How Much For A Short Back And Sides?
A celebrity hair stylist in London is charging £20,000 for a wash, cut and blow dry. The salon in Covent Garden has Swarovski crystal chandeliers and Japanese shampoo beds. Clients can have champagne on tap and order anything from the menu at the five-star Covent Garden Hotel just across the road.
FOOTNOTE: Trim figures.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A Is For Airport
Being Late Is A Departure From The Norm
Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON
Since the age of 24, when I was lucky enough to be given the gig of a globe-trotting sports journalist covering cricket and tennis at the world’s most famous venues, I have caught more flights than I could ever count. I was never late for any of them.
Since I became a father and revelled in taking the Authorbloglets to wonderful cities, we have been fortunate enough to fly to some truly memorable places. Once again, we have never been late for any of our flights.
But there was one solitary occasion in 1986 when Mrs Authorblog came close to derailing my record for punctuality. We were in London and we were due to fly to Brussels for a week and we had non-refundable, non-changeable air tickets.
It was the 23rd July. If the date doesn’t exactly ring a bell, let me remind you of its significance. It was the day that Britain’s Prince Andrew married Sarah Ferguson. Mrs Authorblog was delighted to be accompanying me to Belgium, but she was not exactly over the moon about the fact that we were travelling on the day of the royal wedding.
Let me put this in context. Mrs Authorblog was a flight attendant for a major international airline, and was accustomed to check-in desks, time zones and airport protocol. But she was also (understandably, I hasten to add) not best pleased about travelling on a day when she would rather (I suspect) be standing with the throng of bystanders outside Westminster Abbey.
So we struck a deal. She would watch the start of BBC TV’s coverage of the wedding and as soon as Prince Andrew entered the church, we would leave for the airport. We had a long way to go. We were in South Wimbledon, which was a long haul (and a couple of Tube changes) to Heathrow.
Prince Andrew arrived. But Mrs Authorblog wasn’t budging. I was looking at the clock. Then a new deal was struck. We would wait until the TV cameras showed Fergie leaving Clarence House in the famous glass coach. I agreed.
That came and went. Then Mrs Authorblog asked if she could wait until Fergie walked down the aisle to meet her prince. Looking nervously at the clock and mentally computing the Underground routes and schedules, I agreed. But now I was getting rather edgy.
We sprinted to South Wimledon station, ran down the escalator to the train and Mrs Authorblog, who was suddenly rather pale at the prospect of missing the flight to Brussels, asked me in a very inconspicuous voice if we would make it to Heathrow on time. Gallantly, I said we should have about five minutes to spare – as long as the train did not stop between stations.
Sure enough, it stopped between stations about ten minutes later. By now we knew that even if we got out at the next station and took one of the London black cabs, we would still not get to the airport any quicker than if we stayed on the Tube.
When we eventually pulled into Heathrow, Mrs Authorblog led the way. As we raced towards the airline check-in desk, she just had one single piece of advice for me. "Don’t stop to help any little old ladies with their suitcases," she said.
About fifty metres later, there was – you guessed it – a little old lady struggling with her suitcase. So I did what anyone would do. I stopped and helped her – and told Mrs Authorblog I would catch up with her.
We made our flight with only seconds to spare – as they announced our names over the PA system for the third time.
Now, each time we make travel plans for the family, I always check the calendar – just to make sure no royal weddings are scheduled the same day.
For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.
Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON
Since the age of 24, when I was lucky enough to be given the gig of a globe-trotting sports journalist covering cricket and tennis at the world’s most famous venues, I have caught more flights than I could ever count. I was never late for any of them.
Since I became a father and revelled in taking the Authorbloglets to wonderful cities, we have been fortunate enough to fly to some truly memorable places. Once again, we have never been late for any of our flights.
But there was one solitary occasion in 1986 when Mrs Authorblog came close to derailing my record for punctuality. We were in London and we were due to fly to Brussels for a week and we had non-refundable, non-changeable air tickets.
It was the 23rd July. If the date doesn’t exactly ring a bell, let me remind you of its significance. It was the day that Britain’s Prince Andrew married Sarah Ferguson. Mrs Authorblog was delighted to be accompanying me to Belgium, but she was not exactly over the moon about the fact that we were travelling on the day of the royal wedding.
Let me put this in context. Mrs Authorblog was a flight attendant for a major international airline, and was accustomed to check-in desks, time zones and airport protocol. But she was also (understandably, I hasten to add) not best pleased about travelling on a day when she would rather (I suspect) be standing with the throng of bystanders outside Westminster Abbey.
So we struck a deal. She would watch the start of BBC TV’s coverage of the wedding and as soon as Prince Andrew entered the church, we would leave for the airport. We had a long way to go. We were in South Wimbledon, which was a long haul (and a couple of Tube changes) to Heathrow.
Prince Andrew arrived. But Mrs Authorblog wasn’t budging. I was looking at the clock. Then a new deal was struck. We would wait until the TV cameras showed Fergie leaving Clarence House in the famous glass coach. I agreed.
That came and went. Then Mrs Authorblog asked if she could wait until Fergie walked down the aisle to meet her prince. Looking nervously at the clock and mentally computing the Underground routes and schedules, I agreed. But now I was getting rather edgy.
We sprinted to South Wimledon station, ran down the escalator to the train and Mrs Authorblog, who was suddenly rather pale at the prospect of missing the flight to Brussels, asked me in a very inconspicuous voice if we would make it to Heathrow on time. Gallantly, I said we should have about five minutes to spare – as long as the train did not stop between stations.
Sure enough, it stopped between stations about ten minutes later. By now we knew that even if we got out at the next station and took one of the London black cabs, we would still not get to the airport any quicker than if we stayed on the Tube.
When we eventually pulled into Heathrow, Mrs Authorblog led the way. As we raced towards the airline check-in desk, she just had one single piece of advice for me. "Don’t stop to help any little old ladies with their suitcases," she said.
About fifty metres later, there was – you guessed it – a little old lady struggling with her suitcase. So I did what anyone would do. I stopped and helped her – and told Mrs Authorblog I would catch up with her.
We made our flight with only seconds to spare – as they announced our names over the PA system for the third time.
Now, each time we make travel plans for the family, I always check the calendar – just to make sure no royal weddings are scheduled the same day.
For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Verse And Worse
Random Wit, Errant Rhyme. Not A Literary Crime
Alas, the woe of Teresa Blunden
Who went to visit her aunt in London
Oh, the disaster of her Louis Vuitton
It arrived on the carousel without a buitton
Who went to visit her aunt in London
Oh, the disaster of her Louis Vuitton
It arrived on the carousel without a buitton
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Silence Is Olden
Shhhh, Don't Say A Word
London's National Theatre is to stage the world's longest silent play. For one hour and 40 minutes, 450 characters playing 27 actors will utter not a single word between them. Austrian playwright Peter Handke's "The Hour We Knew Nothing of Each Other" is set in a city square, but there is no plot and virtually no character appears twice. The idea apparently came to Handke as he sat at a cafe on an Italian piazza watching strangers come and go. However, the silence is punctuated by music, the occasional scream and the recorded sounds of an aeroplane or workmen drilling.
FOOTNOTE: It's a mute point.
London's National Theatre is to stage the world's longest silent play. For one hour and 40 minutes, 450 characters playing 27 actors will utter not a single word between them. Austrian playwright Peter Handke's "The Hour We Knew Nothing of Each Other" is set in a city square, but there is no plot and virtually no character appears twice. The idea apparently came to Handke as he sat at a cafe on an Italian piazza watching strangers come and go. However, the silence is punctuated by music, the occasional scream and the recorded sounds of an aeroplane or workmen drilling.
FOOTNOTE: It's a mute point.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Black Is Beautiful
T Is For Typestar
Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON
When I bought it in London 22 years ago, it was pretty hi-tech. Canon had just updated their Typestar range and the Canon Typestar 5 was as hi-tech as you could get. I was as excited as a child on Christmas morning as I walked into Debenham's in London to buy it.
If you were in line behind me, I do apologise for the delay. It was as if I was buying a Rolls-Royce. But hey, to a journalist, the Typestar was pretty much the Rolls-Royce of gadgets anyway.
Did I want gold, the salesperson asked. I recoiled. Nope. Too flashy. Not me. So not me. Did I want black? Yep, that would do me just fine. Classy and understated was what I was after. And d'you know what? After I'd paid for it, I probably spent an hour in the electronics area of Debenham's, working my way through every function on that beautiful typewriter.
In reality, it wasn't black. It was sort of a slate grey. But so classy. And it was so slick and easy to use. It had a battery pack, or you could run it off mains power. Weren't happy with either of those options? Well, pardner, you could run it on four batteries as well. I walked out of there with a grin that was broader than the Rio Grande.
Over the next two and a half years, I took it on more international assignments to cover cricket and tennis events than I can remember. It was with me on every flight I took. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, I would get it out and start work. Back then, it was a complete novelty and so it always drew curious glances and the inevitable question: ``What is that?’’
It was the ultimate accoutrement for sportswriters.
It was about the size of a laptop and not much heavier, so I was able to work silently and efficiently on the many domestic and international flights I took during my time as a sportswriter. My colleagues would be sitting there sifting laboriously through hand-written notes, while I watched my reports unfold on the beautiful white thermal paper that scrolled so smoothly and whisper-efficiently through its slender casing.
Back in the days when computers were a luxury rather than a necessity, the Typestar was a sleek beast. You would let your fingers glide over the quiet keyboard, read what you’d written on the display screen and – if you didn’t need to edit or correct it – hit the print button.
At a time when a Walkman was seriously cool, the Typestar was the ultimate in cred.
About a month after I bought it, India pulled off an upset Davis Cup win against Sweden, who had Mats Wilander, Wimbledon semi-finalist Anders Jarryd and a young Stefan Edberg in their ranks. On the flight home, I used the Typestar to write my report and a lengthy feature article. By the time I landed, it was all done. Clean print. Easy typeface. No corrections. No worries at all.
I’ve never thrown the Typestar out. It sits in my study, a few feet away from where I write this post.
Gun-metal grey. And it’s still so cool. Even for an antique.
Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHONWhen I bought it in London 22 years ago, it was pretty hi-tech. Canon had just updated their Typestar range and the Canon Typestar 5 was as hi-tech as you could get. I was as excited as a child on Christmas morning as I walked into Debenham's in London to buy it.
If you were in line behind me, I do apologise for the delay. It was as if I was buying a Rolls-Royce. But hey, to a journalist, the Typestar was pretty much the Rolls-Royce of gadgets anyway.
Did I want gold, the salesperson asked. I recoiled. Nope. Too flashy. Not me. So not me. Did I want black? Yep, that would do me just fine. Classy and understated was what I was after. And d'you know what? After I'd paid for it, I probably spent an hour in the electronics area of Debenham's, working my way through every function on that beautiful typewriter.
In reality, it wasn't black. It was sort of a slate grey. But so classy. And it was so slick and easy to use. It had a battery pack, or you could run it off mains power. Weren't happy with either of those options? Well, pardner, you could run it on four batteries as well. I walked out of there with a grin that was broader than the Rio Grande.
Over the next two and a half years, I took it on more international assignments to cover cricket and tennis events than I can remember. It was with me on every flight I took. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, I would get it out and start work. Back then, it was a complete novelty and so it always drew curious glances and the inevitable question: ``What is that?’’
It was the ultimate accoutrement for sportswriters.
It was about the size of a laptop and not much heavier, so I was able to work silently and efficiently on the many domestic and international flights I took during my time as a sportswriter. My colleagues would be sitting there sifting laboriously through hand-written notes, while I watched my reports unfold on the beautiful white thermal paper that scrolled so smoothly and whisper-efficiently through its slender casing.
Back in the days when computers were a luxury rather than a necessity, the Typestar was a sleek beast. You would let your fingers glide over the quiet keyboard, read what you’d written on the display screen and – if you didn’t need to edit or correct it – hit the print button.
At a time when a Walkman was seriously cool, the Typestar was the ultimate in cred.
About a month after I bought it, India pulled off an upset Davis Cup win against Sweden, who had Mats Wilander, Wimbledon semi-finalist Anders Jarryd and a young Stefan Edberg in their ranks. On the flight home, I used the Typestar to write my report and a lengthy feature article. By the time I landed, it was all done. Clean print. Easy typeface. No corrections. No worries at all.
I’ve never thrown the Typestar out. It sits in my study, a few feet away from where I write this post.
Gun-metal grey. And it’s still so cool. Even for an antique.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
May Day, May Day
Queen Guitarist Hands In Thesis (36 Years Late)
You dawdled over your thesis? No worries at all, mate. Queen guitarist Brian May has only just handed in his astronomy PhD thesis - 36 years after abandoning it to join the band! May recently carried out observational work in Tenerife, where he studied the formation of "zodiacal dust clouds". The subject forms the basis of a 48,000-word thesis for Imperial College, London, where 60-year-old May studied before becoming a rock star. As he handed it over to Imperial's head of astrophysics Professor Paul Nandra, May said, "It's been the longest gap year ever."
For details about Brian May's connection with Covent Garden, We Will Rock You and Canadian Idol, go to The Independent.
You dawdled over your thesis? No worries at all, mate. Queen guitarist Brian May has only just handed in his astronomy PhD thesis - 36 years after abandoning it to join the band! May recently carried out observational work in Tenerife, where he studied the formation of "zodiacal dust clouds". The subject forms the basis of a 48,000-word thesis for Imperial College, London, where 60-year-old May studied before becoming a rock star. As he handed it over to Imperial's head of astrophysics Professor Paul Nandra, May said, "It's been the longest gap year ever."
For details about Brian May's connection with Covent Garden, We Will Rock You and Canadian Idol, go to The Independent.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Strolling Stones
The Carat And Stick Approach
It's not every day a London jeweller gets robbed by somone who rocks up in a Bentley. Two thieves stepped out of a Bentley Continental Flying Spur and into Graff jewellers. They pretended to be customers before brandishing handguns and stealing diamonds and precious stone-studded rings, necklaces, pendants and earrings. The pair escaped on foot with about 10 million pounds' worth of diamonds and gems, including a necklace weighing more than 155 carats which alone was worth more than a million pounds.
FOOTNOTE: High Spur count.
It's not every day a London jeweller gets robbed by somone who rocks up in a Bentley. Two thieves stepped out of a Bentley Continental Flying Spur and into Graff jewellers. They pretended to be customers before brandishing handguns and stealing diamonds and precious stone-studded rings, necklaces, pendants and earrings. The pair escaped on foot with about 10 million pounds' worth of diamonds and gems, including a necklace weighing more than 155 carats which alone was worth more than a million pounds.
FOOTNOTE: High Spur count.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Trivia Pursuit
The first escalator in Britain, installed in 1898 in Harrod's department store in London, had a clerk who waited at the top with a glass of brandy for each customer.
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