Snip, Snip-Snip-Snip-Snip

I once had great trouble accepting that barbers could charge ten pound for a haircut. Add insult to injury he didn't even bother to wield a pair of scissors. What craft is there in electric shears with plastic size guides? My heart went out to Srikanto-da and his brother Prohllad toiling in the Calcutta summer sun with their little tin boxes and scissors that got flimsier with each sharpening on the whetstone. He once snipped off a bit of the top of my left ear. But still he practised an art. Give me a pair of scissors and I can still mimic the snip snip-snip music from my boyhood.

Naturally I went through a phase of rebellion. Bought my own electric razor attachment, then even my own hairdressing kit. I learnt the numbers 3, 5 and 7 have special resonance with the shape of my head. Learnt why poor Srikanto had so much trouble with me in the distant past - it took an English woman barber in south west London - I have forward growing hair -- a fact unacceptable among Bengalis of course where the only approved alternate to left parted is back brushed. My wife also reminded me how much of a mess I made in the bathroom every 3 weeks or so. I am intrinsically lazy, so I went back to the professionals.

Settling in, settling down - a process I understand very little of. Yet somehow it crept up on me. This December we will have lived in Kew Gardens for five years. And Al's Clip Joint has become a mainstay of my settlement. I happily shell our twelve pound and engage the polite artisan in small talk. A thousand yards, a thousand miles, Manicktolla or Kew, the barber's shop remains the hotbed of local news, gossip, sport, interaction. A veritable information exchange. Older than the internet.

Splatter

Around 10pm this evening when we were brain dead from powerpoint, I was telling a couple of my colleagues why I quite like the idea of a blog. I know I am late to the party - my geocities page was fully functional in 1998 - yet my blog only happened in 2010. But I have a good reason. For the last decade then I have been debating what do I have to say that the world wants to hear? Its only this last weekend that I realised that actually, it does not matter.

My blog is about mundane things. Things that my friends and loved ones will read and pause with a quiet smile, a memory, then move on and finish slide 29 of their powerpoint or whatever it is they get paid to do. So today's story is about and old memory, an old colleague, an old pitchology compatriot.

Tom was a big bloke - with a booming voice, a personable manner, and rightfully he holds the senior role in industry today that he was destined for. A pity then that all I remember about him is his urinal manner. Tom was a big bloke, and he always stood too far from the urinal, so sure was he of his aim and his force. To this day, while he crafts together his senior industry leading slides, he is probably unaware of how much collateral splatter he leaves on the hands and trouser fronts of his neighbours.

After a round of ciders tonight we rechristened this pillar of industry Tommy Splatter. All the best wherever you are, all the best to your current colleagues.

Remind yourself of the real thing

I am a keen cyclist, doesn't mean I'm very good at it, or even very regular - but I like to drop my cycling keenness into as many conversations as I can. Actually, I might be a gadget guy, in any case I have quite a gadgety bicycle: it's a Brompton M3L. It folds into a neat foot square and can be cleanly tucked away behind the spare bed - which flat-dwellers will appreciate is a huge thing in its favour. All this makes it a prized possession, a significant lifestyle choice and therefore well worth upgrading to titanium! Brompton do make a model using the metal titanium and of late I have been bidding for such a model on eBay. I had unsuccessfully bid on 5 bikes each of which closed at a price above my budget. For the last 5 weeks I had not been out cycling.

Yesterday, my darling wife made an evening demand for a punnet of cherries, sometimes her favourite fruit. The trusty folder unfolded in 5 seconds flat and I rode out to the closest grocery outlet - no cherries, I gathered up the courage to ride out to the one that is further out - across two major intersections and a rather steep uphill for a 3-geared machine. We found the cherries.

But I was reminded again by the surface of the back roads in these parts how front shocks save your arms, how rear shocks save other parts of you. And as I returned home with the cherries and the jarring, I thanked myself that I had stuck to my budget on the Titanium affair.

So 700 pound should win it, do you reckon?

Chronic dissatisfied consumer

Probably because ultimately I appreciate how pointless it is to surround myself with items I desire, I intently test out the theory. The most recent test has been an internet leather briefcase. The trick with internet consumption is to not believe the photos. As expected when my shiny yellow Italian leather briefcase turned up - I was unhappy as I unpacked a Metro-gully rexine-looking job. But I was relieved that I was still alive - I had consumed and I had not been satisfied. Long live the day.

Why you'll always need a deposit

Four years back I purchased my first BMW ! You will know how important this statement is if you grew up in Manicktolla (as I did) or for that matter Hatibagan or even Hajra. Anyway it was great, and a soft top at that. I showed it off to my friends and colleagues. For the more financial minded I even showed off the personal lease plan I had managed to get.

The lease plan meant I only had to borrow the difference between the new price and the residual value of my car, and since these German marques hold their value that meant I was taking a Toyota-sized loan but driving a Bimmer. I said to my wife, an intuitive sage in matters financial, in four years my car will hold its value even better than the average. So much better that it will give me the deposit money for my next BM.

She said you are stupid. I said you are a finance illiterate. This being our usual exchange of pleasantries we moved on. And we handed in our Ford Focus as a deposit and proudly drove away a black, topless model.

Alas I wish I had been cleverer. Or only trusted my partner's evaluation of my financial acumen.