Nando Gives Me Clothes

Yesterday, when I got home from work, Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, was sitting in the lounge. When I walked in, there was a small pile of neatly folded clothes, sitting on the sofa I usually sit on. Nando told me to look through the pile and if there are any items I want, I can have them. Otherwise, he's going to get rid of them.
Nando's style of dress is a bit different to mine. He wears a lot of T-shirts and pull-over tops. I tend to prefer button down shirts. Still, I'm not one to turn down the chance for free stuff. I was concerned because I think Nando is a little smaller than I am. At first, none of the things I look at fit me. Finally, I started to find items which are my size. I ended up with a couple of pull-over tops and a light-weight jacket. I have wanted a light jacket all summer, so I'd have something to wear on summer evenings, when it gets a little chilly. Innocently, Nando admits that the reason he wants to get rid of these clothes is that they don't fit him anymore. It must be the weight he's put on. His loss is my gain, or vise-versa.

Out of Whole Cloth

Last Friday, a report entitled, "Let's Clean Up Fashion," was published, criticizing the high pay that chief executives of some fashion firms receive. The report contrasts these sums with the low wages paid to overseas workers, in poor countries. Two advocacy groups, War on Want and Labour Behind the Label, claim that most well-known clothing companies are not doing enough to make sure that factory workers overseas are lifted out of poverty. They also claim that overseas workers who make the clothes sold in the leading British fashion retailers are not paid a "living wage."
There's one big problem with these claims. The living wage being used as a yardstick is the British living wage. These workers don't live in Britain. The UK is one of the most expensive nations in the world in which to live. Low level wages in the UK are about double what they are in America, for example. However, since just about everything here is twice as expensive as in the States, low level workers, here, aren't any better off.
Then these idiots compare the £3 million fee paid to model Kate Moss for coming out with her own fashion line, for Topshop, with the earnings of the workers in Mauritius who make the clothes. The factory workers, there, take home £64 per month. They also compare the earnings of the CEOs for the largest supermarket chain in Britain, Tesco, and department store chain, Marks and Spencer, with garment workers in Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. Are these advocates idiots, or do they think we are? If you compare the wages of the petrol station attendant, in London, with the CEO of any major oil company, the Company director will, of course, be earning much more.
The workers in these third world countries are happy to get the wages they are getting. If these jobs didn't pay more than the alternatives open to them there, they wouldn't take them. Demanding that companies pay these folks the same as workers in Britain earn will just result in more expensive clothes for the poor in Britain and/or the jobs being eliminated all together. I wonder which is better, £64 per month in Mauritius, or £0 per month? In a free market, real wages rise to the marginal level of productivity. If these meddling twits really want to help the poor abroad, they'd campaign to eliminate barriers to migration and trade. Freeing up the markets will, in time, raise the standards of living for people in poorer countries. Until they wise up, I wish the advocates would "put a sock in it."

Since When Do Men Wear Tops?

I managed to get myself going early, today, so I caught the bus into town. I needed to pick up clothes from the cleaners and buy some groceries. It was just a quick trip, as I wanted to get back in time to watch football, on TV. As I was walking back to the bus station, I encountered three young men, walking the opposite direction. One of the three was very tall, while the other two were short. The tall one was talking and I couldn't help but overhear. He was saying, "let's go and get those tops we saw the other day." That was all of the conversation I got to hear, as we passed each other. In a flash, they were out of earshot again.
As I continued walking to the bus station, the little snippet of conversation stirred my brain. There was something not quite right about it. I mulled it over for a few moments, while continuing to scan the walkway for beautiful women. Suddenly, it occurred to me...that young man said, "tops!" Since when do men buy tops? Men buy shirts. Women buy tops. What gives? Is this a sign of the further demasculinization of the British male? Come to think of it, that tall, young man looked a bit effeminate. Why were these boys going clothes shopping in the first place? That's a girly pass time. Why aren't they heading to the pub, or home, like me, to watch football? Now that's a manly pursuit. Sitting in front of your satellite TV, remote at your fingertips, cold beer in hand, watching the footie. If boys, these days, don't get to practice such manly activities, what will become of society?
Perhaps they were raised by single mothers. No man around to teach them the many arts of football watching, remote control fondling, and wearing shirts. What's worse, these lot probably put the toilet seat down, after they pee. Or, horror of horrors, they call it "weeing," instead of "peeing." The next thing you know, they'll be using moisturizers and tons of hair care products. No wonder Britain lost the Empire.

A Real Costume

Yesterday was a really busy day for me. A long one, as well. First, I went to my day job, at the restaurant, arriving at 7:45AM. After working till 11:15, without my usual break at 10:00, I left and rushed over to Pinewood Studios. Traffic was moderate and the drive took 35 minutes. I made my costume fitting, scheduled for Noon, with a few minutes to spare. Walking from the gate to a temporary structure behind the 007 sound stage, a fellow supporting artiste asked me to show him the way. I am usually slightly less enthusiastic about helping guys, as opposed to pretty women, but what the hell. As I was leading the way, my new, talkative companion let slip that his father is a producer. Hello! Major networking opportunity.
Upon arrival at the marquee, we were given payment paperwork and confidentiality agreements to sign. Because of the latter, I can't say which major motion picture it is I will be working on next. The film industry can be so secretive sometimes. Usually, when I have attended a costume fitting for supporting artiste work, the costume ends up being primarily my own clothes. They look over what I have brought, add this, or takeaway that, but I end up wearing my own clothes. What fun is there in that? This time was different. I was given a complete costume, shirts, trousers, even shoes. Finally! This feels more like acting. I will enjoy playing my small part much more, knowing that I am wearing a real costume, not just my own clothes. The only items of my own that I will be wearing will be socks and underpants. Producer's son was going a bit slower and I needed to get back to work. I bade him farewell and scampered off towards the parking lot. Hopefully, I would talk to him more during filming, next week.
Rushing back to work in my rented, Italian car, I got there by 1:05PM, just five minutes later than I had hoped. I was in a great mood, having listened to my favorite Black Eyed Peas song, "Hey Mama," on the radio, in the car, while speeding down the motorway. That was the first song I ever liked by B.E.P. and every time I hear it, I can picture Fergie in the video, shaking her...ass-ets. Back at work, I struggled to catch up on my work, which had piled up while I was gone. There was no time to relax. I needed to get finished as quickly as possible, so I could head to my next project for the day.
I finished at the restaurant by 4:50PM. After a quick break in the lavatory, I raced off to return my rented car. The rental firm dropped me off at Hatton Cross Tube station. As I rushed down the stairs, to the platform, I heard a train pulling out. I reached the platform just in time to see it was an eastbound Piccadilly line train. Just the one I needed. Trains on the Heathrow spur of the Piccadilly line run a bit infrequently, so I sat down to wait for the next one. I was racing to meet my good friend, Mucky Sarah. She was producing some project of her own and needed a male for voiceover work. When she offered it to me, I jumped at the chance.
Catching the next train, I figured out I could change to the District line at Acton Town. The District line would take me to Ravenscourt Park, the nearest station to my destination. From there, I could walk to the studio where we would be recording. Unfortunately, the London Underground system was recovering from a strike, which had just ended in the early hours of Wednesday morning. Even though it was now Wednesday evening, full service had not yet been restored. The District line was running again, but only on a limited service. I ended up with a long wait at Acton Park. Sarah called me on my mobile. She'd beaten me to Ravenscourt Park. I told her to go ahead and I would meet her at the studio. Trying to be helpful, she offered me directions from Ravenscourt Park Tube station, to the studio. Even though I had a map, I took note of Sarah's directions. After all, she'd been there before and was traveling the route at that very moment. I had never been to that part of town before. Surely, her tips would save me valuable time fumbling with my map, printed from the internet.
By this time I had been going for over twelve hours. I guess was tired, or something. That could explain why I totally forgot that Sarah is navigationally challenged, even more so than most women. When driving her car, she's almost completely dependent on her GPS. When her GPS wasn't working for a while, this summer, even with computer generated directions from the internet, she still managed to get lost, twice, while driving us somewhere in northwest London. None of this was in the forefront of my mind when I left Ravenscourt Tube station. I blindly followed Sarah's directions and lived to regret it. Subsequently, it began to dawn on me that I was going the wrong way. Consulting my map and struggling to find a street sign, I eventually figured out that I was on the wrong side of Ravenscourt Park. One of the quirky things about Britain is that many intersections lack street signs. This makes navigating much more of a challenge than it is in the States. I made a right turn and cut through the park, trying to get myself back on course.
I must have gotten slightly disoriented in the park, because I ended up on the east side of it, rather than on the north side. However, I wouldn't figure that out until later. I tried comparing the streets I was seeing to the few that were named on my map. Instead of relying on this crappy Mapquest printout, I should have consulted my trusty, old, London A -Z, but as I said, I was tired. I pressed on in what seemed like the right direction. Sarah called to find out where I was. "I don't know," I said. "Your directions were shit," I informed her. A brief discussion ensued and she admitted that she had given me a wrong turn, sending me left out of the station, when it should have been right. Oopsie! Sarah started making unhelpful suggestions, based on her own habits. This included suggesting that I go back the way I came and start over. That's a well known tactic of hers. I had been walking for half an hour, by then. No way was I going to redo that, then still have the walk to the studio to do. Next, she suggested asking someone. Asking is a stereotypical female, navigational tactic, but I am a man and real men don't ask! Did Christopher Columbus ask? Hell no! She started debating with me, which wasn't helping. In fact, it was distracting. I pretended that I was getting a bad signal on my mobile and couldn't hear her. Then I hung up, saying I would call her back. When I didn't, she called back, a few minutes later. I just let my phone ring and didn't answer.
Having finally found a main road that was on my map, I tried to figure where I was along it. Lack of street signs again caused me to walk along it in the wrong direction. Those street signs I did find didn't correlate with the ones on my map. Reaching a bus stop, I consulted the local map displayed there. Finally, I knew where I was. By reversing direction and walking a bit, I was able to get to the street the studio was on. I finally arrived there, an hour late. I did it my way, as Frank Sinatra would sing. No asking strangers for directions! Male honor was satisfied.
In the studio, I offered Sarah and the sound engineer croissants, but they declined. How cool...I was able to appear generous, but without any of the negative side effects. She gave me a copy of the script I would be reading. We were recording a segment of her book, which is based on her blog. Sarah writes a sex blog, "Naive London Girl." The book is based on her blog and real life sex exploits. The publishing company she is negotiating with want to put it out as a podcast book, as well as traditional print, and wanted a sample. Sarah writes under the pen name, Anjelika Jinxs. You can check out her sex blog at: http://www.naivelondongirl.com . That site also has her podcasts, including a couple with me on them.
Looking over the script, I noticed that the male parts I was doing involved some very sleazy sex talk. This script required me saying all sorts of pathetic, sleazy things that I just wouldn't normally say to a woman. Noticing my distaste, Sarah said, "it's called acting." Sarah and I sat in a studio, together. We did a couple of practice run-throughs of the script. It's funny how Sarah can be so inhibited about so many things in day to day life, like driving without a GPS, or eating vegetables, but the filth that calmly spews forth from that girl's mouth is enough to make a sailor blush. Once we started recording, Sarah did a few bits on her own, then we did some together. Listening to the criticism of the sound engineer, we did a couple of takes of some parts, trying to get it right. Finally, we came to my last part. It was a single line, but it involved me pretending to be having an orgasm. Faking orgasms is what women do. I have no experience with that. It was my turn to feel inhibited. I did it over and over again, but Sarah wasn't satisfied. She kept urging more out of me. The problem is the character is saying things I would never say during an orgasm. Finally, the engineer said to try ad libbing it and saying whatever I was comfortable with. Once I did that a couple of times, he said he was satisfied that he had enough. He will edit parts together to produce what he and Sarah want. Sarah teased me that I don't make noisy enough orgasms. I teased her back that her scriptwriting was crap. My parts finished, I was free to leave.
We had finished a little earlier than I expected. Not wanting to repeat the disaster of my journey there, I caught a bus to Hammersmith Underground station. From there, I walked to the bus stop for the coach to Bracknell. I was happy to get the 9:50PM Coach from Hammersmith. Originally, I had been expecting to end up on the 10:50. Arriving in Bracknell after 11:30PM, I walked home from the town centre, as the local buses had stopped running by then. A Taxi would cost the equivalent of an hour's wages at the restaurant. It only took me half an hour to walk. That's the like doubling my wages. It was after midnight by the time I waked through my doorway. I felt hot and sweaty. I had just endured an 18 hour day. Uncharacteristically, I had a shower and went to bed. Blogging could wait for another day.

Why Do Girls Like Pink?

While on my way home today, as I sat waiting for a connecting bus at the Bracknell bus station, I noticed a young woman sitting to my right. She had on these "Timberland" style boots, which most people seem to get in beige or black. Her's were pink! To top that off, she had a pink belt on, as well. Why the heck do girls like pink so much?
In the winter of 2005-06, I was working on a long-term temporary assignment at a bistro, located within a health and racquet club. One of the regulars to eat at the restaurant was an Australian aerobics instructor. I made up a nickname for her. I used to call her "Australia Girl." She was into pink, too. She even had a pink mobile phone. A female friend of mine drives a pink car. Traditionally, girl babies are dressed in pink, while boy babies are dressed in blue. Pink has long been associated wit the feminine. Although it has become fashionable for heterosexual men to wear pink shirts, some refuse to. I think I own one pink shirt and one pink tie. Nando refuses to wear pink, saying its gay. On "Big Brother" this year, the twins are into pink. As they are girls, it seems no big deal.
So ladies, please explain. What is it with girls and pink? Why do so many females seem almost obsessed with pink? I can picture Beyonce wearing pink, but not Bruce Willis. As the Pink Panther used to say, "think pink!"

Ending Up in Slough

Today, I decided to be a little more motivated and go shopping. I wanted to visit the Tesco on the other side of town. It's possible to do so by bus and I have this weekly bus pass, so I might as well use it. First, I took my usual bus, the 194, to the Bracknell town centre bus station. So far so good. Then I consulted a map on the wall of one of the bus shelters at the station. This confusing, mish-mash of multi-colored lines was a map of local bus routes. From the map, it seemed that several bus routes stopped at Tesco. Some of them run infrequently, especially on Saturdays. The trick was in finding the next available bus.
From the map, it seemed like the 191 to Slough makes a stop at Tesco on the way. Of the several buses I was considering, the first to show up was a 191 to Slough. As it was a cold and rainy day, I was anxious to get going. I strode aboard, flashing my weekly ticket. For a moment, the thought occurred to me to ask the driver if he stopped at Tesco, just to confirm it, but I'm a guy and guys don't ask directions. The bus was a double-decker, so I just climbed the stairs to the upper level and took a seat in the front row.
After a few minutes of loading, the bus pulled off. These buses usually take tortuously indirect routes, traveling down some minor roads. It headed towards Ascot, which is tangental to the direction of Tesco. I kept waiting for it to turn left, towards Tesco, but it didn't. As the bus approached Ascot, I started thinking it didn't go to Tesco after all. Little did I know, the bus was just playing with me. It doubled back on itself, making a stop on the edge of Ascot before heading back towards Bracknell. At the first traffic light, it turned right, toward Tesco. I figured I had been worrying for nothing.
The bus proceeded down some roads I have never been on. It turned left and right again. Soon, I was disoriented. I tried to follow our progress by noting the road signs. It was hard to tell if we were making progress towards Tesco, or not. Finally, we reached a T intersection. Turning left would take us toward Tesco. A right turn would take us toward Windsor and Slough, beyond. Such a decisive nexus would be accompanied by music, if this were a film. Sadly, it was real life...no music. The bus turned right. There would be no stop at Tesco.
I started reviewing my options. There is a big Tesco next to the Slough bus station. Maybe I could get want I wanted there. I sat back to enjoy the ride. As we drove into the outskirts of Windsor, we passed the street where my evil ex-in-laws live. This stirred uncomfortable memories. Maybe one of them has died. Perhaps, one day, I should take the bus here and get off. Imagine their surprise if I should knock on the door, one day. This brought to mind Jack Nicholson's performance in "The Shinning." I could stick my face in the doorway and say, "here's Johnny!" Maybe it would be a better idea to go there on Halloween. Then, I could dress up in a costume, which would disguise my identity. "Trick or treat, motherfucker!"
You and I know I won't do any of these things. No getting off the bus. Instead, I stayed on all the way to the last stop, beautiful, downtown Slough. Slough has a bit of a reputation in this part of England. In 1937, John Betjeman published a poem about Slough. To give you an idea of how he felt about the town, here's the beginning of the poem: "Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now..." You get the idea. More recently, Slough was the setting for the original, British version of the TV series, "The Office." Nowadays, the town is known for being full of immigrants, especially those from India and Pakistan. Recently, my racist housemate, Nando, and I watched a documentary on immigration, which featured Slough. The Indian and Pakistani former immigrants are complaining about recent arrivals from Poland, Romania, and Somalia. I am always amazed that long resident immigrants and the sons, and daughters of immigrants, so often complain about subsequent waves of immigration.
When I got off the bus and went into Tesco, I felt like I had stepped through a teleportation device. It was as if I had been transported to Southwest Asia. The supermarket was awash in women dressed in colorful outfits, of the style worn in Pakistan, or India. I have trouble telling the two apart. The fact is, India and Pakistan used to be one, but were partitioned in 1947, sixty years ago. There were numerous families of Asians and the odd English one, a minority in their own country. Unfortunately, this Tesco didn't have what I was looking for, so I decided to visit the Queensmere shopping mall, across the road.
No need to get wet in the rain, I crossed the road on a skybridge, covered walkway, a couple of stories above the roadway. In Queensmere, I was again confronted by a sea of Asian faces. Both the customers and the shop workers seemed to be mostly Asians. Looking in a mobile phone shop, I found a phone I like, which was marked down. Apparently it's a discontinued model now. I was very tempted to buy it, but decided to hold out. Continuing my stroll through the mall, I came across a shop that was having a clearance sale on men's clothes. In I plunged for a little retail therapy. They had suits for as little as £39. It was hard to find much in my size, though. I did discover a tuxedo for only £50. I could use a tux, but not bad enough to part with £50, this month. I looked through shirts, but didn't find any my size which I liked. Looking through the jackets, again I couldn't find one exactly right. Eventually, I tired of the shop and left.
I wandered around the entire mall, looking here and there, but didn't buy anything. After spending over an hour there, I decided it was best to head for home. By the time I walked through my door, it was just past 6:30. Nando was home, watching TV. The first thing I said to him was, "I went out and ended up in Slough." With an incredulous look on his face, he asked how I managed to do that. "Don't ask," I replied. I had managed to spend an entire afternoon without actually accomplishing much of anything. Fortunately, I didn't spend anything other than time. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to buy a big, Cadbury's chocolate, Fruit and Nut bar. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.