Jimmy; the man, the legend

You won't remember Jimmy because I met him before I started to blog. Jimmy was the second American we met after we landed. The first was our very friendly cab driver who used to live in the UK and who told us that we wouldn't be needing our clothes here, and that if we wanted anything, anything at all, to give him a call. He meant of course that the weather would be so different, a new set of clothes may be in order. He must have lived in London before I was born, when people wore long johns, snow shoes, greatcoats and mittens in the summer.... or maybe he just feels the cold more than I. Needless to say, our clothes have be more than sufficient, and we never did call him. Forget about him though, it is Jimmy that I want to talk about.

Jimmy opened our bank account for us the day after we arrived. He laughed and joked the whole time and made us feel extraordinary welcome in a way I certainly have never experienced in a bank before. He patiently answered all our questions, even when we struggled to contain our surprise and some scorn when we were told about the direct debit system here - someone in the bank gets a message when you want to pay a bill, writes the cheque for you as per your online banking instruction, pops it in an envelope with a stamp and posts it on your behalf. I do have a image of a lovely little old lady (Mavis?) with a stack of envelopes and a younger boy, possibly called Geoffrey, handwriting the electronic details and putting them on a paper spike for Mavis, no, Gladys. Yes, Geoffrey and Gladys; they make a formidable team.

Back to Jimmy. He made a real impression on both Mike and I and we left happy that we had a bank account, and it had been such a lovely morning.

So, when Dan came over and needed to open a bank account, imagine my joy when Jimmy walked up, beaming from ear to ear as ever, to shake his hand and welcome him to the bank. Before this time, I had met Jimmy once, three and a half months ago, so imagine my standard joy quickly turn into utter high-pitched-squeak-producing glee, when he said to me that not only did he remember me, but, a mere second later, Jimmy, the amazingly happy despite working for a bank and memory manipulator extraordinaire, produced my name from out of his mouth, and into the air. I was stunned. I cannot even imagine how many people have passed through this man's office in that amount of time in this main city branch, and yet, the man did not only remember my face, but my actual name.

Bank account opened, card activated, frivolity exchanged, hands shook and I assured Jimmy that if any more of my family decide to come and work in the area, I will of course recommend him and his bank highly, at length, and perhaps rather too enthusiastically to them.

The Devilish Aubergine and the Cake of Doom

I admit I have been a bit mean about some of the policies of the place I now reside and the people who enforce them. It's time to redress the balance today on this first day of October (by the way there is now exactly two months for you to start planning my 30th birthday gift) as today is the day of the Block Party, and wait for it, I'm impressed.

The Block Party is a celebration of the first anniversary of the opening of the retail space here. I'm sure I have mentioned before how limited that is, but obviously a cause for celebration for some. I am pleased as a Bank of America ATM has opened here. I bank with Bank of America and all the banks here charge you if you dare to take money out of another bank's cash machine. In fact, your bank charges you, and the other bank does too, usually $2 each. That's $4 just for taking out some cash. As you can imagine, I refuse to pay that. I would rather walk that extra mile to get to my nearest ATM, so imagine my joy, now I can get cash out whenever I want (so easy to please you see, so there is no need to overly worry about my birthday gift...)

However, I haven't quite worked out how to get into the building which houses the ATM, and the person who I squeezed in after even though she tried desperately to break my arm in the door, wasn't very pleased to have to share her precious ATM moment with a 'devilish aubergine' (Copyrighted to MC 01/10/08.)* Nothing was going to deter me though and it wouldn't be the first time that I had to use my sharp elbows as weapons.

So, the Block Party. The usual quiet waste land just outside the 3 shops (Subway, Peasant Pies, and a cafe-cum-wine bar) had been transformed with music, balloons, stalls, and people! Yippee. There were queues coming out of the door of the food shops, owing to the special offers, of which, of course, I partook. $2 for a peasant pie? Even with the exchange rate as it is, that is still only £1.13. I bought 4, not to eat, but to keep for later on in the week. People were buying them to eat then and there, the fools. I wanted to buy more but the shame cut me down. I am thinking though if I change tops, I can go back and buy however many are left.... we'll see.

I can get a pie any day though, the stalls were the real draw. Honey, Fruit, Veg, Bread, Cakes, all winking at me in the 29 degree heat. Today was pay day but it is meant to last the entire month so I settled on a Zucchini Almond Raisin loaf, spending what I had saved on the pies and then some. It weighs more than a brick so I would say it is worth the money. We have a visitor a week today so I thought it might be nice to have some tea and cake when she arrives. I asked the seller, who looked like a more fervent member of the WI whether it was freezable. She stated, loudly, 'honey, yes it is, if you can freeze it that is.' I raised an eyebrow arranging my face in the international quizzical look, wondering whether that was a reference to my extra few stones, mentally sharpening my tongue, then realising this is her sales pitch. I know that I am going to buy the cake, or bread as it is called, but she doesn't yet have the dollars in her grubby little paws (I actually hope they weren't grubby, and hands and workspace were adequately sanitised). The pitch continues, 'because it tastes so good, I doubt it will get to the freezer.'

She carried on with some tale of how she wanted to freeze a cake once but ended up eating it all. She means this to be the best advert, but of course it isn't. I hope there isn't crack in this cake, as I fully intend it to get to the freezer, and after what happened last time, well.. I paid the money, and she instantly moved to someone else. I had felt so special too. Then I struggled to carry my brick back to the flat. I actually had to stop halfway in the twenty steps to the door to adjust my grip.

I think I have actually put myself off this cake now having made it sound so unappetising; made with the unwashed hands of a charlatan, extra dense to break all your teeth, and full of crack. One slice or two Holly?


* I cannot take the credit for this wonderful turn of phrase - it is Mike's. I am dressed from head to toe in purple like a priest at Easter, clashing violently with my pink flip flops. Nice.