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Me too
We see from a distance that, hard on the heels of President Obama’s moratorium on pay increases for senior US government officials, Prime Minister John Key has urged the Remuneration Authority not to increase New Zealand members of parliament salaries. Now that Helen Clark has gone, the “me too” policy adopted by Key before the general election seems to have shifted focus to Obama. Let’s hope he applies the copy-cat policy more broadly.
But here we are in the London we are used to, grey and raining. Our friend Martin, with whom we are staying, has brought a brand spanking new Mercedes Kompressor, a two door convertible, which he has allowed me to convert a couple of times to weave my way through traffic to the station. Worrying that he had gone too far in trying to recapture his youth, the purchase caused him exactly three sleepless nights, but he’s over it now.
We are having a pretty relaxed time, even realizing yesterday that we haven’t even been down and wandered the Thames embankment. But we have prowled around, feeding and watering ourselves well, and enjoying the city from the top of double-decker buses. One of the good things about travelling like this is seeing things you either didn’t know existed or had forgotten about. Yesterday, in this fashion, we chanced upon the New Zealand memorial in Hyde Park, it is brilliant. It is just across the road from the original Hard Rock Café (karma), so we’ve done our third Hard Rock so far on this trip. Kaelene has a bit of catching to do, as we’ve only visited two Ikeas. I understand that this will be remedied in Abu Dhabi as Jade has a new apartment to furnish.
So what have we done? Richmond (Mick Jagger wasn’t home), about 50 DVD stores (the stock of which is now depleted), all the designer stores that Chelsea has to offer (where chauffeurs wait outside minding very flash cars, Bentleys mostly), Carnaby Street (to seek out the memories of youth), the Beatles store (ditto) and the Marylebone High Street. There is a bespoke cobbler just off the Marylebone High Street; I went in there once with my cousin who was told by the proprietor that the price of his shoes started at 1250 pounds. Six pairs would suffice I thought.
Don McGlashan was sold out tonight, so we will go the embankment tomorrow and ponder the Nick Cave lyrics:
And thinking about London, nothing good ever came from this town,
And if the Thames weren’t so filthy, I would jump in the river and drown