London room

It’s been over a month since I headed down to the big smoke. Now I’ve actually sorted accommodation for the next month or two I have time to pull some random nuggets out the experience bank while they are still fresh.

The plan, as you may recall, was to use the excellent Airbnb.com service (basically, premium couch-surfing) to buy some time to find a nice room in a nice part of London at a nice price. Whilst Airbnb proved useful for trying different areas, finding a place that matched all criteria was getting hard — particularly as I only wanted a place for 3 months. One week rolled into two and then three. I even contemplated going south of the river before the lovely landlady of my most recent stay made me a special long-term offer.

So, for the next couple of months I’m in the Blenheim Lodge on the Great North Road at East Finchley. It sounds posher than it is. I’m in the London Room, so-called because of the heavy theming for tourists: union jacks, London buses, telephone boxes and local landmarks all over. East Finchley itself is notable for being the constituency of Margaret Thatcher, the home of The Kinks and the birthplace of Jerry Springer (East Finchley Tube station during the war). This is such a random mix it must be true. Round the corner, on the way to Hampstead Heath, is Bishops Avenue – also known as millionaire’s row. This might be billionaire’s row these days. Huge LA-style houses, some of which are rumoured to be protected by ex-gurkhas.

I commute in on the propelled human sausage that is the Northern Line. Aside from this localised overcrowding, transport in London is pretty good. Everything is on Oyster cards which avoids faffing around with change. The tube is always fast, dry and warm. The Boris bikes are genius. Grab one from wherever and park it within 30 mins and it’s no charge. You can get a 24 hour window of use for £1, £5 for a week or £45 for a yearly membership. I’ve a widget on my Android phone that points the way to the nearest bike rows (with stats) and can whisper directions in my ear via Google Navigator to get me there. This feels reassuring like the future.

Enough for now: I just wanted to shift some backlog. Next instalment is likely to feature people and conversations.

On Dropping

I keep meaning to write something about the beneficial side-effects of juggling. Something along the lines of ‘everything I know about life I learned from juggling’ but it always sounds a little contrived once I start thinking it through. One idea that sticks, however, is one that I want to expand upon more fully later: mastering failure.

Juggling is a bit like magic in that you hide something from the audience. There is nothing up your sleeves but – squint as they might – the casual observer will totally fail to see thousands upon thousands of drops. All these fumbles, collisions and runaways happened while they weren’t looking. You repeated, varied and noticed them over and over again until they became as familiar as the feel of your knackered beanbags.

Then you turn the drops off for a few seconds and it looks good.

You can probably see the point coming around the corner right about now. Success is the sweet juice from many crushing failures. Or alternatively, it’s a tower built from failure’s bones. It’s been expressed far more poetically over the ages but in it’s purest form: befriend failure.

This ramble was brought to you in conjunction with the fine beers at the Dove Free House, Broadway Market.