URSABLOG: England, My England

Walking Down From Bloomsbury to High Holborn, Dressed For Dinner

It was a long time since I had gone to a black-tie dinner. Many years ago, in Piraeus, I had used the excuse of a Christmas party to put it on for novelty’s sake, and it was indeed novel. This time it was London, formal dinner dress, or as the invitation said: “Black Tie”.

Of course, it was so long since I had tied a bow tie – some unfounded and certainly undeserved snobbery deep in my veins says a bow tie has to be hand-tied – that my exit from the hotel was delayed by almost thirty minutes. But finally – suited and booted – I was in the lift taking a selfie for no-one in particular. Walking past Russell Square I was sure that I stood out above the hoi-polloi, but no one batted an eyelid. A couple of tourists eyed me curiously as if I was an attraction specially put on for them, and then probably decided I was a waiter or butler on my way to work.

I had so looked forward to dressing up, I felt deflated, especially when I arrived at the venue, and of course everyone else was in black tie (at least the men) so it didn’t really matter. I took a glass of bubbly from the waiter (who was better dressed than me) and wandered off to mingle.

And What Do Points Mean?

I was in town amongst other things for the Institute of Chartered Shipbrokers’ Prizegiving Ceremony. The Greek branch had snaffled a handful of prizes again, and I was on the ‘Greek table’ but our prize winners  were elsewhere, sitting with their prize givers.

It is – I think – thirty years since I attended an ICS prize-giving in London after winning a prize of my own – much to everyone’s surprise, most of all to me – for highest marks in Legal Principles. Back then it was just a lunch, and compulsory drinking afterwards. I think I poured myself onto the evening train to Liverpool a happy man, if somewhat blurred around the edges.

Back then, I was one amongst many British prize winners. This time, the British were in a definite minority. This says something: either the quality and confidence of those outside of the UK is increasing (especially for those for whom English is not their first language) or the indifference and ignorance of those employed in the shipbroking and shipping industry in the UK is also increasing. I’m not sure.

As I sat drinking what turned out to be quite passable red wine, I was proud of our Greek prize winners, but also proud of all prize winners. They had a right to celebrate, and if some of the Fellows frowned on their noisy enthusiasm, I in turn scowled at those pompous Fellows; I’m allowed to, I am one after all.

But, trying in my imperfect Greek to join in the conversation on our table and at the same time trying to blend in with the home team I found myself getting frustrated. I was neither one thing or the other: too tongue tied to really belong on the Greek table, too long away from England to be wholly sympathetic – or willing to comply with – their norms. It seemed as if I had forgotten my English.

After the obligatory cigarette outside, and the fond farewells, I walked back up Southampton Row to my hotel, tired and just a little emotional, losing my place in a world that I never belonged to anyway.

Hungerford Stairs

I had a closing meeting early the following morning, and was online well before breakfast was being served downstairs. The closing went on and on, and I was about to get kicked out of my hotel room as the crew were still on their way to the ship, and the payment instructions were still being finalised.

Luckily I had pre-arranged with a good friend of mine – and a true legal authority on ship sale and purchase (as opposed to a pretend one like me) – to borrow a desk at his offices in the City should I need to. I decamped from the hotel, took the Tube down and across to St Paul’s, bumping into a friend on the train along the way. What were the odds of that happening?

At lulls in the meeting I looked out of the second-floor window onto Cheapside, and amused myself people-spotting, trying to match them with various literary characters from Dickens, Thackeray and Trollope. Although the City is almost sterile in its cleanliness, it is comforting to know that William Guppy, Joseph Sedley and Miles Grendall or their modern equivalents still stalk the streets, loiter at corners and lean on lamp posts.

After the closing meeting I had a brief coffee with my learned friend, as always blown away by his energy and intelligence – a lethal combination for a lawyer – but also impressed by his ever- expanding practice. Maybe I should have been a lawyer? Too late now.

Then west across to the Embankment, to meet a brother shipbroker who used to work for an owner in Piraeus but now works for a competitive competitor. I texted him from the street and without an immediate reply wandered into a bookshop to see the latest titles, most of them unfamiliar to me. I was just as lost with the authors, out of touch with the literary scene.

But then a call from my brother broker, and I made my way outside to be kidnapped by two rather peaky looking tanker brokers who dragged me off for a pint around the corner.

And as when alcohol and brokers collide, the banter surely follows. We stood out the back, smoking, with empties stacking up beside us, as gossip mixed in with business and jokes of very dubious taste. It was great fun, and then – like the VLCC market rising on sentiment – it was over in a flash.

We were drinking very close to the spot where David Copperfield (and Charles Dickens himself) worked in a factory at the tender age of ten or so. I felt crowded by literary characters, good and evil, and felt their ghostly breath on my shoulders as I headed northwards across the Strand.

The 18:37 To Coventry

I thought I had a reserved seat on a quiet coach, but apparently not. There are no quiet trains at this time it seems, and no reservations honoured. My carriage was half full of well-lubricated people who had obviously spent the previous few hours drinking their time away, and now full of noisy, boisterous humour. I learnt many things from their conversation – how Sunday night is a big night out in Dublin, how there is no better hangover cure than a Bloody Mary and a ‘proper’ Cornish pasty, how it’s a great thing now you can get gin and tonics in a can – but was happy when my stop drew near.

Waiting for the doors to open, I heard them discuss their plans for the evening.

“I’m supposed to go to a wedding anniversary party, but I’m not sure it’s a great idea.”

“You’re already half-trolleyed now, if you go out you will be properly wankered.”

“I’ll be fine, just need some ballast.”

“You can get a decent pasty from M&S in the station. You should get two mate.”

“Maybe. Where do you live?”

“Binley, what about you?”

“Chapelfields.”

Strangers on a train.

A Walk In The Park

After breakfast, Mum and I walked around the park. I was dazzled by the expanse of dull, musty and misty autumnal green. I remembered this park as a teenager being neglected, vandalised, dangerous and suitable only for Sunday League football, and underage drinking and smoking. I had no talent for the former, but was a burgeoning, promising talent in the latter discipline. That I became a shipbroker is therefore not all that surprising after all.

Later, whilst Mum went to evening mass, I baked her – amongst the other things I cooked for our dinner – a cake made out of leftovers of various Swiss chocolate bars “just slightly out of date.” It turned out well, I think, for the flavours were somewhat exotic and could have jarred. Mind you anything tastes good with a Sauternes Grand Cru 2004.

Fast Track

Coming through Terminal 2 I found myself facing an impossibly perfect handsome specimen of male grooming across the conveyor belt. I felt jealous: of his beauty, of his youth, of his dedication to the cause of his vanity, of how he got a beard line as precise as that, of all the time he obviously has to spare to go the gym.

But then I thought, why am I jealous? I’m the one travelling, and using the Fast Track lane at that. He’s just working security at the airport. And then I stopped myself: what the hell did I know? He could be working his way through his studies, maybe even training to be a lawyer. And as for me, the Fast Track to where exactly?

Simon Ward