I got my first Blackberry today. For the uninitiated, a Blackberry (or 'berry) is a wireless device that's does email and calendar and is also a phone. I'd successfully avoided having one of these up until now, despite the fact that they have been standard issue equipment for years anyone in IT or the financial industry.
Those of you who know me know that I'm no technophobe. I embrace the type of technology that offers a real improvement in productivity and quality of life. Does a cell phone meet the criteria? Absolutely. A laptop? yep. TiVo? Can't live without it. (And not sure how I will once we move).
I haven't avoided this device thus far because I'm afraid of it in any way. Rather, I've avoided it because I know my own limitations and shortcomings. One of these is that I have very little discipline when it comes to email. I check email, I don't know, 100 times a day? Maybe 200. And I get a LOT of email. Even with filtering, I may get 400 emails a day. So I'm not convinced a device that vibrates every time I get a new email is really the best thing for either my sanity or my family time. They call these things Crackberries for a reason.
But today, I succumbed. I had no choice, really. An IT person without a blackberry working in an investment bank is like a Swiss Guard without clothes working in the Vatican. It's simply not an option.
I picked it up from a very friendly and helpful guy in my new group. And of course, my trouble started right away. For starters, I had to enter my password. Now, I really can't do two things simultaneously, like talking and typing. In fact, it's a something of a stretch to do either of these things by itself. So carrying on a conversation while entering my password using keys the size of match heads was a bit of a struggle. I also don't perform well with an audience, and there were about 5 people gathered around at the time watching me. I got the password wrong on the first two tries. Then, while fiddling with the thing, I walked into a door. Right into it. Bang. Ouch.
And so, thus both mollified and bruised, I conclude my first day with the new Berry. Oh, wait, there's more mail. Gotta check it!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Having nothing to do with a house, or moving, or London
While I really do love the connectedness that those of us fortunate enough to have been born into the 'Net generation enjoy, one of its downsides is that there's so much crap online that it's sometimes hard to find useful or interesting or even partially accurate information. (Another downside is the amount of time one can waste reading and writing blogs like we're doing right now).
I am fortunate to have a wireless broadband card for my laptop and at least 6 hours on a train a few times a week during my frequent treks to New York (I'm employing a fairly loose definition of 'fortunate' here), so I have a LOT of time to surf the web for items of varying degrees of newsworthyness. One of the tools I use to do this is Digg (www.digg.com), which allows users to mark an article as interesting. The more users who flag something as interesting, the higher its ranking, and therefore the higher its likelihood of falling directly into the laps of lazy badgers like me.
Today, I happened upon a story (http://oneofthosehorriblemoms.blogspot.com/2007/03/fake-out.html) about a 6 year old girl who was really badly treated by the American Girl Place in Manhattan when she brought her favorite (non-AG) doll in for a makeover. Now, normally, I'm pretty skeptical of such stories, as they tend to a) be untrue and b) take on a life of their own. But reading some of the other posts on the blog leads me to believe that this woman has nothing to gain by making this up.
And sadly, I can see it happening. The staunch refusal of service by the sales clerk. The snide comments (directed at a CHILD) by the overpriveleged lookers-on. The vilification of a little girl, whose only offense, as far as I can see, is that she didn't own the right brand of toy.
And we've no one to blame but ourselves. If you consider how our society incents us to put our children's every whim at the very top of our list of priorities, it's little wonder that so many of our children are narcissistic and lazy. Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that our children shouldn't be high on our list of priorities, but come ON. Let's distinguish 'needs' from 'wants' here.
Take birthday parties for example. Does a kid really NEED $4500 worth of balloons? (http://articles.moneycentral.msn.com/CollegeAndFamily/RaiseKids/KidsPartiesatSpareNoExpensePrices.aspx). A number of years ago, I was a waiter at a very nice restaurant in the Poconos (yes, there were one or two in those days). I had to dress as a jester. For a birthday party. For a TWO YEAR OLD! The kid spent the whole time filling his diaper and throwing cake at the walls, do you think he cared that Little Bo Peep and Cinderella were serving his cannon fodder to him?
Fortunately, some parents are recognizing the sheer ridiculousness of this trend and have started hosting more modest affairs, which the kids seem to enjoy just as much as the 'my party's bigger than yours' flauntfests. One of our neighbors had the children play simple games like 'make-a-mummy', in which the kids wrapped each other up in crepe paper. It was great fun, and the kids loved it. Plus the adults got some good party time while the kids tried to get out of their wrappings. Maybe next year we'll use duct tape.
Even more than when I was a kid, today's toys seem to create a culture of inclusion (or one of exclusion, depending on whether you have it). A friend's daughter recently showed me how her new PlayStation Portable interacted with other nearby PSPs. You can play games, of course, but you can also send instant messages. No more passing notes in class, I guess. Yeah, it's cool technology, but I can't help thinking that it wasn't so much the coolness or usefulness of the technology that drove Sony and others to build these things as it was the wheels of commerce. If you're a kid and your friends all have PSPs and you don't, not only are you on the outside because you don't have the cool new thing, but you're also physically excluded from the ad hoc network of your friends, who are all chatting away merrily without you.
I suppose that the opposite could be argued - that the PSP encourages connectivity between people who might not interact socially under other circumstances. I'm no sociologist, but I suspect that if these things do have some social bridging effect, it only lasts as long as the batteries. I might carry on an IM conversation with someone because it's fun to do so, but if I don't like that person in real life (or in 'meatspace' as I believe it's now called), I won't associate with them.
Call me wildly nostalgic, but I miss the days of wooden Fisher Price toys and metal Tonka trucks. When we played outside without fear of being kidnapped or shot or exposed to peanuts. When kids didn't have cell phones or battery powered Hummers. When going out for a treat didn't involve dropping by the mall for a shopping spree at Abercrombie. Our wants were many to be sure, but our needs were simpler, and, I think, we're better able to cope with the disappointment of not having our wants met.
But on the other hand, we DID have to wear plaid pants and velour shirts, so maybe it's really a wash.
I am fortunate to have a wireless broadband card for my laptop and at least 6 hours on a train a few times a week during my frequent treks to New York (I'm employing a fairly loose definition of 'fortunate' here), so I have a LOT of time to surf the web for items of varying degrees of newsworthyness. One of the tools I use to do this is Digg (www.digg.com), which allows users to mark an article as interesting. The more users who flag something as interesting, the higher its ranking, and therefore the higher its likelihood of falling directly into the laps of lazy badgers like me.
Today, I happened upon a story (http://oneofthosehorriblemoms.blogspot.com/2007/03/fake-out.html) about a 6 year old girl who was really badly treated by the American Girl Place in Manhattan when she brought her favorite (non-AG) doll in for a makeover. Now, normally, I'm pretty skeptical of such stories, as they tend to a) be untrue and b) take on a life of their own. But reading some of the other posts on the blog leads me to believe that this woman has nothing to gain by making this up.
And sadly, I can see it happening. The staunch refusal of service by the sales clerk. The snide comments (directed at a CHILD) by the overpriveleged lookers-on. The vilification of a little girl, whose only offense, as far as I can see, is that she didn't own the right brand of toy.
And we've no one to blame but ourselves. If you consider how our society incents us to put our children's every whim at the very top of our list of priorities, it's little wonder that so many of our children are narcissistic and lazy. Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that our children shouldn't be high on our list of priorities, but come ON. Let's distinguish 'needs' from 'wants' here.
Take birthday parties for example. Does a kid really NEED $4500 worth of balloons? (http://articles.moneycentral.msn.com/CollegeAndFamily/RaiseKids/KidsPartiesatSpareNoExpensePrices.aspx). A number of years ago, I was a waiter at a very nice restaurant in the Poconos (yes, there were one or two in those days). I had to dress as a jester. For a birthday party. For a TWO YEAR OLD! The kid spent the whole time filling his diaper and throwing cake at the walls, do you think he cared that Little Bo Peep and Cinderella were serving his cannon fodder to him?
Fortunately, some parents are recognizing the sheer ridiculousness of this trend and have started hosting more modest affairs, which the kids seem to enjoy just as much as the 'my party's bigger than yours' flauntfests. One of our neighbors had the children play simple games like 'make-a-mummy', in which the kids wrapped each other up in crepe paper. It was great fun, and the kids loved it. Plus the adults got some good party time while the kids tried to get out of their wrappings. Maybe next year we'll use duct tape.
Even more than when I was a kid, today's toys seem to create a culture of inclusion (or one of exclusion, depending on whether you have it). A friend's daughter recently showed me how her new PlayStation Portable interacted with other nearby PSPs. You can play games, of course, but you can also send instant messages. No more passing notes in class, I guess. Yeah, it's cool technology, but I can't help thinking that it wasn't so much the coolness or usefulness of the technology that drove Sony and others to build these things as it was the wheels of commerce. If you're a kid and your friends all have PSPs and you don't, not only are you on the outside because you don't have the cool new thing, but you're also physically excluded from the ad hoc network of your friends, who are all chatting away merrily without you.
I suppose that the opposite could be argued - that the PSP encourages connectivity between people who might not interact socially under other circumstances. I'm no sociologist, but I suspect that if these things do have some social bridging effect, it only lasts as long as the batteries. I might carry on an IM conversation with someone because it's fun to do so, but if I don't like that person in real life (or in 'meatspace' as I believe it's now called), I won't associate with them.
Call me wildly nostalgic, but I miss the days of wooden Fisher Price toys and metal Tonka trucks. When we played outside without fear of being kidnapped or shot or exposed to peanuts. When kids didn't have cell phones or battery powered Hummers. When going out for a treat didn't involve dropping by the mall for a shopping spree at Abercrombie. Our wants were many to be sure, but our needs were simpler, and, I think, we're better able to cope with the disappointment of not having our wants met.
But on the other hand, we DID have to wear plaid pants and velour shirts, so maybe it's really a wash.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
A Vocabulary Lesson
I learned two new terms today. The first is "chav". Chav is a derogatory term for a person, typically young, who dresses in a jogging suit, large gold chains, Nike Shox and a Burberry tartan baseball hat. A chav typically listens to rap music and drives a cheap car with a purposely loud exhaust. A chav likes to start bar fights, get rowdy at football matches and is widely regarded as a drain on society and a general nuiscance.
The second term is "Croydon facelift". This is a hairstyle favored by female chavs in which the hair is worn pulled back into a tight ponytail, thereby creating the effect of a facelift. If you'd like to do more research on chavs or the Croydon facelift, you can look up either of those terms on Wikipedia (http://www.wikipedia.org/). Man, I love the Internet. How did we find out stuff before? Oh yeah - books.
Now how, you may ask, am I in posession of such apparently useless linguistinc facts? Well, being a 'glass is the wrong size' sort of person, I've been trying to discover our area's dark secret. You know, like the dog kennel next door, or the cathouse down the way. In the course of my investigation, conducted entirely via the Internet of course, I discovered that the Wibbas Down Inn (a name which, like the names of most pubs, sounds delightfully quaint and sylvan to our American ears), at the top of our road, is a chav hangout, especially on weekends. Not to worry, though, I'm told that you can't swing a dead cat in London without hitting a chav hangout, so it doesn't really indicate anything about the area. (I'm Still trying to find that pet cemetary or the local crematorium...)
The thing that really kills me about this, though, is the Burberry hat. I mean, sure, we have a chav equivalent here in the States, but typically they'll be found wearing Lakers hats or some such, or more likely shot for wearing their Lakers hats. But Burberry? Plaid? They'd be laughed out of the ghetto over here. In related news, a car company manufactured and sold a low-end model painted in Burberry tartan, called, wait for it, the Chavrolet. They stopped because Burberry threatened to sue them, but what a great concept. Wonder if they came with the extra high spoiler and the work 'Chavrolet' across the top of the front windshield in faux-Asian characters.
Burberry stopped making the tartan baseball cap because of its association with chav culture; but you'll be happy to know that there are still so many knock-offs that these guys have no problem getting their gear. However, if you wish to donate to my new Foundation for the Fashion Deprived Youth of the United Kingdom (or in Welsh, FFDYUK), please send cash directly to me.
Maybe instead of a lemonade stand in the summer, Caroline and Michael can sell bootleg Burberry in front of the house.
The second term is "Croydon facelift". This is a hairstyle favored by female chavs in which the hair is worn pulled back into a tight ponytail, thereby creating the effect of a facelift. If you'd like to do more research on chavs or the Croydon facelift, you can look up either of those terms on Wikipedia (http://www.wikipedia.org/). Man, I love the Internet. How did we find out stuff before? Oh yeah - books.
Now how, you may ask, am I in posession of such apparently useless linguistinc facts? Well, being a 'glass is the wrong size' sort of person, I've been trying to discover our area's dark secret. You know, like the dog kennel next door, or the cathouse down the way. In the course of my investigation, conducted entirely via the Internet of course, I discovered that the Wibbas Down Inn (a name which, like the names of most pubs, sounds delightfully quaint and sylvan to our American ears), at the top of our road, is a chav hangout, especially on weekends. Not to worry, though, I'm told that you can't swing a dead cat in London without hitting a chav hangout, so it doesn't really indicate anything about the area. (I'm Still trying to find that pet cemetary or the local crematorium...)
The thing that really kills me about this, though, is the Burberry hat. I mean, sure, we have a chav equivalent here in the States, but typically they'll be found wearing Lakers hats or some such, or more likely shot for wearing their Lakers hats. But Burberry? Plaid? They'd be laughed out of the ghetto over here. In related news, a car company manufactured and sold a low-end model painted in Burberry tartan, called, wait for it, the Chavrolet. They stopped because Burberry threatened to sue them, but what a great concept. Wonder if they came with the extra high spoiler and the work 'Chavrolet' across the top of the front windshield in faux-Asian characters.
Burberry stopped making the tartan baseball cap because of its association with chav culture; but you'll be happy to know that there are still so many knock-offs that these guys have no problem getting their gear. However, if you wish to donate to my new Foundation for the Fashion Deprived Youth of the United Kingdom (or in Welsh, FFDYUK), please send cash directly to me.
Maybe instead of a lemonade stand in the summer, Caroline and Michael can sell bootleg Burberry in front of the house.
By way of comparison
Satellite photo of our current house: http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=515+pheasant+run+19320&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=32.527387,59.238281&layer=&ie=UTF8&z=18&ll=39.974629,-75.769744&spn=0.001928,0.005375&t=k&om=1
And a satellite photo of the new place: http://maps.google.co.uk/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=119+gladstone+road+sw19&sll=53.098145,-2.443696&sspn=11.997343,29.619141&layer=&ie=UTF8&z=18&ll=51.415826,-0.201466&spn=0.001519,0.005375&t=k&om=1
Big difference. Not that I'm complaining. I mean, it's not like someone's making us do this. But every now and then I look out the window and think, "gee, I'm gonna miss the two hours a week I spent mowing the lawn". Nah, maybe not so much.
And a satellite photo of the new place: http://maps.google.co.uk/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=119+gladstone+road+sw19&sll=53.098145,-2.443696&sspn=11.997343,29.619141&layer=&ie=UTF8&z=18&ll=51.415826,-0.201466&spn=0.001519,0.005375&t=k&om=1
Big difference. Not that I'm complaining. I mean, it's not like someone's making us do this. But every now and then I look out the window and think, "gee, I'm gonna miss the two hours a week I spent mowing the lawn". Nah, maybe not so much.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Where's my stuff?
It occurs to me that, despite the title of this blog, I haven't really talked about the impact all of this has had on the kids. Caroline, who's 5, was excited at first. I bought a picture book of London and we showed it to her the night we told her. She was really chuffed at the idea of living in a country that has a queen and at least one castle. She also liked the idea of the big Ferris wheel.
Caroline was so excited, in fact, that she wanted to be the one to tell our two year old, Michael, which she did, the next morning at breakfast. "I have yogurt," was his reaction.
Caroline's since realized that while England may offer real princesses, it doesn't have any of her current friends, and this has become a source of concern for her. (She's also worried that she won't be able to make fairies on the computer any more, though this was more easily addressed than the loss of her friends).
Michael, too, has semmingly become more aware of the magnitude of the change. He's asked our neighbor's daughter, Emily, to move to London with us. He's always been something of a ladies' man, that boy. He's also started lying about his age, and I suspect he's been telling the 5 year old girls that he drives a Porsche.
Recently, Caroline complained that "stuff keeps disappearing." And I thought she wouldn't notice given how much stuff she actually has (too much, as far as I'm concerned). But apparently, that empty bottle of bathtub paint was more important than I thought. Gee, wait until she finds out that we can't take the Barbie dream house with the elevator. Really, we can't - it's bigger than our new place.
Apart from the occasional griping about not being able to find something, though, Caroline's taking it pretty well, and most of the time, seems genuinely excited about it. Once she's in school (which she will be, until July, for full days!), I've no doubt that she'll meet new friends and start calling Michele 'mummy'. As for Michael, well, he'll still have his yogurt (though it's spelled 'yoghurt' and tastes like 'crap'), so I think he'll be just fine.
Caroline was so excited, in fact, that she wanted to be the one to tell our two year old, Michael, which she did, the next morning at breakfast. "I have yogurt," was his reaction.
Caroline's since realized that while England may offer real princesses, it doesn't have any of her current friends, and this has become a source of concern for her. (She's also worried that she won't be able to make fairies on the computer any more, though this was more easily addressed than the loss of her friends).
Michael, too, has semmingly become more aware of the magnitude of the change. He's asked our neighbor's daughter, Emily, to move to London with us. He's always been something of a ladies' man, that boy. He's also started lying about his age, and I suspect he's been telling the 5 year old girls that he drives a Porsche.
Recently, Caroline complained that "stuff keeps disappearing." And I thought she wouldn't notice given how much stuff she actually has (too much, as far as I'm concerned). But apparently, that empty bottle of bathtub paint was more important than I thought. Gee, wait until she finds out that we can't take the Barbie dream house with the elevator. Really, we can't - it's bigger than our new place.
Apart from the occasional griping about not being able to find something, though, Caroline's taking it pretty well, and most of the time, seems genuinely excited about it. Once she's in school (which she will be, until July, for full days!), I've no doubt that she'll meet new friends and start calling Michele 'mummy'. As for Michael, well, he'll still have his yogurt (though it's spelled 'yoghurt' and tastes like 'crap'), so I think he'll be just fine.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Home search - Done!
Sorry about the gap in posting, I know you've all just been dying to see the progress. I wish I had a good excuse, but the unfortunate reality is that I'm just really, really lazy.
So we found a house (the one in Wimbledon as previously described), and Caroline has a spot in the school that we liked very much, so it looks like we're all set. Now, it's just a matter of parting with most of our worldly possessions so that we'll actually fit into a space that's roughly half the size of our current house. If you're interested, photos are at http://picasaweb.google.com/paulconroy/newhouse.
If spatial ability is the best measure of intelligence, I must be the village idiot. I took lots of measurements of the new place (though not as many as I should have, since I largely ignored the presence of such architectural details as doors and windows), and measurements of our furniture. Any fool could have seen that our furniture just wouldn't fit into the new place, but not me. I have to see it in black and white (or, the computer has to tell me), so I used Google's new SketchUp (www.sketchup.com) (boy, haven't I fallen for Google in a big way...) to draw out one of the rooms and the furniture I had thought would fit it qite nicely. Guess what? I was wrong. For the record, Michele knew right away that the furniture wouldn't fit, so I'm deferring anything that has to do with space to her from now on.
So now we're selling our furniture. While you might think that this would be cathartic (and, indeed, that's what I tell myself), it really isn't so much. I mean, this isn't the furniture left over from college, like the vinyl couch with the can of beans to holding up one side. This is actually nice stuff, bought new, with our own money. Selling it is like cutting out a part of our history. A Buddhist might point out that attachment is the source of unhappiness; and if he did, I'd probably just sock him in the nose. He'd be right, of course, but one doesn't really need some bald guy in a saffron robe telling one how to live one's life, does one?
One of my friends who went through this same thing not long ago suggested that I might actually like the new stuff better. I didn't poke her in the nose, and not just because she doesn't wear a saffron robe (at least not to my knowledge), but because as she rightly points out, I can just get reattached to the new stuff. Oh, goody! I won't achieve Nirvana, but at least I'll have a new entertainment center as consolation. Now, anyone want to buy the old one?
So we found a house (the one in Wimbledon as previously described), and Caroline has a spot in the school that we liked very much, so it looks like we're all set. Now, it's just a matter of parting with most of our worldly possessions so that we'll actually fit into a space that's roughly half the size of our current house. If you're interested, photos are at http://picasaweb.google.com/paulconroy/newhouse.
If spatial ability is the best measure of intelligence, I must be the village idiot. I took lots of measurements of the new place (though not as many as I should have, since I largely ignored the presence of such architectural details as doors and windows), and measurements of our furniture. Any fool could have seen that our furniture just wouldn't fit into the new place, but not me. I have to see it in black and white (or, the computer has to tell me), so I used Google's new SketchUp (www.sketchup.com) (boy, haven't I fallen for Google in a big way...) to draw out one of the rooms and the furniture I had thought would fit it qite nicely. Guess what? I was wrong. For the record, Michele knew right away that the furniture wouldn't fit, so I'm deferring anything that has to do with space to her from now on.
So now we're selling our furniture. While you might think that this would be cathartic (and, indeed, that's what I tell myself), it really isn't so much. I mean, this isn't the furniture left over from college, like the vinyl couch with the can of beans to holding up one side. This is actually nice stuff, bought new, with our own money. Selling it is like cutting out a part of our history. A Buddhist might point out that attachment is the source of unhappiness; and if he did, I'd probably just sock him in the nose. He'd be right, of course, but one doesn't really need some bald guy in a saffron robe telling one how to live one's life, does one?
One of my friends who went through this same thing not long ago suggested that I might actually like the new stuff better. I didn't poke her in the nose, and not just because she doesn't wear a saffron robe (at least not to my knowledge), but because as she rightly points out, I can just get reattached to the new stuff. Oh, goody! I won't achieve Nirvana, but at least I'll have a new entertainment center as consolation. Now, anyone want to buy the old one?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Home Search, Day 2
We had somewhat better luck today. You must bear in mind that there's a certain effect of light and shadow and outdoor cafes and beer which causes one to lose one's sense of proportion, but it seems that Wimbledon (yes, the Wimbledon of 'Wumbles of Wimbledon' fame) (oh, and where there's apparently some sort of tennis thingy every year) is a really nice place.
It's got a great little town center: nice shops, wide streets, multiple outdoor cafes atwhich to while away an afternoon losing all sense of proportion. There's even a mall in the town, which is extremely rare and completely unnecessary given the variety of storefronts around. Also, Wimbledon Village is close by; this is a really quaint area, with a quintessential English village vibe, and with many, many utterly useless but cutesey shops in which to spend a Sunday, or to which to take foreign visitors so as to entice them to buy us lunch. Even the commute won't be that bad. Oh, apparently there's two weeks a year when you can't get near the place for the tennis thing, but we'll just have to come back and visit our friends then. Or maybe rent the house to our friends and thereby pay the rent for the year...
We also visited a school today, though, horror of horrors, it's a Protestant school (sorry, Grandma). It was a really great place, though. One teensy issue - Caroline will actually be almost a year behind, in school term terms. See, they start what they call "reception" in the September after a child turns 4. Reception = Kindergarten as far as I can tell. But in the US, we don't start Kindergarten until the September after a child turns 5. Hmm. Makes you wonder why Johnny can't write (sorry, Johnny F, I didn't mean you specifically...). This will be an issue no matter where she ends up, of course. Oh, and they go to school until mid-July. So unless we want to be arrested for not having our 5-year-old in school when we're legally obliged to, we'll need to send her to the last few months of reception. I'm actually optimistic about Caroline's ability to catch up quickly, since I think she's gotten quite a good education from her preschool in the states. Props to Mrs. H. and Mrs. T. and everyone else at BSEL for that...
I have to say here that the school we visited was just lovely. Everyone who walked past us while we waited for the tour smiled and greeted us, they had a great student to teacher ratio, the children all seemed polite and eager and the building had a really good flow. They even have a sort of mentoring program where the older children work as partners with the younger children. The only interaction with older kids that I can recall as a Kindergartener is when the 6th graders shook me down for my lunch money. My, how times have changed; and for the better, I think. Unless you're a 6th grader.
Michele and I are taking bets on who will be the first to visit us. We're not saying who we're backing, but we hope you all come at some point. We'll take you up to Wimbledon Village. Gee, I'm getting hungry already. Just please don't all come at the same time. Or during the tennis thing.
It's got a great little town center: nice shops, wide streets, multiple outdoor cafes atwhich to while away an afternoon losing all sense of proportion. There's even a mall in the town, which is extremely rare and completely unnecessary given the variety of storefronts around. Also, Wimbledon Village is close by; this is a really quaint area, with a quintessential English village vibe, and with many, many utterly useless but cutesey shops in which to spend a Sunday, or to which to take foreign visitors so as to entice them to buy us lunch. Even the commute won't be that bad. Oh, apparently there's two weeks a year when you can't get near the place for the tennis thing, but we'll just have to come back and visit our friends then. Or maybe rent the house to our friends and thereby pay the rent for the year...
We also visited a school today, though, horror of horrors, it's a Protestant school (sorry, Grandma). It was a really great place, though. One teensy issue - Caroline will actually be almost a year behind, in school term terms. See, they start what they call "reception" in the September after a child turns 4. Reception = Kindergarten as far as I can tell. But in the US, we don't start Kindergarten until the September after a child turns 5. Hmm. Makes you wonder why Johnny can't write (sorry, Johnny F, I didn't mean you specifically...). This will be an issue no matter where she ends up, of course. Oh, and they go to school until mid-July. So unless we want to be arrested for not having our 5-year-old in school when we're legally obliged to, we'll need to send her to the last few months of reception. I'm actually optimistic about Caroline's ability to catch up quickly, since I think she's gotten quite a good education from her preschool in the states. Props to Mrs. H. and Mrs. T. and everyone else at BSEL for that...
I have to say here that the school we visited was just lovely. Everyone who walked past us while we waited for the tour smiled and greeted us, they had a great student to teacher ratio, the children all seemed polite and eager and the building had a really good flow. They even have a sort of mentoring program where the older children work as partners with the younger children. The only interaction with older kids that I can recall as a Kindergartener is when the 6th graders shook me down for my lunch money. My, how times have changed; and for the better, I think. Unless you're a 6th grader.
Michele and I are taking bets on who will be the first to visit us. We're not saying who we're backing, but we hope you all come at some point. We'll take you up to Wimbledon Village. Gee, I'm getting hungry already. Just please don't all come at the same time. Or during the tennis thing.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Home Search, Day 1
Looking for housing in London is a bit like the birth of the first child. Yes, it's unbelievably painful, but that's not what I mean. Before you have your first child, all of your friends who already have children tell you that it's going to change your life. And you, of course, not wishing to appear to not have fully considered the step beforehand, tell yourself that you have prepared for the absolute worst that a small, noisy, hungry, leaky human can throw at you.
And then you have a child.
The analogy here, in case you haven't figured it out already, is that everyone told us how expensive London is, housing-wise (hell, they told us how expensive it is everything-else-wise, too), but we'd convinced ourselves that we knew what we were in for, have what seems a generous-without-being-onerous budget, and how bad can it be, really.
And then you start looking for houses.
When we considered the move, we had a number in mind for housing. This was based on some research we'd done on various areas, on our current mortgage payment, and on the realization that we'd have to make some lifestyle changes. After talking to the relocation folks, we'd upped that by 20% before we arrived. And today, we've upped THAT by 25%. So we're now looking at places that cost almost 50% more than we were prepared to pay initially, with only limited success.
Now mind you, some of these are really very nice. One had a gate in the back garden which literally opens onto Richmond Park, which is something like 1000 acres of nature preserve, complete with footpaths, a minor royal manor or two, and several herds of wild deer. I expect we'd have to pay the deer off, too. Oh, speaking of paying people off, did I mention that here, the tenant pays the real estate tax? So tack on another 10% on top of the house payment for that.
Of course, we looked at places in our original price range, too. These were livable, but mostly in 1950's and 1960's high rises which were, in a word, depressing. No real place for the children to play, and completely devoid of any character or charm or closets. On the upside, one came with a velvet Elvis. Seriously.
Right. Off to bed. Maybe we can afford to live here if we only eat dinner on alternate days of the week. Gruel, anyone?
And then you have a child.
The analogy here, in case you haven't figured it out already, is that everyone told us how expensive London is, housing-wise (hell, they told us how expensive it is everything-else-wise, too), but we'd convinced ourselves that we knew what we were in for, have what seems a generous-without-being-onerous budget, and how bad can it be, really.
And then you start looking for houses.
When we considered the move, we had a number in mind for housing. This was based on some research we'd done on various areas, on our current mortgage payment, and on the realization that we'd have to make some lifestyle changes. After talking to the relocation folks, we'd upped that by 20% before we arrived. And today, we've upped THAT by 25%. So we're now looking at places that cost almost 50% more than we were prepared to pay initially, with only limited success.
Now mind you, some of these are really very nice. One had a gate in the back garden which literally opens onto Richmond Park, which is something like 1000 acres of nature preserve, complete with footpaths, a minor royal manor or two, and several herds of wild deer. I expect we'd have to pay the deer off, too. Oh, speaking of paying people off, did I mention that here, the tenant pays the real estate tax? So tack on another 10% on top of the house payment for that.
Of course, we looked at places in our original price range, too. These were livable, but mostly in 1950's and 1960's high rises which were, in a word, depressing. No real place for the children to play, and completely devoid of any character or charm or closets. On the upside, one came with a velvet Elvis. Seriously.
Right. Off to bed. Maybe we can afford to live here if we only eat dinner on alternate days of the week. Gruel, anyone?
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Well THAT'S annoying...
We had reservations at the Metropolitan for our house hunting trip - very modern, trendy, fun (just like us...). I say "had" because apparently the reservation got lost somewhere between the travel agent and the hotel. Fortunately, we caught this before I left, but only by complete coincidence. I'd rented a mobile phone, which was to be delivered to the hotel, and the mobile hire ('hiring' is what renting a thing like a phone or a car is called) (though oddly, what you do with an apartment is called 'letting', so go figure) (maybe it's short for 'letting us take all the money out of your bank account') called me back to say that they tried to deliver the phone to the concierge at the hotel, but the hotel had no idea who I was.
The thing that's really killing me, though, is that when we called the travel agent yesterday to get this sorted (or "straightened out", for you Americans), the agent said to just 'call back tomorrow, it'll probably get updated in the system'. Now, I don't know about you, but the simple passage of time doesn't often solve my computer problems, and it certainly didn't solve this one. I suspect this response had to do with the fact that it was 5:15 on Friday.
So now we're staying at the Savoy, which is a very nice place (Liz Taylor has stayed there on every single one of her honeymoons), but not really in the right part of town for our house hunting. I shouldn't complain - it's no Comfort Inn. The stunning thing is that all of the hotels in the convenient part of town are either booked or £400/night. Yeah, the company's paying for it, but still, I don't want my first meeting with my new boss to be about justifying why I spent $800 a night on a hotel when a perfectly good one was available elsewhere in the city.
At least the weather there looks great for next week (high 50's and sunny most days). Will be having a pint somewhere near the river in about 24 hours if everything goes well. And yes, I DID call the Savoy to confirm my reservation :)
The thing that's really killing me, though, is that when we called the travel agent yesterday to get this sorted (or "straightened out", for you Americans), the agent said to just 'call back tomorrow, it'll probably get updated in the system'. Now, I don't know about you, but the simple passage of time doesn't often solve my computer problems, and it certainly didn't solve this one. I suspect this response had to do with the fact that it was 5:15 on Friday.
So now we're staying at the Savoy, which is a very nice place (Liz Taylor has stayed there on every single one of her honeymoons), but not really in the right part of town for our house hunting. I shouldn't complain - it's no Comfort Inn. The stunning thing is that all of the hotels in the convenient part of town are either booked or £400/night. Yeah, the company's paying for it, but still, I don't want my first meeting with my new boss to be about justifying why I spent $800 a night on a hotel when a perfectly good one was available elsewhere in the city.
At least the weather there looks great for next week (high 50's and sunny most days). Will be having a pint somewhere near the river in about 24 hours if everything goes well. And yes, I DID call the Savoy to confirm my reservation :)
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Banking
There's an interesting paradox here. In order to open a bank account, one needs some sort of reference (usually in the form of a utility bill in your name). But in order to get such a utility bill, you obviously need a residence. To get a residence, you simply choose a place to rent or buy, put a deposit on it and..oh, wait...how do you put a deposit on a residence if you don't have a bank account?!?
Fortunately, the company provides a reference letter and helps with contacting the bank, so the above isn't as much of an issue as I'd expected. But there's another problem. We have money in our US bank account (though not much :)) which we will use to deposit into our UK bank account. But how do we deposit funds in one currency into an account which expects another? I suppose we could bring a suitcase full of cash (or, in our case, more like a small shaving kit) with us and change it at the Thomas Cook in the airport, but then there's the obvious problems associated with walking around with a wad of money. Hmm.
Fortunately, the company provides a reference letter and helps with contacting the bank, so the above isn't as much of an issue as I'd expected. But there's another problem. We have money in our US bank account (though not much :)) which we will use to deposit into our UK bank account. But how do we deposit funds in one currency into an account which expects another? I suppose we could bring a suitcase full of cash (or, in our case, more like a small shaving kit) with us and change it at the Thomas Cook in the airport, but then there's the obvious problems associated with walking around with a wad of money. Hmm.
Day 1: Depending on how you're counting
Got the offer (finally), accepted it (finally) and we're on our way. Yikes! We've been busy telling family, friends, loose acquaintances, the dentist (and that's surprisingly hard to do without using your lips or tongue).
Michele and I are heading over on Saturday to check out apartments and find schools for the kids. Fortunately, the company hooks us up with a relocation consultant (Sally), who makes appointments with the listing agents, drives us around the city, etc. Sally's goal is to schlep us to 3-4 apartments per hour - I'm confused already.
Originally, we had this vision of morphing from minivan-driving suburbanites into sleek, fashionable urbanites. However, the cost of housing and lack of schools in inner London sent that particular fantasy packing. Now, we're looking to retain our suburban sheen, albeit minus the minivan.
Speaking of cars, we don't plan to have one in the UK, at least not for a while. Parking is a nightmare, driving is on the wrong, er, other side of the road, and the cost of fuel is exorbitant (see previous post written in self-conscious 'Bridget Jones' Diary' style. Ugh.) So, for those of you who will be visiting, this means: 1) we'll meet you at the airport, but unless you want to cab it, expect to take public transportation to get to our pad (this is particularly onerous after an overnight flight. trust me, I know.), 2) wear comfortable shoes.
The good news is that London does have a great public transport system, at least on paper. We'll see how we feel about it after living with it for a while, though. Most of the rides I've taken on the tube thus far have been between social venues, so my recollection of the tube as a clean, efficient mode of transportation may be somewhat colo(u)red.
Michele and I are heading over on Saturday to check out apartments and find schools for the kids. Fortunately, the company hooks us up with a relocation consultant (Sally), who makes appointments with the listing agents, drives us around the city, etc. Sally's goal is to schlep us to 3-4 apartments per hour - I'm confused already.
Originally, we had this vision of morphing from minivan-driving suburbanites into sleek, fashionable urbanites. However, the cost of housing and lack of schools in inner London sent that particular fantasy packing. Now, we're looking to retain our suburban sheen, albeit minus the minivan.
Speaking of cars, we don't plan to have one in the UK, at least not for a while. Parking is a nightmare, driving is on the wrong, er, other side of the road, and the cost of fuel is exorbitant (see previous post written in self-conscious 'Bridget Jones' Diary' style. Ugh.) So, for those of you who will be visiting, this means: 1) we'll meet you at the airport, but unless you want to cab it, expect to take public transportation to get to our pad (this is particularly onerous after an overnight flight. trust me, I know.), 2) wear comfortable shoes.
The good news is that London does have a great public transport system, at least on paper. We'll see how we feel about it after living with it for a while, though. Most of the rides I've taken on the tube thus far have been between social venues, so my recollection of the tube as a clean, efficient mode of transportation may be somewhat colo(u)red.
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