition being the more popular of the two. In fact, with 2 million visitors, it became the
most attended art exhibition of the 20th century!

The Tate Modern visit was on Thursday just past, so I'm getting ahead of myself as I haven't finished telling the Bank Holiday weekend story. A few rainy days asise, we have had some fantastic weather in London the last few weeks, Sunday 28th being a fine example. I wanted to get out into the sunshine hopefully with a view of the city. There were two options, Hampstead Heath or Primrose Hill. I chose the latter, mainly because it's slightly closer at only 5 km from north-west from Covent Garden. On the way out there I am pretty sure I spotted Cillian Murphy on the tube. He's the fair-skinned, wide-eyed, thick-lipped, rose-cheeked actor from 28 Days Later, Batman Begins, and the new Wes Craven thriller Red Eye. I can't be sure it was him, as the train was pulling out of the platform, but I'm pretty sure. I had that weird feeling of certainty that one gets when spotting a celebrity.

I met up with Dr Tim at Camden Town, the nearest tube stop, and walked the short distance to the edge of Regent's Park. An unexpected surprise on this little adventure was seeing Regent's Canal for the first time. Constructed a few hundred years ago, the canal was built to ship coal. Lakes and streams were linked with man-made waterways and some very long tunnels, and locks were installed to cover the height difference.