Sort your basics, Gen Y

I’m sorry people. I’m probably going to piss you off and sound like your grandmother. And given that I’m in my fourth decade (just!) I suppose that you could arguably assume that I’m over the hill, disconnected, out of touch, practically a dinosaur, too geriatric to tweet, completely uncool etc. But I can’t keep quiet any longer about some basic stuff which is really just bugging me.

As a schoolgirl, when mobile phones were only seen frequenting the sets of Star Trek, and doing research meant a trek to a dusty library rather than the click of a mouse, I was taught “proper” grammar. I hated the endless repetition of tenses, the ancient teacher who it seemed hailed from a different era, the mind numbing dry subject matter which required discipline and endless patience to get right. Who cared about errant apostrophes or whether it should be whom instead of who? Why would I ever need this stuff? My spoken and written English was pretty good, life is short and I really couldn’t see the need for it.

As a result of my very proper, old school grammar training, I’ve become a bit of a grammar nazi, but you know what? I write well, and I sound intelligent when I put pen to paper. I can’t stand sloppy grammar and spelling, and whilst I appreciate that some people struggle with spelling, and others don’t learn English as a first language, the combination of a lack of attention to the rigours of correct grammar, as well as sheer laziness are contributing to a complete decline into slothful communication. Since when is it OK, ever, to write “wen” instead of “when”? “Plz” instead of “please”? “Da” instead of “the” and my particular personal irritant– “gud” or “cud” instead of “good” and “could”? I appreciate that this is the Twitter generation my friends, and that you have to work within 140 characters, very often .. but why not just write less, and at least make yourself appear less idiotic?

OK so fair enough, I’ll let you off the grammatically correct Tweets. Tweet away with your codespeak, (codspeak?). Go for it. But don’t send me resumes and covering letters for jobs filled with spelling and grammatical errors. And then wonder why I don’t call you for an interview. And please don’t post shit on my Facebook timeline that makes the grammar obsessive inside me cringe, and spoil my morning.

Whilst I’m at it I might as well air my second bone of contention. Why oh why can’t you people be on time? OK I appreciate that the inability to be anywhere at a specified time isn’t strictly a Gen Y affliction, but I really don’t accept that you can’t be on time for a meeting which starts at noon. And that potential job seekers think its OK to be late for an interview and that an under the breath mumbled “couldn’t find your office” will make it all OK. Googlemaps, people, Googlemaps. What could be easier? Especially as you can search on your lovely smartphones whilst you are literally standing on the street.

There ends my rant. I never thought I’d end up sounding like my mother. But you know what, I just think you Gen Y guys have it too easy. You expect everything, now, and you want to take the easiest route from point A to point B.

Now flame me, shame me, call me old. But at least my grammatical integrity is intact, and I’m never late for meetings.

Disclaimer : There are obvious exceptions to the above. But I’m making a point.

Curry for breakfast?

The development of the palate is a well documented phenomenon for foreigners who spend any length of time in India. On initially landing in India, there’s usually a fierce desire to eat only local food - the more ‘street’ (and thus apparently more genuine) the better. New arrivals trade diarrhea and vomiting tales, and pride themselves on their enhanced tolerance levels for dubious hygiene. There are some on the other hand (the ‘bubble wrapped’ expats) who actively avoid local cuisine, either for reasons of palate preference, or because they are paranoid about germs and hygiene, cooking everything in bottled water and eating from only 5 star hotels (ironically all my instances of food poisoning and upset stomach in India have originated from eating in hotel restaurants, where the food is cooked in huge batches and often left to collect germs). Curry cravings are rampant, the food choices awesome and low priced and the ‘curry for breakfast, lunch and dinner’ habit kicks in. There’s a feeling of bonding with the locals as cornflakes and cold milk are replaced by steaming hot idlis and spicy sambal sauce, toast and marmalade by spicy potatoes and fluffy puris. Indian food is truly delicious and though it bears little resemblance to its british counterpart, which is mainly served up by Bangladeshi migrants and features a whole host of different flavours, spices and sauces, eating local food is a big part of the settling in experience.

When I first arrived in Mumbai, I craved Indian food day and night, my tastebuds perpetually tantalised by the waves of spicy aromas flooding from every corner of this foodie city. After a few weeks on a constant diet of chapatis, rice, daal, aloo gobi and various meaty curries, with poha for breakfast (flakes of yellow flattened rice served with the ubiquitous coconut chutney) and samosas or masala dosa at snack time, I realised that my waistline as well as my health was suffering, along with my over spiced tastebuds and digestive system. After about 8 months of this constant bombardment of Indian food, my body started craving bland, western food and in particular English style pies, sandwiches and mashed potato, pizza, spaghetti and even McDonald’s – a fast food which I wouldn’t have touched in the UK given my snobbish revulsion for the junk food of the masses. Suddenly the filet of fish in its plasticky bun with fake cheese on top seemed tantalising, and the crisp, salty fries were to die for. Though the only burgers available at an Indian McDonalds are chicken, fish or veggie given the country’s sensitivity to beef and pork, the and the majority of menu items have been customised for India with local flavourings and twists (eg the McAloo Tikki), the sensation of cramming a great soft white bun with mayonnaise into my mouth, with no lingering spicy aftertaste was sometimes too much to resist and I found myself standing relatively often in the McDonalds queue actually salivating over the menu items and wishing that I could order a Big Beef Mac instead of a McChicken meal. Similarly, I began to hunt out places where I could purchase the foodstuffs of my dreams – cheddar cheese, ham, decent brown bread and proper mayonnaise.

If you know where to go in Mumbai, it’s perfectly possible to find this kind of deli food, but it comes at a price. There are tiny delis like Sante in Mumbai’s expat rich suburb of Bandra which sell a relatively huge range of cheeses and hams, but at extortionate prices. Their shelves are also lined with great British and American sauces and condiments, desserts, tins of custard, and a fridge packed full of yoghurt and butter imported from France, mozzarella cheese and marscapone and various other tantalising delights for the palate jaded by masala overkill. Every time I ‘pop in’ to this culinary treasure trove, especially if I’m hungry, I come out with a couple of small bags and a dent in my wallet to the tune of at least three thousand rupees – equivalent to a couple weeks salary for the boys in my office, for example. I’m always shocked and feel faintly guilty at this kind of excess, but I do return time and time again for my fix of bland, and judging by the number of expats I meet in this tiny corner of deli paradise, this is a highly lucrative business and a taste of home for many. I also ask all my visitors from the UK or US to bring “sausages, ham, cheese and bacon”, and though some are too squeamish to navigate the “no foodstuffs” customs declaration, others breeze confidently through to give me a fortnight of absolute joy in the form of bacon sandwiches for breakfast, with lashings of HP sauce.

Recently, and following the acquisition of a built in "proper" oven, I've started baking again. I lived without an oven in Asia for 7 years, was given a tiny but functional oven by friends in 2009 and now finally have upgraded to oven English style, i.e. big enough to cook a roast dinner and apple pie at the same time. I've been cooking for expats and Indians alike, and they are all raving about my beef and ale pies and quiches, mince pies and cakes. I'm creating a daily calorie fest from my kitchen and probably a whole new following for simple English cuisine.

Dealing with India .... #1

A wise friend gave me the following piece of advice when I first told him I was moving to India ; “don’t try and change India. Let it change you, but above all don’t try and change it. You’ll only go mad’. Truer words were never spoken. Surviving and learning to love India is all about the ability to embrace rather than criticise, to learn to love the craziness rather than be sucked under by it, to maintain a sense of calm detachment and rationale when all about you seem to be losing their heads.

Take the FRRO (Foreigners Regional Registration Office). I’ve been visiting the same office for 7 years. Since I started going there on my annual pilgrimage to get my employment visa renewed (before the wondrous PIO card was granted to me), I’ve seen the same faces working there, and have built up a relationship with them to the point where they raise an eyebrow when I sit in front of them to submit my (ever more complex) paperwork. I’ve even managed to crack a smile out of one of them. But, when I stopped and thought about WHY these government officers were SO very inflexible and so very difficult to deal with, I started to become aware of the frustrations which they themselves must be facing, day in and day out. Take the simple issue of money and the principle of fairness of distribution of wealth. Now each of these FRRO officers probably earns in the region of 4000-9000 rupees per month, if they’re lucky (USD$100-200). That money has to support an extended (joint family) of kids, uncles, aunties and aged parents. And they are made to scrutinise the tax returns and employment letters of foreigners who are earning say 200 times that per month ( a monthly salary of an expat in Mumbai will probably hit the one million rupees a month, or USD20,000. Even the ‘poorest’ expats will easily clear three or four times the monthly salary of these officials. So don’t you think they deserve to be cut just a little bit of slack? What can be worse than dealing with a bunch of whining foreigners day in and day out, who are trying to extend visas with incorrect paperwork, shouting and ranting incoherently and shoving their goddamned huge fat salaries in front of your nose, when you’re struggling to make ends meet, have a respectable if lowly paid job, you’re up at 4am to prepare breakfast for your extended family of in-laws and children and demanding husband, AND you’re also tired of saying the same thing to someone who you can hardly understand as they’re talking AT you and very fast. I kind of understand where these guys are coming from, at least when I’m in a more forgiving mood. Some of them clearly see their jobs as their own private vengeance against the days of the Raj, and yes that can be stressful, exhausting and frustrating but others are simply following their orders, and in India that means everything.


Systems of bureaucracy and order in India are key to balancing the chaos which threatens to engulf everything. The roads, the legal system, the politics, the workplace, the transport. All seem to be teetering on the brink of an anarchic abyss, bound together in the absence of reason or logic, yet everything seems, somehow, to work. Everyone goes to bed, and gets up in the morning and the day repeats itself and life (for most) goes on. Most visitors cannot understand how this can happen, but fail to understand that it’s the small and seemingly irrational rules and regulations which glue together the madness, creating order from disorder. No-one really knows why many of these rules exist, and to challenge or question them will only result in a blank response. “Why?” or “what’s the logic for that?” will only confuse – for the logic is buried so deep below the rule, as to be completely unconnected.

Often the rules are there only to manage the hordes of people who are gainfully employed in seemingly meaningless tasks, but in a country with 100 million people living in the 8 major metros alone, and a further billion spread across smaller towns and villages, there are a lot of people available for employment. So when in a store it takes 5 people to deliver your goods to you, including one to take your items, one to tap in the prices, another to wrap, another to stamp the receipt and yet another to hand you your goods, all being scrutinised by a further 5 hangers on …. there’s no point asking why the receipt has to be given and stamped. It just does. That’s also another reason why the concept of the supermarket has never taken off in India, despite the attempts of the Tescos and Walmarts of the world to come in with their high end supermarket and hypermarket concepts. Though supermarkets do exist (there are apparently 1023 supermarkets in India according to the website yellowpages.com, vs almost 5000 Tesco stores in the UK alone), they are few and far between, and usually only within mall type centres which are springing up all over the suburban metros.

There are a few reasons for the abject failure of the supermarket chains to enter India – the most often cited being the cost of real estate. Contrary to popular belief, ie those who think that everything in India must be as cheap as the beers on the Goan beaches and the cost of a ‘real’ curry on the streets of Mumbai, the cost of housing and land in the major metros, especially Mumbai and Delhi, is prohibitively high. In the case of Mumbai, whose 18 million inhabitants (50% of whom occupy illegal slum areas and pavements) are crammed onto approximately 26 square miles of land, much of it reclaimed and thus vulnerable to flooding during the annual monsoons, space is at an absolute premium. Add to that the rapidly increasing wealth which is flooding into India’s uppermost social echelons, there is enormous pressure on the limited amount of residential properties, resulting in huge inflation (despite the recession) and prohibitively high rental and purchase costs for any residential or commercial property in Mumbai “proper”. Renting and purchasing commercial and residential square footage costs less in the suburban areas by far, hence the proliferation of malls and so called supermarkets in the northern suburbs of Mumbai. So supermarkets don’t line the streets of Mumbai for the reasons of cost efficiency but more fundamentally their absence is linked to the role of the Mom and Pop stores as social lubricants and even more critically, employment for many of the masses. Large supermarkets and hypermarkets are all about providing efficiencies of scale – and thus reducing costs. Fewer workers, more automation and centralised stock keeping means that the consumer is generally happier once the transition is made from old the new school, and the supermarket owner is of course able to reap the rewards of selling in bulk. This also defines an entirely new consumer behaviour – consisting of a ‘weekly shop’, refrigeration and planning meals in advance. For the Indian housewife, on the other hand, the daily trip to the market for fresh produce, and the purchase of individual items from mom and pop stores, a behaviour reminiscent of England in the 1950’s and 60’s, is unlikely to yield to the convenience orientated approach of the Western world. Though fast changing, the middle class indian housewife is defined by a myriad of complex values, customs and traditions which make her very different from her western counterpart. She is likely to be at home, raising children and living in a ‘joint family’ – a peculiarly Indian concept which revolves around in-laws, children, grandchildren and other assorted relatives living and staying together in a highly communal and supportive network, which may not lend much to the concept of privacy but which provides a valuable social security system in the absence of formal state support. The typical housewife therefore looks forward to her daily visits to the market as an opportunity not only to escape from the hordes of family members who are likely to be occupying a relatively small space but also to catch up with the gossip and tales from friends and acquaintances. This is her alternative support network, and allows her important ‘me’ time in a culture which does not often respect privacy or solitude. She gets to choose the ingredients for the meals for the household, and whilst these are largely cooked with help from a maid (even middle class Indian families keep domestic help – another vital form of employment for a large population), she makes the choice of how to feed her family. A supermarket shop would render this important role somewhat less significant, a pleasurable, personal experience reduced to a more mechanical interaction.

The final and most persuasive reason for the proliferation of tiny shops stocked full to bursting with dusty sacks of rice and daal, and which sell only vegetarian food (meat and eggs must be purchased elsewhere) is the need to provide labour for the masses. Every shopping experience in India has, for the expat, a completely old fashioned flavour, reminiscent of the days of local British grocery stores vs the out of town hypermarkets which now dominate. There’s a lot of friendly banter (especially for the expat who has a few words of hindi) and a lot of fun to be had in searching the dusty shelves for treasures imported from Dubai or Singapore - random sauces, sweets and biscuits which have not been seen on British supermarket shelves for years but which have ended up somewhat incongruously in the tiny Gujarati shop in Mumbai. The entire shopping experience is enchanting if you’re not in a hurry and infuriating if you are – it takes an age to get the bill written up, make a separate payment to an entirely different counter, receive the goods and the bill, and all the while politely negotiating the shopkeeper’s attempts to force various arbitrary imported items into the basket which he thinks will please the foreign palate. All that, under close scrutiny from the hordes of boys who are there to fetch items down from dusty top shelves and cupboards, pack your bags and even carry your shopping home. Not surprising that after a few weeks in Mumbai, the average foreigner craves the sterile anonymous comfort of the faceless western supermarket. There’s a pretty decent ‘hypermarket’ in the suburbs of Mumbai, which houses a small section of Waitrose products at heart stopping prices. I have paid the equivalent of five pounds there for a jar of pickled onions. But boy they were worth it.

The best place to shop for your household essentials if you’re in Mumbai and looking for a bargain, is Crawford Market. Located in a 140 year old building, by now rather ramshackle yet filled with charm, the market provides a wonderful source of all manner of foodstuffs, from fruit and vegetables to dried fruits and nuts to weird and wonderful imported delights and copycat products. You’ll definitely get charged a ‘white tax’ and can expect to be charged double for many items so bargaining is a pre-requisite, as is dodging the hordes of bony malnourished kittens who prowl around the dark interiors of the market searching for scraps. The best part is that the market is chock full of porters who carry your goods behind you in wide wicker baskets placed on their heads, without a hint of a wobble. So much easier than pushing a shopping trolley around Sainsbury’s. The market is a fascinating study in contradictions – ancient tiny men sit perched high behind piles of carrots, bananas or onions, whilst next door shelves are stacked with gleaming rows of rather random products – from Betty Crocker cake mixes to Ribena, Nutella and shiny tins of Quality Street, all loving polished every few minutes by the shopkeeper.

Back to Bombay Bliss

After 7 weeks in the UK, I finally returned home to Bombay. I've actually been here for 2 whole weeks now, without managing a blogpost, but somehow have been too busy not working. I had been under the (false) impression that giving up work, i.e. the office job, would result in my having acres of free time to meet friends, sleep, party, chill, write, read and watch all of those fabulous reality shows I never get time to watch. In fact, the opposite is true. By the time I've done my daily exercise session (either power plate or yoga), scheduled my hindi class, dropped my son to playgroup for his half an hour session (they start them off slowly) and run a few errands, the day is over. Conversely, when I get up for the office, drive there, spend the day there, work feverishly through lunch, juggle meetings, send a million e mails, and finally leave early evening, the day stretches forever and I seem to get a multitude of things done. Hence my conclusion that work makes one more productive, generally. Perhaps its just down to that feeling of the batteries continually being charged, without the opportunity to slip into that soporific mid afternoon dozy feeling. Or perhaps the chores I now seem to be catching up on, are actually incredibly time consuming. Either way, though I'm loving the break, I'm missing having time, ironically, though having said that, my hindi is finally improving and I'm toning up, so that can't be a bad by product of quitting the corporate rat race.

Its wonderful to be back in the sunshine. After a month in a chilly climate (the first 3 weeks were gloriously warm by British standards thanks to a late summer heatwave), my bones were aching, my knees literally creaking, my skin was scaly and lizard like and I just felt generally miserable. The cold gets deep inside me, and no amount of clinging to a hot radiator can replace the feeling of being warmed naturally by the sun. I just adore the sunshine, though I generally don't lie out in it (too much of a good thing, and all that), the sensation of moving around in cut off jeans and a t shirt, flip flops and sunglasses is heartwarming as well as body warming. I'm fully charged again to handle Bombay's madness, though the nonsensical, non existent "customer service" of the banks and phone companies still leaves me frustrated and spitting venom. I applied for a new bank card 10 days ago, as my existing one had just stopped working. Paperwork completed, they told me it would take 3 working days. I made the usual mistake of believing their claims. After 7 working days, I dropped into the bank. No sign of the card ... and lo and behold, an administrative issue meant that my original application was null and void, the guy who had so helpfully taken my details and promised me a new card in the blink of an eye had been on holiday and now was in the hospital (not sure if those incidents were connected or even true) and no one had bothered to think to inform me, I guess they were hoping that me and my card application would melt away into thin air if they ignored me for long enough. Another trip to the bank, more forms filled and then a call from the bank, informing me that my current PAN card name doesn't match my account name. As I had explained to them when I made the application a fortnight ago, to which they said - no problem no problem madam. Or rather, the elusive holidaying / dying bank guy had said. Now it appears that this has suddenly become an issue, and in typical Indian style they now need to see my original marriage certificates. When I told them that marriage didn't necessarily mean that I had changed my name and in fact I had legally changed my name after that, again came the silence. "Madam this is India and in India we need your marriage certificate". "What if I didn't change my name when I got married but changed it afterwards". "Madam we need your marriage certificate. This is India". Me - Sigh. Huff, Sigh. "OK. Whatever". Infuriating. Irrational. India.

Impressions of Prague

I just made my first visit to Prague in almost 20 years, a convenient weekend hop from London to visit a friend living and working there. I last saw the city as an over excited twenty year old, on a trip which began in Prague and took me on meandering train journeys through the newly formed Czech and Slovak republics. Back then, the country (and indeed most of the Eastern bloc) had only recently been liberated from the grip of Communism, and had emerged blinking and somewhat dazed into a brand new shiny Capitalist world. Though picturesque, it was drab and grey, as of course were most of the countries which had been behind the Iron Curtain having the life sucked out of them for so long. Back then the people walked with heads down, speaking quietly to one another, avoiding eye contact. There were few advertising hoardings, no international brands to speak of, and not many tourists, though the famous Charles Bridge was full enough, the majority of pedestrians could have been local.

This trip was of course quite different. I had expected a significant change - after all 20 years is a long time for a country to reinvent itself, or at least to shed its inhibitions and present a more confident face to the world. The signs were all there – brands everywhere (even the American upmarket beauty store Sephora which is absent from the UK), and all the rest of the high street imports – Starbucks, Marks and Spencers etc. Tourism is clearly booming – there were hordes of people on the Charles Bridge, stalls and shops selling tourist tat everywhere and “authentic” (and overpriced) Czech eateries lining the streets. But, like Mumbai, all this was accompanied by the subtle signs of a past which hasn’t quite been shaken off (though of course these signs are far less subtle in Mumbai’s case). The airport was a little bit dingy, and during the journey from the airport you’re not quite sure whether you’re in an up and coming, modern city or whether you’re in a “second tier” town which looks fairly soulless. It definitely felt like an “emerging market” – a country which hasn’t quite “got there” as compared to its Western European counterparts and still dealing with a few of its historical demons. Yet at the same time, you can order (amazing) sushi online, service in restaurants (at least the better ones) is outstanding, local taxis are fast and efficient and cars stop at pedestrian crossings (these are all things which amaze me as a long term resident of India).

The locals apparently are obsessed with brands and bling, a phenomenon which has also gripped India post liberalization. Its not exactly hard to work it out – any country which has been deprived of “luxuries”, whether by Communist rule or post colonial introspection is bound to want to embrace them. And both India and the Czech Republic no doubt both contain their fair share of poverty – in the absence of state welfare systems or affordable insurance systems, people need to show others that they’ve arrived, and to differentiate themselves from the needy with the badges of wealth, symbols which most bragging averse Brits would deride. Alongside its cutesy gothic castles and sweet higgledy piggledy multicoloured buildings, Prague is indeed a city of bling, and of labels, of flashy nightclubs and restaurants and expensive cars and furs. Its also a city of drinkers, and maybe this is an inheritance from its Soviet past – there seemed to be people drunk everywhere in public, even in the mornings, which was shocking to me, accustomed as I am to India where people rarely exhibit public displays of drunkenness, except on certain festivals and holidays when even then its curbed.

The local drinkers were accompanied or perhaps encouraged by groups of young British men on stag parties. There were two groups of stags on the Easyjet flight from London Gatwick to Prague, already clearly the worse for wear, and we saw another group in the gorgeous Stare Mesto (central square), all wearing shocking pink miniskirts and leopardskin crop tops. Apparently Prague is now the desintation of choice for the young groom-to-be and his best mates, and its not hard to figure out why – the beer is cheap, the pound is still fairly strong vs the Czech crown, and there’s a lively prostitute and red light industry. The city is only a 90 minute hop from London, so you can pop over for a quick weekend of thowing your inhibitions to the wind and embarrassing your nation by rolling around semi clad in the town square, and be back in the office suited and booted on Monday morning.

Overall, I loved Prague as much as I did twenty years ago. Back then I did a couple of fairly adventurous trips through Eastern Europe, hitchhiking and taking trains through the Czech and Slovak republics, Hungary, Slovenia and Serbia. I loved the fact that these countries weren’t polished or perfect, that though filled with attractive sights they also had a grittier undertone. That undercurrent still exists in Prague, and I find that appealing, given my aversion for bland countries (Singapore, Dubai and most of the US spring to mind). I do wish the British stag parties would give the Czechs a break though.

England the Brave (or the Terrified)

I’m coming to the end of a 2 month “holiday” in England – the longest I’ve spent in the Motherland since fleeing for warmer climes and a bit of adventure back in 2000. I’ve been back countless times since leaving of course - for weddings, 40th birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases and more recently to bring my one year old son to visit his grandparents who are unable to travel long distance thanks to recent illness. My current sojourn in England explains my recent lapse in blogging, along with the stack of books which remain unread by my bedside – here I have to be a full time mother without the army of household help which is part of my life back home in Mumbai and there has been little time for self indulgences. Small pleasures like reading endless trashy novels have of course been replaced by the far more meaningful acts of taking care of a tiny one, though that’s a subject for another blog.

I usually follow a pretty regular pattern for my trips back to the UK - I land at Heathrow, feed my addiction to salt and vinegar crisps and trashy magazines on the journey from the airport, marvel at how clean and quiet everything is, eat my own weight in pub food, drink copious pints of cider and bottles of wine, meet as many friends as I can, do my Tesco shop to stock up on band aids (plasters), safety pins, gravy granules, cheese and bacon to take back home to India (some of the above are available in Mumbai but quality is always questionable), reflect on how crazy India is in general, feel glad that I live there, and head back to the airport – all in the space of a few whirlwind days. This time I’m here for a more leisurely stay, making the most of an elective “sabbatical” and enjoying reuniting with old friends, many of whom I haven’t seen for years. This seven-week stay has enabled me to reconnect not only with old pals but also with the British mindset, and I’ve noticed a huge difference in the English psyche now that I have the time to dig beneath the surface.

England and of course most of Europe have been badly knocked by the global recession, and the papers this week are full of tales of emergency summit meetings on the fate of the Euro and on the countries which are defaulting on debts and threatening to drag others under with them. Though Britain remains smugly on the Euro sideline, its politicians are being pulled deep into the controversy, though it seems they are refraining from joining the Italians in actually throwing any physical punches at the Euro summit. It is clear though that this recession which is now in its third year, has had a massive effect on Britain – I’ve spent enough time here to this time around to hear the stories, feel the depth of the suffering and witness the evidence of a nation in flux, and the change is dramatic.

Britain as a nation is known for its self-confidence. Historically prone to long periods of controlling despotism, Britain and the British are typically self assured and assertive, believing themselves to be natural leaders on the world stage, and superior even to their European neighbours. Growing up in England, I was affected by that confidence. I felt secure and positive about my future, as did the majority of my friends and colleagues. Granted, my formative years took place during the Eighties boom, but I still witnessed a couple of minor downturns, in particular the dotcom bust, but these didn’t really affect me or the general sentiment of the nation. Britain was Great, after all, and we were all destined for great things, at least those of us fortunate enough to have secured university places (I was the last to receive a free university education before student loans were introduced). Now I see a very different country. People are driven not by confidence, but by fear. Everyone, it seems, is afraid of something. Many are anxious about declining house prices which are wiping thousands off the value of their properties and thrusting them into a state of negative equity – they cannot afford to sell their properties and even if they could, there would be few buyers currently. Others are fearful for their jobs, clinging on to them for dear life, despite being overstretched thanks to redundancies and cost cutting, and reductions in overtime and bonuses. Even those who have nothing to worry about … are anxious. It feels as though the nation has entered a collective state of paranoia and fear, and that’s really not making for a very happy place, despite the traditional British stiff upper lip and determination to keep going through all obstacles.

One interesting result of this downturn is an obvious attempt to bolster the nation’s confidence via a strange and insidious revival of “Britishness”. There are examples of this everywhere. Jamie Oliver has returned from the US, tail somewhat between his legs, with a new-found obsession for his homeland – though a cynic might suspect that his PR advisors have told him to jump on the “lets make people feel better about being British” bandwagon. He is embarking on a self confessed ““new crusade to discover Britishness” which coincides neatly with the publication of his new book on Great British food and its accompanying TV show. Meanwhile, British Airways have dug deep into their past to reclaim their aeons old slogan “To Fly, To Serve”. Something very neatly and nauseatingly patriotic about that, along with their beautifully shot if a little patronizing ads which are encouraging people to revisit their own nationalism and fly with the airline that has served them through thick and thin (unlike their cheapy competitive upstarts). Even Kate Moss has launched a new “iconic and truly British” makeup collection for Rimmel, complete with Union Jacks emblazoning lipsticks and eyeshadows in a variety of garish hues. Everywhere you look there are tea towels and mugs and oven gloves and birthday cards with faux World War 2 slogans emblazoned on them, encouraging people to keep calm and sip a cup of tea in order to cope with the current “issues” facing the nation. Olympics 2012 is of course around the corner, and this is helping reinstate the flagging British spirit but somehow it all feels a bit “so what”, like a tasteless cake that’s been beautifully iced and decorated.

Unfortunately, as we used to say when I was in advertising, the strategy behind all this is showing. These attempts to bolster British confidence are misplaced and downright irritating. The British are simply not feeling good about being British any more, and even the snobbishness which has historically characterized the nation is receding. It is now not only acceptable but necessary to take advantage of freebies and special offers and shop at the cheap (and often nasty) outlets – and unlike the early days of the “noughties” when shopping at the likes of Primark and Aldi was a positive and funky, trendsetting choice, now it’s a necessity and people resent it, along with the call centres in India which many believe are taking their jobs and their livelihoods.

In short then, Britain is a strange place to be at the moment. It feels uncertain, unconfident and vastly different to the country I left eleven years ago. The British no longer feel that they occupy a central position on the world stage – how can they when the nations they have formerly subdued are now bouncing along, enjoying unprecedented growth rates and booming job markets thanks largely to the BPO (call centre) phenomenon. Some might say that the tides have finally turned, and that Karma or whatever you choose to call it is having the final last laugh. I’m just sad to see the change in my own country, and I hope that Britain can get its mojo back before too long - from the heart rather than from the superficial ad campaigns which are pretending its all OK really.

Brave New World

My son just got his first laptop. Nothing very significant about that in this technologically progressive era … except that he’s just turned one, and it’s a Fisher Price model with fat buttons and flashing lights. He’s been obsessed with my laptop, iPad and iPhone since he was able to focus his tiny eyes, and I can’t help but wonder how different his childhood will be from my own.

Growing up in 1970’s England was all about mud pies, skateboarding, hot sticky tarmac and playing in the river near my house. I used to disappear for the whole day, playing complicated make believe games with my friends, my Mum confident in the knowledge that I would return at the end of the day when I was hungry. She couldn’t phone me, SMS me, or track me on Facebook but somehow she wasn’t overly worried. My subsequent teen years, during the great decade of the 80’s, were spent huddled with girlfriends in small groups at bus stops (gossiping about the boys who would be showing off on their chopper bikes and shouting insults at us), obsessively writing my diary (I have diaries somewhere written from age 11 to 18) and feeding two pence pieces into the phone in the now iconic red phone box outside my house calling up my love interests. We communicated via the spoken word, the occasional love letter or by sending messages through friends. Now I wonder how teenagers cope with the vast number of messaging options open to them – they can poke, update, comment, tweet, SMS or blog their intentions. Do they actually ever really talk to each other or is everything contained within their strange teen-write?

I have friends with young and teenage children and it seems that the hottest debates centre around common themes – when to give in to the child’s demands and buy them a mobile phone. When to allow them to have a Facebook account. Whether to give them a laptop or not. The arguments for are persuasive – there is a need to keep an eye on the child, to monitor their movements, to ensure they are ‘controlled’. The arguments against are equally convincing – there’s a desire to retain the child’s ‘innocence’ for as long as possible, to keep them away from undesirable influences and to avoid “spoiling” them with the newest and brightest shiny objects.

What I find most fascinating, moral debate aside, is the anthropological angle. Right now there are still people in the workplace (including me – just) who remember life before the Internet. During my first ever office job in the days before e-mail had arrived on the scene, communication consisted either of phone calls (mainly to landlines as mobiles were only for the elite and very expensive), or in the form of old fashioned memos which would take a day to reach their internal destination, but which ensured that my early formative years were spent having to actually think through what I wanted to say. And if I did write something in haste, I could always go to the post room and pull it out of the outbox tray once I’d thought it through properly. Now I’ll react to something and send back a mail in the blink of an eye, and often regret the content. E-mail is instant and therefore doesn’t encourage a meticulous, thoughtful approach. Everyone is busy, the ‘to do’ lists get longer and longer, and its therefore an easy option to bat ill thought through mails back and forth which can cause a lot of unintentional damage through miscommunication or haste. As the “old generation” is replaced by those who have grown up with the Internet, I wonder how our workplaces will be affected. Sure there have been a lot of positive changes since I started work - the photocopier is largely redundant for one, and there’s no need to spend hours making old fashioned slides for presentations. Making reels for client presentations used to involve a day editing piles of tapes together. Now it can be done with the click of a few buttons – mpegs and links are instantly inserted into PowerPoint presentations. The downside of this is of course that our work is never finished. Whereas once we had to send out the tapes for editing or the slides for converting, today we have no deadline except the meeting itself, which means that invariably we end up rewriting content up until the moment we step into the meeting and sometimes even during the meeting itself. Frankly, it’s exhausting.

That aside, our “instant” information age, with its constant stream of news ‘as it happens’ means that we are often overwhelmed by the sheer number of things happening. In the ‘old days’ we waited patiently for the 9 o’clock evening news to catch up with world events. I remember being on tenterhooks every Tuesday afternoon waiting for the Top 40 countdown, when I’d get to know finally whether my favourite artist had made it to the number one spot. Today I don’t even think the Top 40 exists, at least not in its previous incarnation. Now songs are downloaded and sales are largely irrelevant and artists prosper via their tweets which are picked up by the online newpapers. Twenty years ago, there was enough news to fill two daily hour long bulletins. Today the news streams 24/7. I doubt that there is any more “stuff” happening in the world today, and suspect we have become more interested in all the trivia as well as the big news items. Similarly, today we have hundreds or even thousands of “friends” with whom we keep in constant, but superficial touch. I know what my school friends are up to on a daily basis, regardless of the fact that I haven’t seen them for 20 years or more and that they’re scattered all over the globe. I may know the minutiae of their everyday lives but actually I don’t know anything about what kind of person they have become. I am aware that my friends in Mumbai are in various bars, clubs, parlours, workplaces and even “home” at any given point in time, but I rarely make time to meet them there or have any kind of meaningful discussion with them.

There is no doubting that change is good. But part of me worries that my child will miss out on the simple pleasures which I enjoyed growing up. That he’ll become obsessed with his phone, with his laptop, and have little time for communication beyond that and that he’ll turn into a hyperactive workaholic as deadlines become ever more ridiculous in the workplace. I suppose it’s no different from my secrecy with which I shrouded my own teenage life and the pace at which I’ve always worked, internet or no internet, but I’m already wondering when he’ll ask for his first “proper” laptop with internet connection and what my answer will be.