Blog
Enjoy Lisa Scott's reviews and blogs: guest blogger for NZBM 2009 as well as past blogs from NZ writers and commentators.
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On graduating from Canterbury University with a BA in Japanese and French languages, Hamish Beaton packed his bags and headed off to work in Osaka, Japan, where he lived for three years teaching English at a junior high school. As well as trying to come to terms with the language and culture, and settle into his new surroundings, he managed to become infected with a nasty dose of the travel bug. Time and several trips around South East Asia, the South Pacific and India have all failed to cure him. In 2007 Hamish set off once again, this time to Europe, and he is currently living in London. Hamish has a love of languages and will devour any travel literature he can get his hands on. His debut novel Under the Osakan Sun (published by Awa Press) was released in March 2008. This heartwarming, absorbing and highly entertaining tale, written with self-deprecating humour, tells the story of Hamish's escapades and adventures in the land of the rising sun. He is on the look out for further tales to tell.
If you’d like to make a comment on Hamish’s blog, simply click on the word ‘comments’ below.
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My first day’s employment in the UK was the second most ridiculous-sounding job I have ever worked in my life, but possibly one of the most enjoyable.
My 18 year old recruitment agent, Emma, called to say that I had been put forward for the day long task of “going undercover” in London’s swanky New Bond Street and spying on several luxury menswear stores in order to gain intelligence for a shadowy third party. My mission was simple. Infiltrate six different big name men’s clothing stores. Count the number of items of clothing displayed on the racks. Calculate the average price of each garment. Observe the layout of the store and report on my overall impression of service levels. At all times I was not to break my cover and above all I was not to give away the identity of my employer.
I was, for the day, a secret agent in the fashion world.
I chuckled all the way to New Bond Street. This was going to be a doddle. The day’s employment would pay for a week’s groceries, and then some.
The first store – Burberry’s – was full of incredibly flash designer clothing that I would never be able to afford. I suddenly felt embarrassingly underdressed. Thankfully I had not taken my instructions to wear “casual clothes” as meaning shorts, jandals and my ‘Jesus walks with me’ t-shirt. All the same I felt scruffy in my wrinkly trousers and shirt, and on top of everything I was having a bad hair day.
The snooty staff at the door paid me scant attention and I was able to begin my mission.
Part of my instructions had been that I was not to walk around with a pen and paper in hand as this would arouse suspicion. This left me to think up all sorts of ingenious tricks such as pretending to write a text message on my phone while I keyed in prices and quantities. I felt very clever indeed until all of this got boring and I resorted to making up numbers and figures instead.
I suddenly discovered though, that Burberrys actually had two floors worth of men's clothing and I would now need to multiple all my fictitious research by two. I wandered down to the suit department and, before I could finish my flimsy cover story of being a wealthy farmer from New Zealand, I was being booked in for an appointment to see the resident bespoke tailor for my very own custom-made suit. At a mere £7,000 I was wondering how far I would have to go with this charade before my cover was blown. Fortunately, the tailor was unavailable and I quickly made my escape.
The next stores on my list, Armani Collezioni, Emporio Armani and Ermenegilio Zegna all lost marks for having funny names. I fossicked around, hummed and hahhed, inquired about nonsense such as when the summer range of Zegna Sport clothing was due out, and generally talked a load of cobblers. By the time I had finished in Ermenegilio Zegna I was beginning to tire of my mission. It was taking me at least 20 minutes wandering around each store to make up even remotely plausible figures and research, a remarkably long time to avoid snooty sales people and look interested in clothing I would never buy. There must be a more comfortable way of doing this I thought to myself.
It was then that I struck the fifth store on my list – Lono Piana.
The doorman, who would later introduce himself as Yugi from Poland, ushered me in. I wandered through the store to the menswear area and was met by the female Brazilian shop assistant.
“Would sir care for a drink? Coffee, tea, whisky?”
Sir selected a latte and the Brazilian woman went away to prepare it for him.
I flicked through the sweater selection. £350 looked about average, and I decided that there were 52 sweaters on the racks. I keyed it into my phone.
The woman returned and ushered me through to the suit room for my coffee.
I was politely instructed to sit down, served my latte and then asked if sir would care to watch a DVD highlighting the llama population in Peru that had provided the wool for the store’s products. I stroked my chin thoughtfully as I sipped my latte and nodded along in appreciation of the fine llama's and their lovely looking wool.
The Brazilian woman inquired about what I was looking for, and I rattled off my story of being new to town (from New Zealand) and wanting to sort out my wardrobe a little so that I was up to speed with the local fashions. The Brazilian woman was suddenly very excited. “So much of our wool comes from New Zealand,” she chirped. “Did sir know this?”
Sir had absolutely no idea but nodded along knowingly.
“Wait here, you must try one of our jackets then.”
The woman raced away and returned with a plain brown, woolen jacket. I slipped it on and instinctively looked for the price tag.
£7,000.
“Hmmmm… quite nice.” …Makes me look 60 years old.
“This is a very popular jacket” trilled the Brazilian woman. “Great for skiing. You could wear it on your next ski trip to the Austrian Alps for example.”
I burst out laughing. Why not? Austrian Alps here I come.
Another jacket suddenly appeared. Blue, a bit more lightweight.
I put it on.
£9,000.
“This is popular with our customers who design uniforms for their yachts crews. It would be great for when you go yachting.”
What the hell was this woman smoking? I held my tongue and didn’t mention that I was currently unemployed and sleeping on my mate’s sofa bed in Brixton.
One more jacket. This one was the best of all apparently, pure Peruvian llama wool. I put it on.
£10,000.
“Hmmmm… this one is nice. Peruvian llama wool you say.” Again, I felt like a 60 year old.
The Brazilian woman was smiling. “Yes, I knew you’d like it. What do you think?”
“Hmmmm…you’ve certainly given me something to think about. Don’t suppose you’ve got a sale coming up?”
I expected to be met with scornful laughter or perhaps thrown out on the street by Yugi from Poland. But instead the kindly Brazilian woman quietly whispered that there would be a sale at the end of the month and that sir should definitely save his pennies till then. I smiled and thanked her for her advice and made my way to the exit. Yugi bowed and the Brazilian woman presented me with a giftpack of llama wool soap.
I had a grin on my face as I wandered down the street. It felt good to be called sir and be given giftpacks simply for entering a shop. I hadn’t spoken to a crooked estate agent or a dimwitted recruitment agent all day, and I hadn’t even been charged £2 for my latte by a surly café attendant.
Nodding proudly to doormen and sticking my head into designer clothing stores, I continued my stroll. I spied Sotheby’s auction house on the other side of the road and decided I wouldn’t mind perusing some fine art or maybe putting a bid on some European sculptures. I mingled into the crowd of people in fancy suits and glasses of champagne effortlessly and stroked my chin like a connoisseur as I contemplated the true value of the collection of Russian statues.
So this is how the better half live… £10,000 skiing jackets and trips to the continent on your own private yacht. Yes, I could get used to this. Just like the Brazilian lady, I began seeing visions of myself captaining a yacht full of crewmen wearing the HGB insignia Lono Piana jacket, or perhaps decking out my own private jet with llama wool rugs. Maybe I did look rich and important after all… Bloody hell… I must be pretty good at this secret agent lark.
As I made my way back to the tube station I began to wonder where my next glamorous assignment would be. Playing blackjack in Monte Carlo? A jewelry heist in Paris? The sky’s the limit…
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3:00am, April 25 2007. ANZAC Day. A chill wind buffeted me from behind, causing my pathetically light-weight blanket to balloon out and expose my shivering legs. I hunched lower in my chair and tried wiggling my toes to make sure they were all still there. Nine responded, and I was growing a tad nervous about my left pinky.
I was in Turkey, on a fortnight long holiday which included the dawn ceremony at ANZAC Cove, Gallipoli. My partner Karen and I had eagerly escaped the cold tail end of the London winter, and had arrived in Turkey in T-shirts, shorts and jandals. While this had helped us acclimatise to the hectic, muggy capital, Istanbul, we were now woefully unprepared for the freezing night-time temperature of the Gallipoli Peninsula. Dawn was on its way though, and I was not about to complain about my circumstances. The previous eight hours had been a moving insight into the horrors and hellish sufferings of the ANZAC soldiers 93 years ago.
I had initially been sceptical and reluctant to attend the dawn ceremony. I had no family members who had fought at Gallipoli and was therefore worried that I would be an intruder at others’ memorial event – especially given that I was in Turkey for pleasure. Further, I had shared many peoples’ concerns about the carnival atmosphere that was now developing as hordes of young Australian and New Zealand backpackers now added the Gallipoli ceremony to such party checklists as Octoberfest, the running of the bulls and la Tomatina.
However, these concerns proved to be unfounded and visiting the Gallipoli peninsular was a very special experience that I would certainly recommend to other Kiwis. Being able to see the huge, craggy cliffs of ANZAC cove up close drove home just what a futile task the soldiers faced, especially given the bungled British intelligence that indicated that the troops should only expect small hills and flat plains. The scorching hot days and freezing cold nights would have been unpleasant enough, without the constant fear of sniper fire and mortar blasts. I thankfully munched on a chocolate bar and sipped a cup of hot tea, contemplating how I would have fared on rotten rations and lack of water.
But perhaps what impressed me the most, and what the Gallipoli campaign embodied, was the ANZAC spirit and identity. All around me, this was alive and well in the crowd of Aussies and Kiwis who had come to pay their respects. Contrary to my fears, the crowd had been very well behaved and a sense of camaraderie and togetherness had developed as we sat through the night and sheltered from the elements. People looked after their neighbours, made sure that the stranger next to them had enough leg room, checked to make sure that the old boy at the end of the row was warm enough.
“Oi! Grab that usher by the lug’ole” someone called out. “Tell ’im there’s some free seats for people over here.” People shuffled along and the newcomers smiled gratefully. Despite the cold, everyone was in good spirits and ANZAC cheer and humour was a warm relief. “Can you pass this up to my cobber.” An old man a few seats down from me, tapped a young Australian in front of him on the shoulder. “It's his tucker! Someone’s got to feed him.” He chuckled as his mate squinted back suspiciously. People smiled and the lunchbox was passed forward obligingly.
But it was not just the bonds between the Australians and Kiwis that were on display. Hours later, following the dawn ceremony, Karen and I were once again sheltering from the howling wind – this time atop the peaks leading to Chanuk Bair in anticipation of the noon New Zealand memorial service. We were crouched behind a service caravan with fading energy levels, stiff limbs and swollen eyes. Noticing our dishevelled appearance, an old Turkish man approached timidly. He seemed concerned with how cold we appeared and rattled off some quick fire questions in Turkish. Although not entirely sure what he had asked, we assured him that we were warm enough, sitting in the sunshine, and capped it all off with some universally recognised smiles and thumbs up. This did the trick. He flashed a toothy grin and discretely pulled down the neck of his woollen sweater to reveal his own secret for remaining warm and toasty – a hidden layer of old newspapers wrapped around his body. He chuckled to himself and wandered away.
We were surprised to see him return minutes later, this time armed with several bottles of Fanta. He offered these happily and indicated that he wanted to sit with us. We nodded and I offered him a blanket in return for the drink. The old man shook his head and, in a fast developing game of multi-lingual charades, indicated that the blanket would be better used as a cushion. Light bulbs went on and the three of us soon had some ingeniously padded seats conjured up with some nearby planks of wood. We were yet to understand a single word that the other had said, but were now communicating very smoothly. A trade in food ensued and in exchange for pieces of chocolate cake, we received a pair of apples and an offer for more Fanta. We all sat back in satisfied comfort, basking in the sun, and enjoying our newly acquired snacks. Mimed conversation and cheerful smiles continued and I suddenly realised what a special encounter this had been.
Despite having been bitter enemies nearly a century ago, in a war in which New Zealand troops had attempted to invade their homeland, we constantly received warmth and hospitality from all the Turkish people we came across. No one seemed to bear a grudge or despise our backgrounds and presence in their country. In fact, despite our differences of religion, culture, and language, being “ANZAC brothers” gave us all a shared history and opportunity to communicate.
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I’ve been living in London now for just under a year, and as my 12 month anniversary approaches, I’ve taken to reminiscing and looking back on the year that’s been. Things got off to an eventful start for me and my partner Karen back in May 2007. Fresh off the boat (like so many of the kiwi influx each year), we dossed around, sleeping on mates’ sofa beds and battling with recruitment agencies in a desperate attempt to eke out a living with lowly paid temp jobs and get our feet on the ground.
We were impatient to upgrade from the sofa beds as quickly as possible, and to find our own place. And so, we trawled through the rental papers and websites. This inevitably provided a veritable wild goose chase with slippery estate agents who started to drive us to depression with their ‘little white lies’ and cunning trickery.
Take for example, Stavros, from Dodgy Estates.
Stavros spoke with the accent of an Armenian gangster and the vocabulary of an East London criminal. He sat us down in his dusty office and proceeded to go through his list of available properties.
“Ah thees one is not so nice eh,” he said shaking his head. “A bit small for you two, you know what I'm sayin’. Thees one he's a beet far from the train station and shops eh. No good for you, you know what I'm sayin’.”
“Aha!” his eyes lit up. “Thees one is ok. Nice property, close to shops, good kitchen. Has windows. Yeah, real good. Perhaps you wanna see this one? Now, it ain’t a problem that the shower is in the bedroom eh?”
“What?” squeaked Karen. “Sorry, did you say the shower is in the bedroom?”
“Yeah, he’s in the corner of the bedroom, no problem like. You know what I mean?”
I did not know what Stavros meant but most certainly did not want to see his less than desirable flat.
In the end, Stavros managed to convince us to go and see a different flat, £265 per week, “just around the corner”. A ten minute drive later and we arrived at a terrible little grotto that Stavros suddenly seemed nervous about. We opened the door to find that the bathroom was located in the nook under the staircase. The triangular shape of the room meant that I could not stand upright in the shower. We moved upstairs to the master bedroom. I admired the view of the neighbouring brick wall and the large stains on the carpet. From there Stavros escorted us to the flat’s piece de resistance: the kitchen.
“Ummm, should the fridge really be there?” I asked, pointing at the large, ugly white object that stood in the middle of the kitchen and obstructed all access to the kitchen drawers or cupboards.
“Oh, no worries, you can move heem over there,” Stavros lied, pointing at a spot against the sloping wall. I quietly noted the complete lack of power points anywhere in the kitchen and the buildup of grime and dirt that suggested that the fridge hadn’t lived anywhere else in years.
We shook our heads and left.
Back in the car Stavros was chuckling, suddenly considering us as friends and confidants. “You know…some people they rent anything,” he laughed. “You know what I mean. I had thees flat once, one room, no windows, 12 foot by six foot. And I thought ‘Stavros you ain't never goin to shift this flat’. You know what I mean. But someone took it. I couldn't believe it. Pays 180 quid a week to live in a shoebox. Like I say mate, some people they rent anything.”
A couple of exhausting weeks and numerous Stavros-type episodes later, we finally stumbled across our dream flat. A cosy little top floor Victorian conversion, with a fridge in the corner of the kitchen, and the shower and bath safely far away from the bedroom. We are paying a reasonable rent and, I’m very pleased to say, didn’t get suckered into renting a shoebox from some character out of Only fools and horses.
Stavros, you are a plonker.
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