Miserablism and absolutely nothing for those not automotively* inclined

Miserablism, that rough tongued sonofabitch, has set up home amongst my insides. It’s my own fault really. I did a Bad Thing. Bad things often lead to similar nauseating circumstances, but I must confess I did not think that the Mother of the Blueness would have come to stay for quite so long. I thought I could be done with it, that I could shrug and duck my head and it would, if not be forgotten, at least not be spoken of. No such luck. Having said that, while the repercussions of the Bad Thing have been further reaching and more damaging than I initially thought possible, this overwhelming sense of sickness does have some glimmer of hope on the horizon. Sadly, I do not speak of some sort of time travel where I can go and undo the Bad Thing. No, this is far more selfish. (One would think, after the aforementioned Bad Thing, I would seek to be less selfish. But apparently my fallibility remains wholly intact, and I do not.) Instead, I speak of the holy grail of distractions. The one thing absolutely guaranteed to hold my attention in such a way that I do not dwell quite so obsessively on this wrong that I cannot right.

That’s right. I speak of the return of the season.

It’s F1 time again and I can assertively say that it’s with a momentous sigh of relief that the cars have been unveiled, the teams announced and the drivers decided. There are big changes this year. Huge. Drivers are all over the place. Great teams no longer exist. This is also true for shit teams. Old teams of legendary status have returned. Richard Branson has poured an incredible amount of money onto the grid in what I can only foresee to be a massive hydraulically challenged waste of time. World Champion Button (or, to quote Shelley, ‘Stitch, Button, whatever that guy’s name is’) has moved to McLaren (the world’s most morally bankrupt team) to partner with Hamilton. Remember the last time McLaren signed a World Champion to drive with Lewis? Remember how well that went? I expect a similar scene. I am on the edge of my seat about it. Toys will be thrown. Tantrums will take place. Expect two very stroppy British World Champions any day now. Ayrton Senna’s nephew makes his debut. Alonso, the severely browed Spaniard, has scooted EVERYONE’S favourite party boy Kimi out of his Ferrari seat and into WRC. Does this mean I will start watching WRC? I don’t have time for this shit. Really. I’m not ruling it out though. In matters such as these, I am easily swayed. The new Renault looks like a giant, aerodynamically inclined bumblebee. The new Lotus livery is lovely, it’s been too long since there was racing green on the track. Rubens didn’t retire. Irritating. The good news is that I doubt the Williams will be fighting at the front, so we won’t have to see him cry too much on the podium. New boys are everywhere. Kobayashi got a drive with Sauber. He is insane and I like it. I am excited to see that crazy, brilliant Jap fuck with everyone’s races. (Well, not everyone. When he gets in the way of you know who I will be fuming.) No more refuelling. Pit stops down to 3 seconds. THREE SECONDS. Renault has said in practise they can change the tyres in under that, but we’ll see what happens. Test drivers back on the grid. That preemie beast, Alguersuari, he who cannot finish a race for love nor money, is back in the Torro Rosso. Vettel’s neck is thicker than ever. His head is in danger of looking like a baseball on a tree stump.

And then there’s Merc GP.

Oh Mercedes. I want to weep with joy when I see you. Ross Brawn, the strategic genius. The return of Schumacher. And of course, be still my wildly beating heart, Nico Rosberg. I’m pleased to report that Nico has been kicking ass and taking names (that’s right, I went there) in winter testing and I do believe that the 2010/2011 season will be that of his inaugural grand prix win. I am willing to put money on it. I really am. I’m not prone to gambling, I’m just THAT confident. For those Schumacher haters out there (and you know who you are) I am not saying that this team is without fault. I mean, did you SEE the press pictures? Tragic. But let’s be honest. They are a formidable team. There was a lot of shoulder shrugging and confused looks when Button was looking to leave his world championship winning team at the end of last season and it was only when the rumours of a Merc buyout surfaced that the whisperings of an all German team were heard. The rumour mill was pretty spot on and the return of Schumacher has caused much consternation amongst those who care about these particular cars. Will he still be great? Can he do it? Is he too old? I’m not sure really. He’s a fiercely competitive driver who has not yet stopped looking for occasions to go as fast as possible. And let's face it. He is SCHUMACHER. The Mercedes engines, last year at least, were unsurpassed. Brawn in a genius. And Nico.... well, we all know how I feel about that beast. So a German team running German engines with German drivers it is then. I just hope this doesn’t go the same way the last time the Germans attempted world domination.

From now until November, I am no longer available on Sundays. Not even to talk on the phone. That is unless you’re calling to talk about the illegal overtaking on corner 9.

*I am fully aware of automotively’s meagre credentials as a bona-fide word. In this particular instance, I don’t care.

A heart two sizes too small

Whatever the New Year equivalent of the Grinch is, I fear that is who I find myself in the likeness of this new year. I must confess that the general joviality a fresh set of calendar pages has brought to most has passed me by and I feel tattered, weathered and downtrodden, as if still languishing in the last of the so called ‘Nasties.’ There seems to be a certain hubbub in the general population, the shedding of a decade’s worth of misery in lieu of embracing an air of impending prosperity. I read it put best today, in an article reporting the significant increase in like for like winter sales figures for London this year verse last year, saying that after nearly two years of recession Londoners were determined to enjoy themselves at the sales; they called it ‘frugality fatigue.’ It does seem that way, that the general populace has en masse decided the recession is over, that bankers shall stop jumping out of windows, bonuses shall return, champagne shall flow through the city streets, there will be riches, bespoke suits, Louboutins and cocaine for all! And it seems to be regardless of the fact that no one is shopping with wads of cash. No, it’s all on credit, the very thing that got us into this mess in the first place. Utter, depressing delusion. Just because we want something, does not mean it will simply BE. If that were the case, I would be typing this with a pair of Acne Atacoma wedges on my feet. And it does not stop there. How apt that this is the week the world’s tallest (and possibly most pointless) skyscraper opens? The Burj Dubai is a 206 floor hotel/apartment/office/parking/shopping space. Of that, 160 floors are habitable. It’s 828 metres high and its interior covers just over 3.5 MILLION square feet. Because that’s what Dubai needs. More empty spaces it can’t fill. It’s a state $100 000 000 000 in debt.That’s one hundred billion US dollars. BILLION. As of October 2009, 1 in 4 homes was vacant due to oversupply. Similar figures applied to offices. That’s before the Burj Dubia spat its 3.5 million square feet into the mix. Obviously I’m fully aware that the initial conception of the Burj happened long before this economic hiccup we are experiencing came to fruition. Back when the Burj began construction, Lehman’s had a gainfully employed workforce and people trusted Bernard Maddoff with their money. Remember all that time ago?

Needless to say (....don’t you wish it had been?) I am late to the party of New Year cheer. It’s going around like a bad head cold and I do hope I am not immune to it. Being a Grinch is boring and does not make for pleasant dinner conversation. And so, as to not be the bearer of altogether bad tidings, I can say that it has not been all doom and gloom these first few days of the year. Shelley received a beautiful white truffle from Paul for Christmas and I was lucky (/sneaky) enough to be with her the night it was eaten, shaved in gorgeous pungent slivers over silky pasta. Walking up Regent Street, I was pulled by the hand up onto a platform to pose for a photo with one of the Hamley’s pirates, as my 30 odd strands of pearls apparently made me look a bit like ‘a very stylish treasure chest’. That’s a direct quote from the main pirate, who took his personal camera out of his inside pocket, handed it over to Pirate #2 and demand I have my photo taken with him. Followed almost directly by a small kerfuffle when some Japanese tourists who had been witness to the scene then thought I was famous. I giggled all the way to Liberty, where Magpie and I drank several cups of tea, admired other customer’s expensive handbags and even more expensive plastic surgery. This evening, Robin and I went to see La Boheme (my absolute favourite opera) at The Royal Opera House. And right now, its snowing.

Words of wisdom for the perpetually blue

I am a pit of malaise and miserablism. It’s best to not delve into this as it comes from unnecessary and ill advised delving initially. It will surely pass with time. As such, I absolutely cannot write tales of my day today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. However, I can say that this state has inspired words of wisdom from my friend Tanya:

“Keep your eyes on the ground, I once found $100 bill on the floor of the pharmacy. You don't find that stuff when you're following cheery people's advice to "chin up!"”

And that made me laugh. So money or a brief departure from my signature scowl, I guess I win.

Mother of the Blueness

I’ve been eating speck and barley soup and drinking wine. I am bringing wine back. My body feels like the wasteland where complex carbohydrates have come to die. It’s all I can think to do. It’s winter and I want wine and soup. You can buy beautiful soup green bundles here. At Winterfeldt Markt in West Berlin they sell them all bundled up for a single Euro; two carrots, a leek, a few baby parsnips and a chunk of celeriac wrapped in twine. (Shelley would love them) A bit of speck (when in doubt, add smoked pork product to everything) and a handful of barley and you’ve got yourself a postcard worthy winter in a cup. Something about the soup makes me think of Glamorgan Road and for a few moments I am sitting at the table next to Craig eating soup out of those blue bowls with bread slathered in thick, cold butter, Matthew and Robin mercilessly making fun of us. I love winter food. Its richness, the comfort of it. How it tastes like nourishment.

Though it is technically fall, the ankle deep autumnal mulch underfoot a testament to the fact, I am already in winter mode. It’s a season for hats and scarves and popping the collar of your jacket up to shield you from the biting wind. It’s weather that makes me long for the rabbit fur snood Magpie and I are currently co-coveting. I love the smell of winter. Every time I leave my apartment I am assailed with the warm scent of firewood flooding the courtyard. It smells like trout fishing weekends and fireplaces so big you can sit inside them and nod off against the warm stone walls and card games and copper tables and glasses big as bell jars. I love the way the winter mist makes a haze of the wide streets and fogs up the headlights of the cars and make ladders of their beams. And tucking your hands into the sleeves of your jersey and sitting outside cafes with blankets over your knees, drinking hot black coffee, your breath blowing silver from your mouth.

Still, winter girl though I am, I can’t help but succumb to the mother of the blueness some days. (This by no means is something true for only winter. But I digress....) Today I went walking to try and shake it off and clear the cobwebs in my sleepy, sullen head. But I only ended up being followed half way around Prenzlauerberg by a creepy man in some sort of industrial waste cleaning uniform, who kept trying to get me go into large, wooded areas with him. After fifteen or so tense minutes, I tucked the blond bit of my hair into my bowler hat, pulled the old Rope a Dope and faked right when I in fact went left and ducked into the courtyard of a pretty church. Satisfied I’d lost the creep and happy to see there was a small organic market set up on the other side of the church, I spent some time wandering through the carts, admiring the stalls selling 12 types of apples, 54 kinds of meat. Though starving, I didn’t buy anything. I couldn’t face it to treat myself, thinking of my poor book left unloved most of last week. Terrible writer. I smack myself on both wrists and stare sullenly at the cold, unimpressed smirk of my blank notebook. It is not buying my “But I had visitors” excuse, and like a scorned lover, turns away from me and edges to the other side of the bed.
Later, I rode the U-bahn with no real destination in mind, listening to The National until my i-pod battery ran out, the unmistakable rough tongue of miserablism licking my neck. By the time I got home it was dark and cold. And I walked into my apartment and found it warm and smelling of European indoor heating. (a ridiculous sounding, but completely true phenomena. No other central heating smells quite like ours.)

I can’t help but notice that my time here is dwindling to weeks and soon those weeks will become days and then I will gone from the wide roads and the late night Turkish beer stores and the taste of winter on my tongue and soup greens wrapped in bundles and red paved cycle paths and smell of firewood in the morning...