Words, from a mostly metrocentric perspective. See Metrocentricity for pictures.

27 April 2008

Berlin - They don't have natural rhythm, that's a fact

I've seen some incubator enclaves. The nanny-congested vale between Clapham Junction and almost (but never quite) Balham, the IVF twins and triplets attended by geriatric face-lifted parents in Tribeca, the convoys of infants propelled triumphantly in cycle-trailers through Islands Brygge and Nørrebro. I've witnessed evidence of some pretty heavy localised breeding. I was told about Prenzlauer Berg... but blimey, they weren't joking, or even exaggerating for effect.

I wondered if I'd even get into the district without accompaniment by offspring. Had my excuses ready ('What can I say, I'm a Jaffa, feel sorry for me', etc), but there was no checkpoint at Tor Straße to keep out the unprocreative. This isn't to say that progress was unimpeded, for the pavements were alive with pushchairs, in fact the upper reaches of Schönhauser Allee were practically gridlocked with the things. Great pantechnicons of baby carriages, conducted forward with the assurance and sense of entitlement of an eighteen-wheeler with a Brinks driver.

Strange to see so many parents looking after their own children. I don't know what it's like in your part of the world, but round my way it's practically illegal for childcare to take precedence over one's duty to the workplace. What about the 'Hardworking Families' beloved of our politicians? The Economy! Won't Someone Please Think of the Economy!

Great kinder-columns form up out of nowhere and descend upon the local S- and U-bahn without warning. While British children are simply turfed out into the playground for twenty minutes every morning, each German infant is guaranteed at least one bout of terrorising public transport by sheer weight of numbers somewhere in the school day. There are so many of these chains of brightly coloured children that isn't uncommon to see one cohort halted on the pavement to let another pass, like trains at a junction. Even more remarkable, I saw one large group supervised solely by men. Men! No women about at all. Social Services'd be onto that like a shot back here. Also, so many children all the same colour.

The youth of eastern Berlin are so Weiß, they play Wagner on their Handys. Nah, it was death metal or something, but at first it's quite surreal (if not as deeply disorientating as the stairs being on the 'wrong' side of their double deck buses) to hear music by white people on that medium. This enables a comparison based upon which I can say that, forced through the tiny speaker of a Nokia 90210 or an Ericsson C3PO, whether in Harlesden or Hellersdorf, all music sounds sh-t. Which is presumably why the little sh-ts / Scheißen do it.

Peripheral note:
There are compelling arguments for and against several pluralisations of the word 'Handy', in the context of text that is otherwise English. I have chosen from these using the formula specifically developed by linguists for such circumstances (eeny meeny miny mo) and will not enter into correspondence on the subject.

Where did they get the name 'Handy' anyway? Makes the phone sound like an san-pro item, easily and discreetly toted around in the handbag. 'Mobile' has resonance of something developed to give hours of fascination to infants, which is appropriate. 'Cell' just sounds like a means of communication between prisoners, replacing the banging on the water pipe with a tin cup.

The French 'Portable', already fading from currency, brings to my mind's eye something the size of a house brick, and a Gallic yuppie (it is to the credit of Gaul that this is a contradiction in terms), yelping 'vendre!' into it. Or more appropriately 'Vendre pas, la bourse descende vite, mais c'est la double-heure de dejuner, et travail arret' (again, I shall not enter into correspondence).

22 April 2008

الزرافة

The poor thing, it was waiting for me at the London Central parcels depot on the far side of Camden, the northernmost extremity of St Pancras. Three times on successive days, the Royal Mail had conveyed it about London, to my doorstep, and back to storage. It must have wondered why it wasn't being received, why I was never at home to Mr/Ms Giraffe. A beast of shorter stature might have felt slighted.

Luckily my fleeting guest did not take it at all amiss, or at least I reckon its silence was more a symptom of shyness than reproach. To make amends I pointed out the sights along the way, rather hoping it had not seen it all before on its Parcelforce tours. I think it enjoyed the sensation of the Euston Road underpass (I know I did - the buses don't go that way). The most direct route would have been across the Regent's Park, but I thought the prison-like structure at the Primrose Hill end might be tricky to explain, and potentially traumatic for the creature.

Normally I know what to do with a visitor - several pints in the Duke or the Windsor, then Garbo's or Maroush or Pont des Indes or that Persian place whose name I can never remember. It should certainly have cosmopolitan tastes by now, having originated in Madagascar, domiciled for some time in that slightly ineffectual but worthy institution at the eastern end of 42nd St., so by definition exposed to all shades of culture, then to the LES for a period... But what may amuse a human may not impress a giraffe. Had intended to read to it, but haven't any Kipling in the house. I think it appreciated an early night - and its travelling accommodation was well-appointed, containing reading matter from the Wall Street Journal, and bubble wrap for the relief of stress, so need for me to give up my bed.

Now it is in its rightful home, albeit SW5 rather than the Sudan. I'm sure it will thrive.

16 April 2008