"Art"

I went to the Tate Modern this weekend and found myself in a room with hundreds of flattened silver candlesticks, instruments and eating utensils hanging from the ceiling. Apparently, running things over with a steamroller and stringing them up from the ceiling is art. So is stuffing a room full of red objects, writing the words "dance" using food products and smearing black paint on a canvas like a finger-painting toddler.

"Some of the pieces are kind of interesting when you read the descriptions," Adrian said. "But they're still mostly crap, aren't they?"

I've tried to appreciate modern art many times. I read the little placards that talk about how the artist is exploring the space or making a point about something or other, but I can't get past the idea that I could make most of the art myself. In about five minutes. With my eyes closed.

Here's some art I CAN appreciate, though. The Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens has statues at its four corners representing Asia, Africa, Europe and America. This is the America statue.


Yup, that’s right – a guy with a gun.

You better watch out

I know it's only mid-November, but you have to admit it – the Christmas season is upon us.

Soon parents will start dragging their kids to see shopping mall Santas in hopes of getting a photo of their smiling child sitting on Santa's knee. Of course, children are often terrified of Santa. A strange man who promises them gifts, Santa seems like a creepy uncle at best.

Now the children of Paisley will have another reason to be creeped out by Santa, thanks to a display in the shopping centre which combines a winter wonderland with the Wizard of Oz for no apparent reason. Santa will be greeting children in a gingerbread house in "Munchkinland" which is surrounded by frightening animatronic figures from the 1939 film.

And here's the best part – Santa's gingerbread house has crushed the Wicked Witch of the West. She’s still alive – we know this because her feet are kicking desperately – but Santa's obviously not too bothered about it. That's the kind of heartless bastard he is.


Remember, kids – he sees you when you’re sleeping.

Posh nosh

I’m not normally a big fan of supermarkets, with their terrible lighting, uninspiring selection and irritating adverts. I’ve read numerous books about how they put local shops out of business, pay staff poorly and use their huge market share to force suppliers' margins down. I gave them up several years ago to buy my food in small, independent shops.

And then Waitrose opened.

Waitrose is an upmarket supermarket that recently opened a branch on Byres Road in Glasgow. The company has a Royal Warrant to supply groceries, wine and spirits to the Queen, which gives you an idea of the kind of place it is - posh, pricey and a bit…lovely. As lovely as a supermarket can be, anyway.

Along with your basic supermarket staples, you can buy things like peaches soaked in Courvoisier, pheasant paté, umeboshi plum purée and focaccia sticks. The takeaway section includes vegetarian sushi wraps with spinach, shitake mushrooms and tamago. And oh, the muesli! So many kinds of muesli!

I had a great time filling my basket with mini crème brulées and flax seed bars, but the produce seemed a bit pricey so I went into nearby Roots & Fruits to buy my fruit and veg. It was Sunday afternoon, normally the busiest time of the week, and it was empty. Everyone was in Waitrose paying double the price for similar produce in nicer packaging.

I’d hate to see my favourite local shops close due to lack of business so I won't abandon them. But if I ever want some nonpareille capers or truffle oil, I know there to go.

Abridged

Last year I went to a conference in London. When I arrived at my hotel and discovered that it was near Tower Bridge, I threw down my bags and immediately went outside to take photos.

This week I went to the same conference and stayed at the same hotel. And again, the first thing I did after arriving was run out and take pictures of the bridge.

I already have more pictures of Tower Bridge than anyone could ever need, but I couldn’t help myself. I mean, look at it.




I'm going back to London next weekend to do the whole tourist thing for a few days since I haven't properly visited the city in six years. I'd like to say that I'm not going to take pictures of Tower Bridge again, but I probably will. It's just that good.

Remember, remember the fifth of November

I think I'll go for the sub and sparkler combo.

Fireworks shops pop up around mid-October to supply people with pyrotechnics for Guy Fawkes Night. No one seems to consider the fact that it would be more appropriate to celebrate Guy Fawkes’ failed attempt to blow up Parliament by NOT blowing up things. And don’t say this wouldn’t be as much fun, because how much fun can it be to hang out outside on a cold, wet November night?

A nice, quiet explosive-free evening indoors - that's my kind of party. Here's to you, Guy.

Self check yourself

I recently read that Tesco is opening its first self-checkout store in the UK. This seems like a spectacularly bad idea, not because of job losses or a possible increase in food theft, but because self-checkout machines waste more time than they save.

I occasionally pick up a few things at the busy Sainsbury's supermarket on Buchanan Street. Though I should know better by now, I often use the self checkout in the hope of beating the queues, turning food shopping into a battle between me and the infuriatingly polite checkout machine.

On a recent visit, I touched a button on the screen to indicate that I had my own bag.

"Please place your bag in the bagging area," the machine said kindly. I put down my Envirosack.

"Please place your bag in the bagging area," it repeated. I picked up the bag and slammed it back down.

"Please wait for an attendant to verify your bag," I looked around and the sole attendant was helping another woman who, like me, was failing at buying her food.

"Please wait for an attendant to verify your bag." Now the attendant was helping someone else. I seethed.

"Please wait for an attendant to verify your bag." Finally, the attendant came over and swiped his employee card, allowing me to continue checking out.

I scanned my first two items without a problem - and then I got to the pepper.

When you buy loose items like fruits and vegetables, you have to choose which category they belong to on the screen and indicate how many you have. I looked through the vegetables section. No pepper. I checked it again. Definitely no pepper.

I must have looked confused because the attendant came over and asked I needed help.

"I can't find the pepper," I said lamely.

"It's in the salad section," he said, pointing to the screen. And sure enough, there it was. Not a vegetable. A salad.

I paid with my debit card, put the card back in my wallet and put the wallet in my bag.

"Please take your items from the bagging area," the machine said as I struggled with my bag zipper.

"Please take your items from the bagging area," it instead again.

"Damn it, will you calm down?" I shouted.

Shoppers turned and stared. I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the store. The self-checkout machine had won - again.

Just people

I went to Denmark last weekend to meet up with my university friends Bjarke and Simrit. While Bjarke made dinner on Saturday night, Simrit and I went down to the corner shop to pick up a bottle of wine.

Since I'd already had a few glasses and was unfamiliar with the exchange rate, I tried to pay the shop assistant the equivalent of £80 for an £8 bottle of wine. He gathered that I was a foreigner.

"Where are you from?" he asked in English.

"New York," I replied.

"Ah, America. Afghanistan," he said, pointing to himself.

Shit.

"She’s against the war! We're both against the war!" Simrit yelled. This was typical Simrit – a tiny girl with a huge personality, Simrit speaks at maximum volume pretty all the time.

I nodded uncomfortably, because really, what do you say in this kind of situation? Sorry my country invaded your country and killed thousands of civilians?

"How long have you been in Denmark?" Simrit asked.

"Ten years," he replied.

"So were you in Afghanistan the last time the Americans were there?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I was already here."

I must have looked uneasy because he turned to me and smiled.

"Governments do one thing even when people want another. We have no say. You and me, we're just people. It's okay." And he reached out and shook my hand.

Two countries at war. Two opposing sides. Two people, just people, shaking hands