"Please mind the gap..."

For someone like me who comes from an island country having the size of Malta, the concept of distance is virtually non-existent. With a maximum length of 22km, one could drive along the entire country of Malta in just under an hour, even with decent amounts of traffic. Thus, when I first came to the U.K., the utterance, “We live only an hour away!” was totally absurd and beyond my understanding! I recall the first time I was in a car (i.e., a passenger) here in England during a drive from Guildford to Oxford with my cousin: the seemingly infinite motorway was driving me close to insanity! However, I quickly realised that England (and all other countries with the exception of Vatican, San Marino and the like) are larger, much larger, than Malta and it was legitimate to persuade myself that long-distance travel is possible.

The notion of travelling for me is limited since I live virtually on-campus and go the Imperial on foot (a 20 minute walk each way). I actually enjoy walking for various reasons: it is a healthy activity, it allows me to enjoy London’s architecture and (last, but not the least) it is free. Whenever it rains, I opt for the bus, a trip which, given the acute traffic in central London (despite the hefty £7 daily congestion charge), not surprisingly takes double the time required for me to walk! For busy commuters who wish to avoid the stressful traffic, there is the wonderful alternative that is the London Underground. A quick time for facts: London’s metro is the world’s oldest and the colour-coded Tube map is almost part of London’s identity as much as the London Eye or the Big Ben. The term ‘underground’ is somewhat misleading, given that most of the network is actually above ground but the Brits still affectionately refer to the capital’s metro as The Tube, a name derived from the tubular shape of the tunnels which form a maze deep below the busy roads of London.

Whenever I need to travel for reasonable distances, I take the Tube. It is (generally) fast, efficient and the many, many lines and possible combinations of interchanges between them almost ensure that one can get to any part of London via the metro. The Tube is managed by Transport for London (tfL), which, I must say, (generally, again) does a very good job at keeping the network running smoothly, with proper provision of information for commuters, maintenance scheduled and advertised well in advance and also improving the service. Now this whole idea of the post came about precisely after I first spotted the first advert or, I would say, propaganda poster regarding a major improvement being done on the Tube system: the extension of the Circle Line.

For the benefit of readers not acquainted with the Tube system, the network is organised into several “lines”, each with a particular name and colour, the latter easily identified on Tube maps. Thus, we have the District (green) Line, the Piccadilly (blue) Line, the Northern (black) line and so on and so forth. The upcoming tfL project is the extension of the Circle (yellow) Line. Again, for those not familiar with the Tube map, the Circle Line is, as the name suggests, a continuous line of track forming a loop around central London, effectively enclosing Zone 1 of the concentric zones forming London. Indeed, virtually all of the main London sights are within the perimeter described by the Circle Line.

I do not like the Circle Line. Let me rephrase: I do not like to use the Circle Line, for a number of reasons. For almost all of its length, the Circle Line runs in parallel with other lines (District, Metropolitan and Hammersmith & City Lines) and thus one could really use any of these lines rather than the Circle. Besides, there are too many stops and bends and turns in the Circle Line route, making trips on it slow compared to, for example, the Central or Jubilee Lines. Finally, the Circle Line is virtually closed off in its entirety during weekends “for engineering work”. Thus, from a purely transportation point of view, I think the Circle Line should be closed down altogether and the yellow colour used for some other new line.

However, I must say that I love the concept of the Circle Line. The very notion of having a train network around the core of the capital which easily allows the visitor to get within reach of the must-sees using just a single line: South Ken and its museums, Westminster, Embankment, Tower Hill, Monument for St. Paul’s and all around to Baker Street and Notting Hill. Thus, from a more romantic (in its dreamy sense, of course) point of view, I think the Circle Line is the authentic London Underground line.

The new extension to the Circle Line, due to open on 13/12/09, consists of the formation of a new branch off the Circle Line (by definition, a circle cannot be extended) down to Hammersmith. Once more, this is nothing more than continuing the Circle Line in parallel with the Hammersmith & City Line and thus, in effect, is not really necessary. My point is: with the extension, the concept of the Circle Line as a circle around central London will be messed up. Ruined. Screwed. Mind you, tfL have done a very good job at informing the public: the posters are a very attractive piece of marketing design, with a yellow loop mimicking the Circle Line and the pros of the project branching off in the fashion of station names on the Tube map. However, the new branch will disrupt the continuity of the original circle, effectively making the name “Circle” redundant.

I think 13/12/09 is a sad day in the history of the Tube: a deliberate rape of my least favourite line, making it now prey to my pity. My suggestion in an attempt to restore the circular route would be to close off the Circle Line between Gloucester Road and Edgware Road (the 2 are linked by the District Line anyway) and instead link Gloucester Road with Hammersmith, making the ring complete once more. Thus, my final plea to tfL is fix the circularity of the Circle Line and my message can best be delivered using its own jargon: “Mind the gap!”

Cousin of the bride

Note:

This post might, at times, seem to be a lesson in demographics, wedding planning services or even a genealogical research project, but is generally not intended to be anything of the sort. The occasional commentaries are necessary simply to help the non-Maltese reader get better acquainted with my own background and that of Malta's culture.

Maltese families tend to be quite big, mainly due to the extensive number of relatives one will have from the Baby Boomers generation, i.e., that of my parents. Possibly the strong Catholic culture, which, till very recently, moulded the Maltese society, led to couples having vast numbers of children in the post war years; families with 8+ children were not uncommon! In fact, I have a total of 15 uncles and aunts. Out of these, 3 had settled permanently in the U.K. before I was born and, consequently, having grown up in Malta, unfortunately failed to be present for virtually all major events in the lives of my 7 U.K. cousins. However, now that I am in the U.K. myself, things are, of course, slightly different! All but 2 of my U.K. cousins got married before I moved to London and 4 of them now have children of their own; indeed I have attended christening ceremonies and birthday parties of a few but this week I managed to attend one "big" ceremony: the wedding of my cousin Anna to Paul.

Generally, I do not like ceremonies at all: I hate formalities (though always seem to bring on more of these unto myself due to my persistent academic ventures), I am not a fan of picture posing (though many say I am photogenic) and I get claustrophobic feelings when I button up all of my shirt buttons AND, even more so, when I wear a tie (and there is no "though" appendage to this fact, period). This time, I was quite excited about this ceremony: it was going to be a good occasion to meet all of my U.K. relatives at once (and all 'live', beyond Facebook and email), it promised to include bounteous food and booze (more on that later) and I was going to wear, for the first time, a cuff-linked shirt. The latter I bought especially for the occasion and, since I had wanted to wear one of the sort (as opposed to the conventional type) for a while, I was looking forward for the 'dressing up' bit. Besides, this was going to be the first English wedding I will be attending (not to mention that, being on a Friday, it meant taking a day off and enjoying a long weekend). All these factors combined together made 04/12/09 a day to look forward to.

The weather on the eve of the wedding was rubbish: cold and rainy. I dreaded the very idea of having to travel up to Harrow in typical winter weather. But Friday morning was beautiful: sun and blue, cloudless skies. Perfect. I opted for the cleanly-shaven look - very unusual for me, but since the Brits are such hardcore conservatives, I knew that all men will be lacking any form of beard and me attending with facial hair, albeit groomed, would make me stand out like a sore thumb. Morning shower, after shave, hair fixing, careful dosage of Burberry perfume so as not to tickle my nose unnecessarily, trousers, socks, shoes, shirt, belt, tie and jacket and off to the Tube. I was not running late but simply had not enough time to clear up all the mess in my room; for the first time in my life, I left home without first putting all in place...

I arrived at the church bang on time at 1pm (the bride was almost half an hour late anyway) and after the first couple of greetings, I made my way in. The service itself was quite similar to what a normal Roman Catholic wedding ceremony would be in Malta, except that no Communion was administered. Alas, yet another bearer of the Micallef name in the U.K. was gone and Anna had become Mrs. Brennan. I later pointed out to my uncle that unless my 2 male (Micallef) cousins have boys of their own in the future (after having both fathered a girl each), the fate of the Micallef name was essentially dependent on me! The guarantee of the survival of the name for at least another generation would be left entirely in my hands to have a boy at some point! Well, not exactly my hands, but you know what I mean! Quite a responsibility placed on me there!

By the end of the service, the English sun had already retired for the day and thus the day got a bit fresher. A short drive down to Ealing and the reception was about to begin. Now this is where things get different from the stereotypical Maltese wedding. Most wedding functions in Malta take the form of a standing up cocktail reception with passed canapés and that sort of food items and usually served with an open bar with free flowing booze. After 2 or 3 hours, the couple make their first dance, they cut the wedding cake, the bride throws her bouquet and off they head for their nuptial night. The course of events which were to follow in the English wedding differed slightly, as I soon was about to start discovering as the night unfolded.

Upon arrival at the reception venue at around 3pm, us guests were greeted by a welcoming drink and light canapés; I opted for the warm mulled wine option, given that (a) it smelt wonderful and (b) needed to warm up slightly from the external chill and (c) I prefer wine more than anything else. More greetings with my relatives followed, with me giving updates from Malta and I getting news from each of my fellow U.K. family members. My cousin's husband Rob immediately found out that I was pretty much a virgin attendee at an English wedding (no pun intended!) and promised to be my personal tutor for the night. After the welcome drinks, guests headed to the bar, where they started with pre-meal drinks. Most opted for beer - typical English behaviour. Thus, I had my first beer of the night, a Guinness by default.

After the pre-meal drinks, we made our way to the banqueting area, where the guests were seated and ready to start dining. A 3 course meal of warm soup, roast and Yorkshire pudding (what else?!) and finally Baci cake, all washed down with constantly-topped-up wine (definitely red in my case) and finally a coffee. By 7pm, I sensed it was going to be an early night but Rob promptly indicated that the fun part was about to begin. I found out that 3 speeches would follow, 1 by each of the following: the bride's father, the groom and the bestman. Before the speeches, every guest had to guess how long all speeches would take and put money on the gamble: a mere £1. After all was said, the person who had made the best guess would then get all the money in the kitty. Not bad. From my inexperience, I guessed 27 minutes (I later found out that I was WAY out by a factor of 2).

The speeches were hilarious but I strictly do not wish that these were part of Maltese weddings since they tended to be heavily biased on attacking the groom, so definitely no thank you. After the speeches, all headed to the bar area again or, more precisely, to the bar, where some serious drinking started going on. To fit in handsomely with the English way of doing things, I opted for gin-and-tonic, on the rocks, with a slice of lemon and this was to be the fixed beverage for the rest of the night (actually I lost count of how often I hopped to and fro fetching gin-and-tonics amidst lively conversations with my cousins, uncles and aunts and other guests I met that day). In the meantime, the banqueting area was stripped of all furniture, creating a fully fletched dance floor, complete with DJ and lights. As I was instructed, people would now start dancing...disco dancing that is!

I am not an avid dancer but, greatly aided by my body's gin-and-tonic content, managed to spin to and whisk to Billie Jean and a number of 1980s classics: Fame, Eye of the tiger and many others which I (understandably) fail to recall at this point in time! Dancing makes you hungry and, thankfully, there were a few munchies provided in the bar area, to which I helped myself generously as the night progressed. Alongside the ever-present G+T. By 11pm, I realised I had to return home by Tube and started to bid my goodbyes, Happy Christmases, all the bests and all that jazz. A quick venture to the Tube station (which, given the context of the mission at that late hour turned out to be a success) and somehow landed at Earl's Court safe and sound. I made my way painfully up the 3 floors, stripped (alas to no one's amusement) and literally fell on my bed till 10.30am the next day.

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was chaos. My first recollection was a scene from the movie The hangover. No, there was no tiger waiting to devour me and I did not lose any teeth. Neither did I have a hangover. The room was just so untidy! I then realised that I had left the day before without putting all in place and returned with no intention of clearing up the mess: clothes, shoes, socks, clothes hangers, towels, shirt packaging, shower gel/deodorant/perfume bottles and what not on my basin. A quick shower brought me to my senses and in no time my room was ordered as usual till it was time for me to leave again for a post-wedding get-together at my uncle's house!

And that was my first English wedding! So, if you had to ask me whether I like English weddings, then rest assured that you would get nothing but one, very wedding-ly answer: "I do".

A cheesy incident

I am fond of food, quite fond actually. For me, the consumption of food is not simply a matter of supplying the body with the necessary amounts of energy, vitamins and whatever is required to keep it going; food is one of my few pleasures in life. I do not smoke, I do not do drugs, I do not drink, I do not gamble and I am not promiscuous and thus food is my only source of hedonistic activity. I will stop talking about food since it is making my mouth water and get straight to the point: an incident which occurred last week related to my well-known food-consuming antics...

It was an ordinary weekday and I had one of my usual tutorials with the M.Sc. group, with the latter including 2 Maltese students. After the tutorial was done, I decided to join the Maltese bunch for lunch rather than my usual Ph.D. colleagues and us 3 headed to the cafe found in the foyer of the Central Library building. On that day, I was totally famished, not an unusual feeling for me, especially after an hour of 'structural analysis' tutoring. As we stood in the queue (you see, the Brits love queues!) for the servery, I stood adjacent to a huge refrigerated display of baguettes with all kinds of filling varieties. The constant stomach grumbling, the smell of freshly baked pastries, all combined with the sight of the baguettes, made me impulsively go for a baguette. Not just any baguette but a baguette which immediately caught my fancy...

I told my Maltese colleagues, "This is it!" as I pointed to the particular baguette I was about to have. A honey-coloured, notoriously larger-than-usual baguette, both in length and in width, with protruding tomatoes of remarkable diameter (I would swear genetically modified!), attractively coloured lettuce and rucola leaves. Irresistibly appetising. "What is it?" inquired my colleague. "I don't care, I want that one!" was my immediate reply. I glanced at the label on the package and saw that it read "Bacon and *******", with the latter word beyond my vocabulary and which I am not revealing as yet since it would alter the course of the narrative. I did not care that I was not even vaguely aware of what the *** word was: Meat? Filling? Cheese? But the baguette looked too good to be true and I was having it just the same! I clearly indicated which one I wanted to the attendant, who promptly handed me my prized lunch and impatiently headed for the cash point, paid, hurriedly filled in a glass of water from the jug (which needed refilling and thus prolonging my wait!!) and finally sprinted to the first available table in the crowded cafe to encounter my lunch.

The 2 other Maltese eagerly waited for me to indulge in my baguette. I was even more enthusiastic to unwrap the (un)lucky baguette which was about to be my lunch for the day. Wrapper gone, I got hold of the thing and took one, large bite. And then: the curtain was drawn, my eyes were opened...but it was too late!

The unmistakable, characteristic and overwhelming taste of blue cheese. And loads of it. Enough to fill the largest baguette the Library cafe has ever seen. The *** word was none other than: Stilton. Now this deserves a quick explanatory note.

One of my favourite foods is cheese. Cheese of all forms and varieties: Brie, Camembert, Mexican, goat, Parmesan, Grana and all the rest; the process of cheese eating is almost an art in itself, combined with the right wine and choice of cold-cut meats, in a warm Maltese wine bar, with candle light and soft jazz playing in the background: heaven. BUT...I abhor blue cheese. The very sight of it. Even more the smell of it. Never had the misfortune of enduring the taste of it. So much so, that I never acquainted myself even with the varieties of blue cheese, such as the actual word "Stilton"!

So back to the Library cafe...as I chewed the first bite of my baguette which had caught the attention of my Maltese friends, they stared at me, waiting for my reaction. "So, is it good?" was the obvious question. "Too good," I lied, not wanting to embarrass myself. "Be right back, grabbing a Coke," I said as I left the table to get a bottle of anything which could aid in subsiding that horrible, horrible taste. Returning to my table, I was faced with the rest of the baguette, which now seemed even larger than ever before. The concave shape of my bite looked like a smiley face: the baguette grinning at me, as if saying, "Now finish me off, you bitch!" A task which I did, with a gulp of Coke after each painstakingly-made bite.

Lunchtime for that day was martyrdom. Dessert had to be half a pack of Polo mints to neutralise the taste of the Stilton. I was ashamed that I had fallen victim to a food item which I always insisted would never find its way in my stomach. To be honest, I always try to experiment with new, unusual foods and have succeeded in having most: snails, urchins, horse, tripes, black pudding...and might have succumbed to blue cheese at some point. But definitely not such an intense baptism of fire. Definitely not an enormous baguette loaded with Stilton!

Now, that the Stilton is out of my system and I have come to terms with the reality of me having consumed blue cheese as a result of my ignorance of the subject, I can confidently say that a well-known saying usually restricted to people can be safely extrapolated to foods: "Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer!"