So long, 2009. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

I wasn't sorry to see the back of 2008. 2009's been an even more interesting year. By 'interesting', I mean 'shite'. But the more well-balanced of my friends tell me that it's always a worthwhile exercise to focus on the long term; so here, in the waning hours of the last year of the decade, is my brief, off-the-top-of-my-head inventory of the ten years just passed.

- Y2K-related disasters: 0
- Children: 2
- Houses bought: 1
- Houses sold: 1
- Cars: 6
- Moves: 3
- International moves: 1
- Jobs lost: 1
- Jobs found: 1
- Dirty diapers changed: ~4,000
- Kitchens remodeled: 1
- Kitchens I wish I could remodel: 1 (the current one)
- Countries visited: 11
- Grandparents lost: 1
- Hours commuting: ~6,000
- Blog posts: 111
- Photos: 27,198
- Fender benders: 1 (today)
- Facebook friends: 333

I guess the Noughties haven't been all good, but they haven't been all bad either. I suppose that in any period of time, there will be highs and lows, but on average, things have a way of balancing themselves out.

I hope that you have a happy, healthy and prosperous 2010.




First there was the recession-induced belt-tightening. Then I lost my job. I found it again pretty quickly, but there was a pretty touchy eight-week period.

Christmas Traditions

When a country's been around as long as England has, it's bound to acquire a few traditions which appear, to the uninitiated, somewhat peculiar.

Christmas provides a bountiful harvest of historical oddities. Mince pies sound like a much better idea than they actually are. Wassailing involves making a sacrifice of toasted bread to an apple tree. The Christmas pantomime.

At first glance, the panto seems a quaint but lovable tradition, endured with grudging good humor, much like the monarchy or our Electoral College. In actual fact, everyone looks forward to its arrival, though no one will admit this.

To the untrained observer, a pantomime is just a bad musical, loosely based on a well-known children's story, containing a high concentration of inside jokes and acted out by people who were almost famous once. But, as with so many things, one must look deeper to understand pantomime's true nature. It's actually a shockingly bad musical, loosely based on a well-known children's story, containing a high concentration of inside jokes and acted out by people who were almost famous once.

There are a few stock items which must be included in each and every pantomime. To wit:

- A villain, who must be booed each time he appears on stage

- At least one sob story, for which the audience must express adequate sympathy

- A buffoon who plays the part of a narrator/MC. He greets the audience each time he appears on stage, and the audience must respond appropriately.

- A transvestite

Aladdin is the panto show this year at the Wimbledon Theatre. Having seen one pantomime several years ago, I really felt no compulsion to attend another, despite having gone native with many other things. At least I didn't want to attend until I learned that the genie was to be played by none other than Pamela Anderson. Yes, the Baywatch beauty has arrived in our fair city, in all her peroxide- and silicone-enhanced glory. I'll leave it to the professional critics to dissect her performance, but suffice to say, it included about as much giggling, jiggling and Tommy Lee wisecracks as you'd expect.

As odd as the panto tradition is, though, I must admit that we harbor a few zinging oddities in our house, particularly with regard to the existence of Father Christmas. Not since the Piltdown Man has an utter fabrication been so painstakingly crafted and lovingly upheld. In our house, the Santa presents are wrapped in special paper. Santa has special gift tags. The children must never, ever, be allowed to see either the Santa paper or the tags in our closets. Michele and I had an argument tonight over whose name was to be attached to the Wii - ours or Santa's.

I don't think I'd have such an issue with the old chap, were it not for two things:

1 - I never believed in Santa as a child. My disbelief was a handy thing when, in second grade, Sister Joanne Whatshername told the class the truth about Santa Claus. I exchanged a knowing, dry-eyed glance with the only other non-believer in the class. We were vindicated. And a little relieved.

2 - The fat bastard gets the credit for the good presents. We give our kids socks and underwear, Santa gives them Nintendos and guitars. No wonder he gets a special plate for his cookies.

I have to admit, though, that it's kind of fun, perpetrating this lie. The children clearly enjoy the myth, it does no harm as far as I can tell, and, in bad years, we can call Santa a piker.

I showed Caroline how to check Santa's progress on NORAD's website tonight. She gazed in wonder at the Google Earth mash-up pinpointing Santa's location. She counted down the seconds and called out the locations as he moved from city to city, wide-eyed and mispronouncing Lithuania and Belarus.

Someday she won't believe in Father Christmas. Someday she'll have her heart broken. Someday she'll know all about sex and war and toxic debt.

But not tonight.

Tonight's Christmas Eve. Tonight Santa's coming. Tonight, everything's OK.

Merry Christmas.

Race Cars and Washing Machines

My grandfather died last December, a month short of his 82nd birthday.  He grew up during the Depression and lied about his age so he could enlist in the Navy early.  He worked three jobs to support his family - he would leave the house on Friday morning and worked straight through to Sunday.  

He was a designer of things - vending machines, industrial brushes.  Parts of the Apollo 11 lunar module.  The lines of his drawings were straight and dark and clean, and his handwriting looked to have been typeset.  

He could make himself an extremely disagreeable person, particularly in his declining years, but he could also be kind and generous.  My favorite memory of him is of the time he helped me build my Pinewood Derby cars.  This annual ritual of forming a slippery-fast racer from a plain block of wood brought us as close as we would probably ever be.  Our car never won, but it didn't matter.

Lately I've been channeling my grandfather.

At work, I've started keeping a stack of blank paper at my desk and making drawings of what I'm working on.  I've started using a pencil instead of a pen, and I've started writing like him, though not quite as neatly.

This week, the kids wanted to make washing machines.  I have no idea where this idea came from, but I'd promised to help them, so today, despite a smallish hangover, a leanover really, we made washing machines out of plastic jugs, a couple of cheap pens and a few kebab skewers.  

I hope the kids remember that.

Last Day of Summer

Remember how it felt when school started in the fall?  The late summer sun turning the leaves prematurely golden, the shadows lengthening early in the evening.  The crickets chirping in the cool night air.  A new pencil case, a crisp white shirt.  New school shoes just out of their box and slightly too big.  The whole world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of that first day of school.

And then the day finally cam and you realized - this sucks.

Today was the last day of summer holiday for the kids.  While their friends and relatives in the States are enjoying their long holiday weekend, celebrating whatever it is that Labor Day is supposed to commemorate, our kids will be sweating in their starchy new clothes, nursing the blisters from their new shoes and misplacing their new pencil cases.  

Michael starts Year 1, and Caroline Year 3.  These are both big steps.  I remember starting first grade.  I was frightened of my first grade teacher, Sister Bernadette.  She yelled a lot and once made Kara Sincavage stand in the trash can.  She had a red-faced tantrum when she tripped over Jeanne Rowlands, who'd leaned over to stuck her head in the bottom of the desk to look for something.  I remember the Phonics book from first grade, and that 'W' was sometimes a vowel back then.  

I also remember third grade.  We had bathrooms in the classroom in elementary school and I locked myself in one.  They had to call the janitor to get the lock undone.  This of course all transpired in a classroom full of my peers, all of whom thought it was about the funniest thing that had ever happened to them.  I don't really remember much else about third grade, but I'm sure something must've happened during the year.  Last I heard, my third grade teacher, Miss Chaya, was still teaching third grade, and looked much the same as she did thirty years ago when I was in school.

I spent twelve years in the same school, from first grade through twelfth.  I still have a few friends from that time.  They have children now, too, and they have new school shoes.  

And so it goes.

Party's Over

They warned me about this, the people who came here before me.  They told me that eventually, everyone leaves London.  I never believed them.  I do now.  

Two sets of close friends are leaving.  That comprises a fairly large percentage of those we feel comfortable phoning up on the weekend and inviting to an impromptu.  OK, so we don't have all that many close friends, but we're just poor foreigners.  London is really an Ellis Island: the people here are generally in transit to somewhere else: New York, Australia, Kent.  As a result, there is little constancy, and even less attachment.  It's very Zen.  Or at least it should be.

Today we had a little party to bid good luck and adieu to those who are leaving.  The combination of the end of summer sun-slant, this afternoon's grey clouds, and a largeish amount of Champagne conspired to make it a somewhat bittersweet but still enjoyable afternoon. 

If you've watched the fizz vanish from a glass of Champagne, you already know what an apt metaphor this is for the nature of the acquaintances one makes here.  People are constantly coming and going.  Some you like, most you don't.  But there's a decidedly un-fizzy quality to a few of the acquaintances, and the people here today were very much not fizzy.  I can't help but believe that at least a few of the friendships we've made here won't vanish like a Champagne froth.

Whether or not you're fortunate enough to have friends who've just returned from Champagne with a carload of booze, you will no doubt enjoy today's recipe.  This is very much a Fall dish, best served with falling leaves and departing birds.  Or departing leaves and falling birds.

End of the World as We Know It Potato Salad

Regular readers will note the similarity between this and my Totally Edible Brussels Sprouts.  This is no accident.  Bacon makes almost anything better.

500g Streaky Bacon

1 Red onion

2 lb new potatoes, washed and quartered

2 shallots

1Tbs olive oil

1 Cup apple cider vinegar

2Tbs wholegrain mustard

Salt and Pepper

Boil the potatoes for 12 minutes and drain well.  Meanwhile, dice the shallots and peel and quarter the onion. Slice the onion into 1/4in pieces.

Heat the oil over medium heat in a large heavy skillet.  Cube the bacon and drop into the oil.  Stir constantly until it stops steaming.  Reduce heat to medium low and continue cooking until the bacon is brown but not hard.

Remove the bacon from the pan using a slotted spoon, reserving the bacon fat in the pan.  Raise the heat to medium.  Add a little more oil if needed and when the oil is fairly hot, drop the sliced onion into the pan.  Stir constantly, breaking the onion into individual pieces and shaking the pan occasionally to spread out the onion.  When the onion has started to cook, reduce the heat to low and add the shallots.  Continue stirring and shaking until the onions and shallots have turned very soft.  Remove the onions and shallots with a slotted spoon, reserving the oil in the pan.

Increase heat to high and when the oil is just starting to smoke, add the vinegar and open a window.  Stir the brown bits from the pan into the vinegar and add the onion, shallot and bacon and mustard.  Let this heat a bit and add the potatoes, turning to coat with the mixture.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Serve warm.  You can reheat the potatoes in the pan if needed.

Bachelorhood

Every year, Michele and the kids take a summer holiday in the US and I stay here in London.  I tend to enjoy both a bit of solitude and a bit of going where the wind blows me, so these few weeks do have their appeal.

But it's also somewhat alarming how so many years of training and evolution unravel so quickly. 

I returned to London last Sunday morning, and immediately switched to Bachelor Phase 1.  This involves peeing with the door open, leaving the toilet seat up and not making the bed.  Bachelor Phase 2, which set in sometime on Monday, means that I'm leaving my socks on the stairs, my suit jacket on the newel post and my work shirts on the dining room floor.  All of these may seem innocuous, and they probably are.  

Bachelor Phase 3, however, is deeply disturbing, so it was while watching late-night TV on the couch in my underwear and eating a takeaway curry at midnight off an overturned laundry basket that I realized: it's a damn good thing that I'm married, or I'd be a total degenerate.

Yes, I relish the freedom to come and go as I please, without feeling guilty that I should be spending more time with Michele and the children.  And yes, I also enjoy coming home to a quiet house when I'm tired of socializing and need some down time.  But I wonder whether not having these things all the time is exactly what keeps me from falling off the edge.

I earn a fairly good living, so I've often fantasized about what it would be like to have all my income to spend on me.  I'd travel, buy a boat, eat curry at midnight on a makeshift table.  But the fact is, I don't particularly enjoy travelling alone, I get seasick rather easily, and eating on the couch in one's undergarments is, frankly, deeply pathetic.  If I had all my income to myself, I'd probably be a nasty drunk with permanent curry stains on my fingers.

In fact, I can't help wondering whether having a family has led to my earning a decent income.  If I only had me to worry about, would I work as hard?  Would I be as motivated to progress my career?  Or would I simply sit back and live moment to moment?

The question is completely academic, really.  The facts are that I DO have a family and I DO work hard.  Whether these facts are in any way connected is completely unknowable.  The fact is also that this family is going to return to London soon, so I'd better vacuum up the rice I've spilled.  Right after my nap.

Blueberries

I am feeling particularly sentimental tonight, even for me.  

It is a breezy, crisp evening.  The sun has long since set and the new leaves now scour a sapphire sky.  The air feels autumnal as I perform my small evening rituals, all tea-making and milk-bottle-washing.

It is a night that longs to be inhabited, sweatered and hatted and glasses filled in the back yard.  It is a night that silently wishes it had a fire, that asks for nothing but that is full of possibility, an overflowing void.  

But there is no fire.  There is no sweater, no hat.  There is no wine.  It is the middle of spring, not the beginning of fall.  

There was a fire on a mountain thousands of miles away that burned the better part of my childhood.  It raped the paths and the rocks and the blueberry bushes where my mother and I spent golden summer afternoons.  There have been other fires, too, fires that took away places and people and things I've loved and forgotten and remembered again.

My daughter now insists on bathing unaided, preferring to grapple by herself with the mysteries of soaps and valves and gels; she wants to "be big".  I am in no hurry but I know that her fire will come eventually, inevitably, as it does to all parents of children, and to all children of parents.  

I've wasted much time wishing they were older and didn't need me so much.  I got my wish.  Now take it back.  Please.