Chocolate, libraries and pork pies...where's Maria, I think I've got a verse for her song.

Small comforts.

I know, I know.  I just wrote a whole thing about rating stuff and now I’m going to write a thing about how some stuff is making the move back to the UK less horrible…I see the hypocrisy.  Here’s the deal: I’ll not put an out of five on anything, I’m just going to say stuff about stuff and we’ll both walk away and never mention this again. – I do realise I’ve typed “never” there, too.

A number of years ago, Hugh Laurie used a character in his novel to praise Cadbury chocolate.  I disagree with this fictional character.  Cadbury chocolate in the UK is too sweet.  Too, too sweet.  I never really enjoyed it before I went away, I enjoy less now.  Galaxy used to be a delight; not so much now.  Even Minstrels are…meh, and the chocolate around Revels has deteriorated to the point of being almost inedible.  The texture of a lot of milk chocolate here is unpleasant in the mouth.  It feels cloying, as if it’s shouting “SUGAR!” at you, right in your face, so to speak.  To these tastebuds, even Galaxy has lost the creamy, swirly delicious I seem to remember from years gone by.  It just all feels sticky and sweet and way too sweet!

Thank the lord of all chocolate, then, for Waitrose own plain and white chocolate.  After eight weeks back in the UK, I have found a chocolate I can eat relentlessly and then try to run off.  It is creamy or bitter and chocolatey and smooth and yum.  It is warming and soothing and all things chocolate should be.  Likewise, the one bar that seems to have lasted the test of time: plain chocolate Bounty.   The milk chocolate version is bitty and not nice.  The plain chocolate variety is a loud celebratory noise in your mouth.

I appreciate the vogue is to close libraries but my goodness, what a brilliant thing a public library is.  The library here is used well.  It is such a welcoming environment – more so now because they’ve finagled some money from somewhere and done themselves up a treat!  A great selection, brilliant workspaces, a stupendously gorgeous children’s library, the lot.  All the more important is the atmosphere.  There is a beautiful hum of use hanging in the air; a wonderful calmness and purpose in the way people sit and type or stand and search or sit and read.  The encouragement for children to suck up joy from the words inside the building is fantastic.  I love this library – I love all libraries to be fair – but I love this library because of the time and space it is filing during this time of transition.  It is a comfort blanket I am happy to wrap myself in every day.

I’ve mentioned pork pies before but here I go again.  Pork pies.  This one confuses me.  New Zealand is the land of pie.  They love pies in New Zealand.  They absolutely love pies in New Zealand.  If it can go in a pie, New Zealanders put it in a pie but they don’t do pork pies.  All pies should come from a pie warmer, in NZ.  All pies should either be tepid or scalding, in NZ.  In all of this, they don’t appear to have room for a cold pie.  I don’t understand why.  One taste of a pork pie and everyone, EVERYONE (Sorry – got caught on TRUMP-LOCK there) can see why pies exist.  Surely?  The pork pie is a sumptuous, lavishly elegant, delicious, moreish piece of food.  And then you add some HP Sauce and Smokey must be singing because you can hear violins.  I have eaten far too many since I have been back.  I may have eaten one in New Zealand; I think I can give myself a pass on that…another thing to have to run off.

See, I have not once said “out of”.  Three things that are making the migrant feel a little bit happier about his migration.  Whilst I’m struggling to find my place here again, it’s good that simple things like chocolate, libraries and pies can go some way to making the day a happier place to be.

...and, how would you rate that?

I know there is probably an easy way to adjust this but: I do not enjoy the imposition on my life my phone has become.  This is the least appealing aspect of the move back to the UK, I think.  Yes, the least appealing, and it is the least appealing because it speaks to the very heart of what I can see in this country since my return.

Wherever I go, my phone wants me to rate it.  My phone reminds me that I am in the perfect spot for a photo opportunity that I can upload and then share and describe my experience of the place in which I was in the perfect spot to take the photograph and then share it with everyone.

My phone asks me whether I would like to comment about the location I am in.  It wants to know how I have found my time whilst perusing the shelves at the local Tesco, Waitrose, Iceland.  It wants to know how I found wandering down the high street today and my proximity to many places that were selling things I could have bought.  Did I enjoy my walk in close proximity to these places and the things they sold?  And if I have by chance gone into one of these places, how did I rate my experience whilst in this place?  Did the item I purchased meet the standard I expected as I purchased the item and was the experience of purchasing the item accompanied by a pleasant experience in my experiencing of the staff serving me the product I was purchasing?  And would I like to take a photograph of the experience I was having and allow this experience to be shared with other … other…what?  People?  Consumers?  Users?  Players?

When did this all start?

I freely admit to being a bit of a technophobe where it comes to phones.  I had an old phone that allowed me to text and do emails and speak with people and do a bit of internetting.  The phone I have bought since I have returned ostensibly does the same things but with a bigger screen and a larger imprint on my trouser pocket.  It also, however, appears to be a sentient thing.  It knows where I am all the time.  It asks continuous questions about how I’m finding my surroundings.  It wants to know my opinion on whether the shop I am in, the café I am in, the library I am in, the pub I am in, is providing me with joy.  It wants me to rate everything.  It wants me to put a number or a “five stars” on everything.  When did this all start?

We are being prompted to commodify our minute by minute existence.  We are being coaxed into prioritising sharing of the moment rather than being in the moment.  We are being asked for feedback on service and quality that can affect others.  I’m new back, I had internet put in the flat – what did I think of the service?  I spoke with the electricity company about power – how would I rate the efficiency of the person I spoke with in dealing with my call?  When did this become a thing?  When did this become an adjunct to the service delivery?  Why is our focus being directed toward this instant hit gratification provision for these companies?  It’s distracting, that’s why.

In all the buffeting I have received, not one question has been substantive.  I have not been asked about the NHS.  I have not been asked about Council spending in light of the news that Council Tax may (will) rise.  I have not been asked about the amount of dog shit on the pavement or rubbish strewn everywhere.  I have not been asked whether the housing strategy of regional councils makes me think that community is being devalued by commuter-belt building.  But, most frustratingly, in all the banality of the questions I have been asked, I STILL haven’t been asked whether I enjoy the new taste of Marmite.

I have been asked, however, whether my flat-white was flat enough, so that’s ok then… and could I rate it, and take a picture?

I enjoyed that I didn't enjoy yesterday.

It wasn’t quite the worst of times.

There is no defeat in sport worse than Wales losing to England.  I appreciate that some Arsenal fans may be wanting to argue the matter, following yesterday, but Wales versus England in the rugby – in particular in the 6 Nations – has a history and a significance that outweighs all other sporting fixtures.  Perhaps The Ashes comes close.

To stand in a pub in England and watch Wales lose yesterday was quite the experience: mainly because the experience was not unpleasant.

I returned to the pub from last week.  This time, the small TV room was packed.  It appeared that this group of rugby watchers were both a) all one group of friends, and b) there celebrating the birthday of one of their number.  Needless to say, the birthday celebrations were augmented by the result of yesterday’s match.

Stereotype Alert: both of me and of them.

Yesterday was the first time I’ve watched England play rugby in the company of English rugby fans and not felt like I was part of a conflict, not felt like I was being patronised, not felt like I was surrounded by a sea of conceit.  This group were determinedly English and determinedly supporting their team.  This group, though, were funny and fair.  They were equally critical of their team as mine.  They were quick to cheer and just as one eyed as you would like a supporter to be – “Never a try!” “He said the ball was out!” – and they were simply willing their team to victory.

It sounds stupid but one of the better aspects of their display was their relishing the defensive display of their team.  The appreciation of the way in which England snuffed out Welsh attack was awesome.  At the same time, on the few occasions Wales broke through, their desire for England to stop the attack never boiled over into anything like the manner Mike Brown displayed on the pitch (which was shame as Mr Brown had a superb game, I thought).  Their celebrations as each of the attacks were smothered out were brilliant: euphoric and full of passion, just as was their response at the final whistle.

It was an absolute pleasure to be in their company, yesterday.  They didn’t even seem to mind that there was a Welshman in the midst.  Even when they started a celebratory Mexican wave, the act was dripping in irony.  It was tremendously funny.  To be able to write those words, “it was an absolute pleasure” feels completely at odds with what occurred yesterday and how I’ve always ended up feeling after watching these games in the past.  Perhaps this group civilised me.  They neutered any jingoistic feelings on my part and allowed me to watch a game and enjoy the sterling performances of players from both sides.

I have rarely come away from a Wales versus England game and been impressed with English players – no matter how many points they had put on us (as someone pointed out online, yesterday, you score more points than Wales but you never beat us).  Yesterday it was chastening to see how well Brown coped with the Welsh kicking, how intelligently Ford and Farrell marshalled the English backline (Farrell’s bravery in defence was also inspirational), and Vunipola, well, being Vunipola: out on his feet.  Shingler and Navidi for Wales continued to impress, as did the front five.  It is amazing how Alan Wyn Jones is evolving his game.  It was a pity the Welsh backline didn’t fire, as they had the week previous – England’s fault.  The appreciation of how close that game was yesterday was another factor in making the company in which I witnessed it more enjoyable.  At the final whistle there was the celebration and then, in a moments hush as the initial cheers lulled, there was a voice, “That was a lot closer than I thought it was going to be.”  Then there were murmurs of agreement.

It was not quite the worst of times.  It was a beautiful game.  I hate the fact we lost it but I’ve never felt so sanguine about this type of result in all my days.  People, like Marmite, change.

The Marmite is still funny.

People are brilliant.

It was the best of times. I’m finding this move back to the UK hard.  The keen amongst you may have noted that having moved away, and having stayed away for over a decade, gives a rough indication of my enthusiasm for living here.  I have, however, been reminded this weekend of just how great Britain can be.   That said, things have been strained by the idea of lady-crisps and the incredible male radio hosts are trying to avoid stereotype as they discuss this subject, whilst hearing the wearying, paper-thin patience of female presenters.

I had to go to a pub to watch the rugby.  Wales versus Scotland, watched in a pub in England.  As the second try was about to be scored, a gentleman joined me in watching the game.  He winced at the score and voiced an opinion about wanting Scotland to put on a performance.  Variously we were joined by the owner of the bar, one of the bar staff and another punter.  The conversation was warm, convivial and informed (even though I say so myself!) and it was a fantastic couple of hours watching a moment of British sporting tradition.

CLICHÉ: It was a prime example of all that is good about this country and, I would posit, all that is good about rugby and the 6 Nations.

I have been greeted into my new flat by a neighbour.  He’s noted me coming and going, and has been happy to chat and speak about the idiosyncrasies of the set up at these flats.  He has been charming and helpful and humorous: a mine of information about the locality.  The people of the street who have to put up with me wheezing and puffing as I run have all been happy to say a “hello” as I wind my way up the road past them.  It is noticeable that people are less inclined to look you in the eye and smile.  But, I’ve found that if I say a “Gidday!” I usually get a “hello” or “good morning” in return.

The people who work in the shops and cafés of this town are beautifully cheerful.  They are courteous, and I have yet to find one who has provided less than efficient, cheerful service.  Every one of them has finely tuned their small talk and is ready with a smile and a sentence or two - so much so that the standard two minuter on the weather has only been employed when the weather has merited a mention.  Perhaps I’m warming to them because they’ve been kind enough to laugh at my jokes, who knows?

Having got my head up from the pavement, the quality of the people shows exactly what is great about living here.  If you pause at the top of the high street and look, the greetings, the conversations, the civility, the smiles, the family, the community is evident to the eyes.  There is a man who sits at a piano and plays songs at unnecessarily quickened pace, beautifully Reevesian (of the Vic variety).  It is genius and he is celebrated.

The specs aren’t naively rose-tinted; the crisps’ farrago is a glimpse into a horrific mind.  I know that all isn’t sunny in the garden – I ran past an argument, the other morning.  Britain still has all the issues in the world.  I’ve listened to Five Live tell me who’s had a good week or a bad week: why driving over the speed limit is fine at times, and become incredulous and conservative at the prospect of Welsh teens not being able to have intimate piercings; how people are now angrier more than ever before about the most trivial of things.  However, as I try and find a routine and a life back in the UK, it is great to experience the people of this town, to find these positives and to start to find handholds in this new life.

Of course, all of this will change next week…I shall have to return to the pub and watch the rugby, on Saturday.  Wales play England.  I’ll have to watch in an English pub.  Hmmm. it may well be the worst of times.