Actually, the Hilditch-Harman household doesn't go in much for the card/flowers routine. We're such cynical old bastards - we refer to it as "hallmark-cards mega profit day". I'm not sure when the cynicism set it - we did cards at some point in the last 17 years, but not sure when.
We did however, mosey out for a spot of live music. A friend from work plays in a band called the Jazz Traitors, and they had a gig at a rather lovely pub in Twickenham. Having checked out the pub's website (another cynical old bastard moment : since when did pubs have a website?) and discovered their speciality is belgian beer and food, we reckoned on enjoying a spot of dinner, alongside the dinner jazz. And very nice it was too... the moules, the frites, the fruit beers. These days I just can't drink on a school night - I'm such a cheap date, three pints and I'm all over the show. Three pints of belgian beer and I'm well and truly done for. Because it's so fruity and yummy (obviously healthy and good for you - it's fruit for god's sake), I never realise I've had enough until about a pint too late.
Anyway, the jazz was great. The vocals are silky-smooth and the whole thing hangs together rather well. We reckoned we were lucky to hear such a performance in a local pub instead of trekking off into town to an expensive venue !
Vincent, my friend in the band, is a multi-talented fellow. As well as the day job (a senior manager at Notting Hill) and playing saxophone in the band, he's also the producer for a play called Blue/Orange at Wimbledon Studio (4th - 22nd March). I'm in awe of his energy to pack so much into 24 hours. Yesterday we were talking about the various things that need to be done to get the curtain up. V said he'd been scouting around the environs of Wimbledon station with his camera, looking for a suitable locations to take publicity pics. He'd been stopped by the police who wanted to know what he was doing.
My initial reaction was to chuckle - I couldn't think of a less likely troublemaker : Vincent is the epitomy of decency, and armed with nothing more dangerous than a camera and a pile of flyers for a play. Then on balance though, I was less amused and more reflective. Chances are that he was stopped because he's a man of colour, photographing near a tube station. It sounds like the exchange between V and policeman was perfectly courteous, but that still leaves me with a sinking feeling. So in no particular order, points to ponder....
Suicide bombing on the tube up'd the ante. We all feel less secure than before. Not necessarily in a direct "I'm scared of travelling on the tube" way, but in a more widely pervasive, or more accurately invasive way - marginal declines in trust are all around us.
Risk-based judgements. What does that mean for all of us ? I understand why a black or asian man is more likely to be considered suspicious than me, a white woman. But understanding why something is that way, doesn't make it OK. Doesn't make it any less damaging in the long run to those young men who grow up in an environment where they're the subject of curiosity at best, and and worst suspicion.
...which brings me back to thinking about the book I finished last week Ed Hussein's "The Islamist". How did those young men who carried out the suicide bombings on tube come to feel that Britain in the 21st Century wasn't a place for them. The book is not a literary beauty by any means, but interesting, compelling reading. It's one of those books that will travel with me for many years. I understand there is much debate about some of the theological points in the book, and the extent of his involvement in Hibz ut-Tahrir, but I was most interested in how the "non-mainstream" spoke more strongly to him than anything else.
After such weighty matters... back to Valentine's evening. We get home from the boozer, and the Sidster gives his adoring Missus a christmas present (punctuality is a much over-rated virtue as far as he's concerned). I am now the pround owner of a nintendo DS portable game console thingy. Complete with the brain-training game. Much to my horror, my initial "brain age" was 67 ! I tried to reassure myself that obviously the belgian beer was slowing me down. Maybe but not not a lot. I had another go this evening, and I've reached the "brain age" of 51. Hmm, better, but not much, given that I'm 30-something. I'm loving the brain-training game though - it's compulsive - and it gives me a practical antidote to my deep-seated fear that I've killed off too many cells of the grey matter.
I did start to wonder though, about whether the scoring mechanism of this game was a reflection of youth culture - valuing (mental) speed and agility over wisdom and reflection. Then I realised I should remove my head from my backside and stop listening to so much radio 4.
J
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