Below Belief

I was in Paris this last couple of weeks – something I hope to do more of in the near future as I work with a new part of our business.
I stayed in the “Soft hotel”. This is an anti-recommendation.
All “mid-priced” hotels in big cities tend to be terrible. London and Paris are no exception. But the soft hotel managed to be “just shit enough” in a number of areas to warrant me actually blogging this “don’t go there” message.
The Soft Hotel happens to be closest to the office where I was working. It was cheapish and someone else had already stayed there from the company. She said it was “ok”.
First experience: standing on the doorstep for 15 minutes, waiting to be let in to the hotel. They very nearly didn’t get me as a guest, only the punitive cancellation policy stopped me from walking to find an alternative hotel nearby. I had phoned them once (no answer) before I was finally let in.
The staff were decent, if apologetic. Reception was being renovated. I felt like I’d arrived in Beirut.
The room was tiny. Close to the minimum that would classify as a “hotel room” in my mind. The bathroom was miniscule. It smelled of damp.
The wifi network worked in the chilli lobby downstairs. It did not work in my room. Nor did they fix this in the 3 days I stayed there.
Lift was like a carpeted coffin. For one person only. Buried alive when the cable finally rusts through.
Breakfast was in a tiny guest room (in lieu of the reception/downstairs being renovated). Horrible.
Don’t stay at the Soft Hotel, Paris.

I was driving to the supermarket in the car and overheard Lily Allen singing “Fear”. The lyrics seemed poignant of our current times.
Tesco has just opened an Express store (in the old Woolworth’s building) opposite Waitrose – no doubt putting the well-to-do of Sheen in a quandry. “Do I go in Tesco where it’s cheaper and risk being “seen” or do I stick to dull old Waitrose?!”… etc. The endless commercial pressure makes me weary sometimes.
So I’ll quote the lyrics here and you can go listen to the track if you get a chance:

I want to be rich and I want lots of money
I don’t care about clever I don’t care about funny
I want loads of clothes and fuckloads of diamonds
I heard people die while they are trying to find them
I’ll take my clothes off and it will be shameless
‘Cuz everyone knows that’s how you get famous
I’ll look at The Sun and I’ll look in The Mirror
I’m on the right track yeah I’m on to a winner
Chorus
I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore
I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore
When we think it will all become clear
‘Cuz I’m being taken over by The Fear
Life’s about film stars and less about mothers
It’s all about fast cars and passing each other
But it doesn’t matter cause I’m packing plastic
and that’s what makes my life so fucking fantastic
And I am a weapon of massive consumption
and its not my fault it’s how I’m program to function
I’ll look at the sun and I’ll look in the mirror
I’m on the right track yeah I’m on to a winner
I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore
I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore
When we think it will all become clear
‘Cuz I’m being taken over by The Fear
Bridge
Forget about guns and forget ammunition
Cause I’m killing them all on my own little mission
Now I’m not a saint but I’m not a sinner
Now everything is cool as long as I’m getting thinner
Chorus
I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore
I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore
When we think it will all become clear
‘Cause I’m being taken over by fear

Listen to it here

Most snow in London for 18 years this week… few photos to remember it by. Probably won’t happen again in our lifetime.
Was great fun, work took second place to snowmen, snowball fights with the boys next door and general comraderie.

In Christmas presents this year, S and I operated a “ten presents for £100″ scheme. It made Christmas shopping both challenging and constrained – which was great. One of the presents had to be a BOGOF (Buy One Get One Free) and another had to be from a charity shop. S, cleverly, won the prize for “cheapest single present”, giving me an appointment with a Selfridges Personal Shopper which was, to her, free.
S is not just a pretty face.
So yesterday was my big day. I must admit to being a bit nervous. Selfridges has never particularly appealed as a shopping destination and whilst I’m happy to shop like the rest of them, my style is typically a bi-annual “re-wardrobing”: getting into the mood for one day every six months to shop for an entire new set of clothes in one go. It’s not that I don’t enjoy shopping more often, I do, it just seems to need a certain frame of mind to discover clothes that really fit and look good.
Anyway, I had a blast. In total I spent 3 hours in a private room deep inside Selfridges, being lavished with and fitted into an array of designer clothes by Martena and her assistant, Louie. Martena is a slightly stern, good looking Swiss woman in her late-40s. She judges a man by his shoes and his watch – and has me instantly recoiling when she pronounces my chisel-toed brown Clarkes shoes “muesli-shoes” – because she says only muesli-eating Germans wear such horrid footwear… She herself is wearing “hand-made” white shoes, presumably made by non-muesli-eating Swiss workers. This is clearly a woman who knows her style. She says she likes “classic, with a twist”. I like it.
Anyway, she asks me to stand up and, without measuring, tells me what suit and trouser size I am. Unless S gave her them in advance, I’m impressed. She leaves me reading the Saturday papers while she and Louie go running round the store to collect appropriate clothes.
And so it continues, once it’s clear I will definitely be purchasing one or two items, they bring me a glass of champagne and I keep trying stuff on. The room is well set up – you can choose how cool or warm it is – always a personal bugbear of mine, that changing rooms are too hot. Also the light is mostly from a large dome in the ceiling which mimics sunlight and makes clothes look the right colour. The mirrors seem to flatter one – or maybe that’s just the champagne.
If there’s something that needs a different size (and they got most of it right first time), they skip off and bring the right one. Every so often they return and help me with my choices, picking ties and belts, shoes and shirts to match the look they envision. The only problem was there was rather too much “that looks really beautiful” and not much “ouch, that’s expensive” and so when the bill finally came and items were presented in tissue-paper and yellow bags it was a bit of a shock. Nonetheless, breathing deeply, I did come away with a couple of really nice quality suits, several shirts, some shoes, two pairs of jeans, a cool jacket and a couple of casual pieces I thought looked great.
When I got everything home, I did another pass with S and took the most extravagent items back today for a refund. This was a good idea. There’s designer clothes and then there’s being ripped off. Now I feel I’ve got some quality items which will last a long time and give me “the twist”. Who knows? You be the judge.