Fererro Rocher

It is a puzzlement to me how simple events in your life can echo down the years, and have surprising outcomes. A chance gift from a friend plausibly caused me to be sitting on a train on an unremarkable Monday heading for London. The gift as it happens was a book, just one of the many that now crowd my house threatening the destruction of Cheshire when they achieve critical mass. It was given by Chris Hall, librarian, historian of the Spanish Civil War, author and exile Stokie now residing in deepest darkest Chorlton (this is the kind of place where you can buy slave free, organic chocolate and Danish furniture that looks just like the tat you burned on a bonfire as a child but costs a £1,000 for a magazine rack). The book itself was entitled ‘Baron Wrangel, Russia’s White Crusader’ and covered the life of said Baron Wrangel during the First and then Russian Civil War. Now I doubt it is a balanced account as it was written by his son, however I found it enchanting in a way that would be difficult to describe. As I grew up, that is to say got older (Stoke is not the land of the giants, something to do with the mines, smoke and general lack of daylight) Russia was seen as the enemy, Communist barbarians, hell bent on reducing Hanley to a smoking ruin.  Had Moscow Central been aware of the Potteries, and felt that the Lomonsov porcelain factory had been compromised, they would not have bothered with a tactical nuke as our city council had already done the job for them. From that point on, I became a Russophile, and have spent many years trying to get to grips with the nature of the beast from childhood. Now in one of those conexions beloved of James Burke my school's most famous ‘Old Boy’ Geoffrey Prime, spied for the Russians (this does not feature in today’s prospectus!).

Some consider time to be linear so you can draw a direct path from event to event; I am persuaded that it is rather like a meandering river, the broad sweeps of which can bring events separated by years into close proximity, and at times, forming Oxbow lakes beloved of geography teachers. This may explain the phenomenon of Peter Stringfellow or Sue Pollard; creatures trapped in a time of their own creation. Anyway, by whatever means, we must jump forward twenty years to a field in Kent, where I am standing wearing the uniform of a Russian officer, from the First World War, together with my friends, in similar period attire. We were waiting for a visit from a Russian diplomat who, allegedly, wanted to see what we did (peacock about, and drink heavily in the main). Well, we have heard such things before, and as it was getting late in the day, and people were getting restless, keeping them together was like herding cats. Against all the odds, our diplomat did appear, about as out of place as a quetzal bird and about as unexpected. He proved to be charming, informed and a passionate historian, full of plans for various commemorations over the next few years (The 1812 campaign, 400^th anniversary of the Romanovs, 100^th anniversary of WWI) and he wanted us (as a group) to be involved. The whole thing seemed a little unlikely, if somewhat tantalising; salt, (but not bread), tucked firmly in our cheeks we returned to our revels.

As you may remember I had spent the previous weekend in London attending ‘The Chap Ball’, trying to look marvelous and get lucky (with varied results it has to be said!). On returning home late on the Sunday night I chanced to check my e-mails, to my surprise there was one from the Russian Embassy.  The Ambassador of the Russian Federation, Mr Alexander Yakovenko, was requesting the pleasure of my company (well who could blame him). The down side of this was that the reception was of course in London and on the following Monday. Now as I have the misfortune to work for a living it did not seem realistic to be able to attend, so, I set off for work as usual with the intention of sending a, thanks, but no thanks reply. By chance my manager was on site that morning and I mentioned the invite, “well why don’t you take the afternoon off and go then?” she suggested. Now I am not keen on decisions, especially the kind that need to be made in a hurry; the rational and the emotional sides of my brain are frequently at odds, like two tramps fighting over a bone. Rationally it was far too short notice, it would cost a small fortune, the logistics looked bleak, it may turn out to be dull and that would have made me both sad and poor. Emotionally, it flattered my ego, I had been chosen for something, provincial old me in the Russian Ambassador’s residence in that there London. After a Spartan defence of the rational decision, I threw away my shield, broke my spear over my knee and ran in search of some silk robes and headed east with the vague feeling that like visiting an Amsterdam coffee shop, it may end up with me having a headache in the morning and a singed moustache.

By the time I had got home from work, showered, suited and booted, printed my invite, grabbed my passport (photo ID required) and fed the cat I was running half an hour late and as the train hurtled through the gloom I was aware that I may be cutting things a bit fine. Where I live is about an hour and a half away from London and probably twenty years behind, London I still find exotic and at times frightening. Too big, too busy, too many people; just cut a few and it will be perfect. Now while I can navigate the tube I don’t have any sense of the time needed to get from one station to another, so, as I emerged from Queensway tube station, it was already 6:20 pm and the invite said 6:30. In a state of mild panic and no little apprehension I hailed a cab (just like they do in the movies) and in a Le Carre style requested “The Russian Embassy please, quick as you like”. 400 yards and £5.00 later (no time for change) I was taking directions from an armed policeman. Kensington Palace Gardens is a broad avenue of rather fine Italianate villas and it was mostly deserted.  Having found number 13 (funny how that number keeps cropping up) I composed myself and strode through the gate in an attempt to look as if I did this kind of thing all the time, I was greeted by uniformed Russian who to my acute disappointment, did not say “Papers please”. I presented my invite and passport nonetheless and was waved in the general direction of the front door, somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed I climbed a broad set of stairs and looked for a bell or door handle, no sooner had I stretched out my hand the door swung inwards and I was greeted by an elegant and attractive young lady (so far so good!), deposited my coat and was shown to a seat.

In all the excitement I have failed to mention the purpose of the reception, it was the final event in the Embassy’s commemoration of the 1812 campaign against Napoleon. The guests were an eclectic mix of historians, descendants of those involved, museum staff, ex pat Russians and the odd re-enactor (in this particular case I do not mean me, one chap had obviously not noticed the dress code of ‘lounge suit’ on the invite and was wearing  skin tight chinos and a Crimean war British officer’s tunic). On the whole, I felt decidedly normal in their company and had not seen anyone I knew in the room. The Ambassador made a pleasant speech as did Counsellor Artem A. Kozhin (the diplomat we had met in Detling). There was then a very interesting talk by Dominic Lieven (Author of ‘Russia against Napoleon’) on the 1812 campaign, or at least it should have been on the 1812, however Proff. Lieven actually considered the events of 1813 to be more significant, so most of it was about the events leading to the capture of Paris; I got the feeling our hosts would have liked a little more Kutosov than they were presented with. Talking of presentations, nobody went away empty handed, the main speaker was presented with a copy of a book on the work of the painter George Dawe (his portraits of notables from the 1812 can be seen in the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg). The book looked a fine volume and had the whiff of something that would make your eyes bleed at the till. We all received a commemorative medallion in a kind of ‘I’ve been to Borodino’ style (which was unexpected and quite charming) and then off to the Garden Room for nibbles and drinkies.

At this point I met up with some people I knew from the 2nd Guards, indeed it was Sergei that had arranged for us to meet the State Counselor in the first place. Now I’m sure you will all be disappointed to learn that Fererro Rocher were not on the menu and I never heard anyone say ‘Exshellenti!’ the only gold stuff available was the Russian Standard Gold vodka which it has to be said truly was excellent. I had a series of entertaining if careful conversations with some of the guests, some of whom it was clear were quite at home in the environment. I had the distinct impression I was being quizzed or tested in some way, “Are you a Russian? You look like a Russian!” and with the greatest of respect, some of them seemed to be clinging on to a past that was gone never to return, a sort of Miss Favershamskia. That said one has to be careful to be aware of one’s own prejudices, how would I react if my heritage had been demonised if not eradicated from history. On a more positive note Counsellor Kozhin thanked me for attending and was full of enthusiasm for the next few years, 400 Years of the Romanov dynasty, 100^th Anniversary of the First World War etc. and declared it would not be my last visit to the Embassy; this could of course be read in a couple of different ways and I am hoping it does not involve extraordinary rendition!

Time flies when you are having fun (and indeed, when you are a driver of a train) and it was soon time to return home and to the mundane. Something strange happened however between me leaving the Embassy and getting to the tube station, somehow I had become ‘tired and emotional’ A very kind security man suggested that I make alternative travel arrangements, now as he was 6” taller and 6 stone heavier I was in no position to demure. At this point, I have to confess, I have not the semblance of an idea what transpired, safe to say I was soon at Euston station and was about to make another slightly ill informed decision.  Now I could have headed off and spent a night at my friend’s house in London and gone into work in the morning, unfortunately this would have made me a little bit late (20 min), being strangely moral, and an idiot, I thought it would be better to have late night and be on time. Now the last train was supposed to have change where the wait was at least 90 min (unpleasant but workable), regrettably it was actually four and a half hours. Time has the ability to soften an experience and distance can add charm; that said, I doubt that Jesus has got around to the ‘crucifixion? Well, it was a cultural norm’ phase.

Picture if you can Gericault’s ‘The Raft of the Medusa’ and then imagine it had drifted into the Barents sea, add a touch of the bleakness of existence and you may have some idea of the waiting room of Birmingham International Railway Station at 1:00 am. The wreckage of humanity sprawled across the benches was painful to see, and while my liberal, humanitarian self was trying its best to empathise with their (and indeed, my) plight, the titanium cored, cold hearted bastard of self-preservation was screaming “DON’T BLINK for FUCK'S SAKE, DON’T BLINK!”. Disturbingly, the security staff dropped in for a look once in a while, as if to say “still got your wallet then?”. Time slowed to a glacial crawl, was that really just a minute? It seemed like half an hour at least! I noticed an odd fact, almost all of the people sleeping were men and the people awake and pulling blankets/coats over them were women, and not just sleeping, sleeping soundly, as if they were in a suite at the Dorchester protected by their pinched, frail and frozen companions. And while we are at it, how can you be down and out and be that fat? Have you been eating street children? The point at which I almost gave up was when one of the residents fell off his bench while attempting to answer his phone. Realising that he had injured himself he berated his caller (at length) while smearing the blood from his scalp wound onto the wall. Truth be told, I should have taken a picture, called it 'Modern Britain' and sold it to the Tate.

All good stories must come to an end; this particular one resolves itself with me back home safe and sound (if frozen to the core) desperately trying not to go to sleep as I had to be in work in four hours. The only solution was to employ the cat alarm clock, there is no way you can sleep if a cat is licking the top of your head and intermittently inserting a claw into your eye socket, cheers kitty, you’re a pal. Throughout the following day I had a distinct feeling that a bearded Crusader was whispering in my ear “You chose poorly!”.

Here ego, here ego, here ego..

The mere fact that I would attempt to write a blog is troubling, it rather assumes that what I have to say could be of interest to someone other than myself, and frankly I bore me at times. That said, one of my finest and blondest friends suggested I give it a whirl, so buckle up it may be a bumpy ride! The first people to read this will know me and will at least be able to put a face and voice to the words. Those of you that stumble into this world try to be kind, perhaps you could send imagined images?

I will avoid biographical details, think of it as a jigsaw puzzle with more than say 100 pieces, without the picture, or indeed all the pieces (I think Chicken Licken may have one of them?). I would say that my thoughts are my own, though in practice you may find that I have read it somewhere and forgotten, or, have stolen it to appear more well read. In general, please forgive this weak and idle theme.

So, here's the thing, I realised the other day as I was wandering to the railway station ('Oh Mr Porter what shall I do?') that I had nothing to link me to a career I had for pushing twenty years, nothing, no documents, pictures, proof of existence. While I was involved in it I preferred to keep a low profile and away from anything that could be described as the limelight. Now for reasons that will become apparent shortly this brings me back to the subject of ego, now I wouldn't know my Id if it fell on me, my ego is possibly what is seen every day, however, my alter ego may be my real self, or at least a shinier version. What is the point of this I hear you cry (well possibly just Laura), well, it is a preamble to finding myself in Bloomsbury Square, dressed in a kind of blanket that smells a bit like camel.

Clothing is an interesting thing, the fact that we wear it shows that - A. It tends to be a bit chilly in the UK and B. The human body in all its forms needs to be covered up, for the most part. I am not immune to its charms, but I have seen sights that make it difficult to believe in a humane God (insert choice here). Anyway, back to clothing, we are defined by it, and define ourselves with it, from say, wearing a band T Shirt or football top (I belong to this tribe) or by having the latest fashion item (I am up to date and part of the elite). Unless you are walking to the South Pole, decisions on clothes are seldom made on purely practical grounds.

So back to Bloomsbury Square - This weekend (December 1st) saw the 4th annual 'Chap Ball' (Google it, I couldn't explain) and my friends and I trooped along for an evening of music, dancing , cocktails and randomness. And here is the thing, the fact that I had clothed myself in the attire of a French officer of the 1940's in N Africa liberated me from the normal English convention of reserve and timidity. I had effectively been able to assume the persona that I would like to be, without the fear of rejection or failure. The net result of all this was that I could behave in a more natural way and get to speak and dance with some charming people. At one point I surrendered to the idea of a blind date, well, I was wearing the blindfold, not sure about the lady! In the context of the evening it did not seem the least bit odd, but I doubt if I would have agreed if  I  had been the go to work or go to the shops me. This begs the question why be a mundane version of oneself, we give the world vanilla when we are more cloves and cinnamon, or to put it another way if you happen to be Marmite do you portray yourself as bread so people don't hate you?

Enough for now, next time - tales of the Russian Embassy and Birmingham International Railway station.