Have you tried turning it off and on again

For the first time in my life, the phrase "sun, sea and sand" has been swiftly followed by another phrase: "technology detox". Never have I felt such a need to disconnect. The irony of writing this on a blog to which I will share the link through a number of social networking sites is not lost on me. The disgustingly 'first-world problem' nature of this topic is also not lost on me. If you can help it, please don't judge. If you can't help it, then judge away; I'm already two steps ahead of you.

Over the last few months I've been increasingly aware of what's become a death grip on my iPhone. My love of books, pens and paper haven't protected me from slipping into what I vowed I'd never become: someone who feels the need to neurotically play with their phone, unconsciously swiping through apps and screens as if somewhere in between the neatly ordered folders lies the Holy Grail, covered in dust, lying next to a scribbled answer to world peace on the back of a receipt, a worryingly tantalising-looking year-old pizza slice, and the film the fourth Indiana Jones should have been. In meetings I've succumbed to a behaviour that again I always vowed never to adopt: checking my BackBerry for work emails whilst someone's talking to me. It's not just me either. I've noticed on the Tube that 70% of the people seem to be playing with a smart phone of some description. Seriously, have a look around you next time you're on public transport and count how many people are looking at the screen of a phone. In meetings the table is occupied by the blinking red lights of BlackBerries that just can't be left behind. A number of us appear to be orbiting around our phones rather than anchored within ourselves.

I don't have an issue with the technology or how people choose to use it. My job is all about helping a firm of lawyers understand how they can use social media tools in a business context and looking at how this intersects with the firm's culture. I'm a huge advocate of the Internet and social sites as learning tools, as invaluable ways of connecting people, and I love how smart phones have changed how we interact with, navigate, discover, and share the world around us. We've seen the power of it, for both good and bad. I know that it's just technology, and it's all about the motivations of the people that are using it. And I know of the fears around our 'always-on' culture and the arguments that it's rewiring the way we think and engage with one another. But it's certainly been a catalyst for changes in behaviour all around the world, supporting (and harming) a whole range of areas, from education to development to democracy.

But at a Social Business conference in 2012 — despite being hugely inspired by some truly mind-bending talks and it cementing that this is a field I'd like to forge a career in — there was a concept that struck home the level of our addiction: "the always addressable customer". This is someone who has multiple devices, all connected to the Internet, that they check frequently in multiple locations. Sound familiar? What are you reading this on, an iPhone, an iPad, a BlackBerry, a Macbook, laptop, desktop PC, some other device? Did you find your way to this post after it had been shared on Twitter or Facebook? Are you out and about, stuck on a train or bus, in your bedroom, at work?

I am that person. I can think of 5 devices I own/use that can be connected to the Internet in some way and allow me to share and find content (for the record: a Macbook, a netbook, an iPhone, a work BlackBerry and a Kindle. God help me, what have I become). I've lost count of the number of times I'll open up Twitter during the day just to see what's going on and whether any useful articles have been shared by those I follow, or unlock my phone and browse around with no real purpose or task in mind.

The things I've found and experiences I've had off the back of always being connected are countless and (nearly) all positive: a lovely summer festival in Hampstead I would otherwise not have known about, finding out about the Science Museum showing the last Dark Knight instalment on 20 July, discovering articles and tools that are invaluable for my work, nurturing professional relationships and friendships that may have otherwise faded away, opening up my mind and thinking to areas of learning I'd have otherwise never discovered, etc etc etc.

So I'm not saying we need to all turn our devices off and stop sharing. What I am saying is that I've forgotten what it feels like to not be connected, to not be contactable. To have some headspace to completely free my mind of distractions and totally immerse myself in the task at hand, whatever that may be. To truly enjoy wandering a city, or reading, or writing, or watching a film, or having a conversation with a friend, without feeling the need to check my phone every five minutes for phonecalls, texts, or some other notification. The freest I've ever felt was on a bus in Malta on my own, my friend having returned to our apartment an hour before. No-one knew where I was and my phone was deliberately switched off. It felt amazing. It felt calm and peaceful. It felt like the volume on all the background noise and buzz had been turned right down. No, it felt like it had been eliminated completely. On the Tube I've started to try and practice 'the art of doing nothing' every now and then, rather than always playing with my phone or reading. A few months back I had the revelation that playing the piano is easier if I actually concentrate on what it is that I'm playing, without letting my mind wander elsewhere. It sounds obvious, but it's easy to forget. The notes flow a little smoother, the melody comes a little easier, my fingers are suddenly more nimble. You feel connected to the music you're playing and only the music. It's the same if you're writing, or reading. Rather than dividing your attention, if you completely focus your mind onto what you're doing at any one time, it's suddenly so much easier, so much clearer. It's like a scene framed through a camera's viewfinder snapping into focus, or the clarity of vision once you've put your contact lenses in. Or finally hitting a radio station in amongst the white noise.

So as of Wednesday, I will be on a much-needed holiday. I'll be doing the normal: sun, sea and sand. I'll have the 'devices' that I normally take on holiday with me: iPhone, camera, Kindle (the BlackBerry is most definitely being left at home). But for the first time, I'll also be making a conscious effort to not be digitally connected. My iPhone will hopefully be in airplane mode for the majority of the time, used just for music. The various things that I've started writing are going to be printed off and I'll be working on them in one of my numerous notebooks with one of my numerous pens. The Kindle's 3G will be switched off, and is only a backup in case I finish my current book (The Age of Wonder by Richard Holmes. I can't recommend it enough). I'm hoping for early morning/late night walks by the beach that's a stone's throw from our villa. And more than anything I'm hoping to calm the constant whirring that goes on behind your eyes when you know you're connected. To switch off to switch on. To free up some space to muse and let the mind wander down whichever path it chooses to take. To become immersed in books, writing, sun, and good company. This is why I've resisted the urge to litter this post with hyperlinks, to put a relevant video at the end, to try not to add to whatever other distractions are trying to tug you away from finishing (if you've made it this far, well done and hello. How's it going?). The video I would have shared would have been 'Yelp: with apologies to Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"' if you have time to look it up on YouTube. Now, where did I put my phone, it's been at least ten minutes since I last checked it...

Shirley you can't be serious

Hands in the air if you’re a user of language.

If you’re not looking like a surrender monkey right now, arms flailing about, then you might want to take a seat. I’ve got some hard news to break to you.

We all use language. That’s right, even you, reading this sat there in your underwear in a technology-induced stupor. Oh wait no, that's me in the mirror. Ahem. Moving swiftly on. Whether we’re deaf, blind, or an animal that’s not only learnt how to read English but also how to operate a computer and navigate to this blog (if you’re the latter, get in touch. I have a business proposition for you); we all use some form of language to communicate to others, to externalise our internal worlds, and to shape our thoughts. There’s spoken language, body language, the facial expression of a dog that’s commandeered some kitty treats, sign language. Whether we’re conscious of it or not, all of us are communicating all the time, sending out signals about ourselves and what we’re feeling and thinking, whether there’s someone available to pick up and interpret those signals or not.

Now. Hands in the air if you’re a lover of language.

My arms were emphatically up there until I realised I’m incapable of typing with neither my toes nor my nose.  I’m talking about the written or spoken word here, as opposed to the intricate language of what our gestures, postures and philtrums say about us. And I’m definitely not talking about a love of language adopted by those that militantly oppose a culture that embraces ‘verbing’ (turning nouns into verbs, eg “I favourited an article” and “Google it”), or deplore the fact that the ‘the youth of today’ speak in a language that no-one over the age of 18 can understand.

Rather, I’m of the ilk (and hopefully you are too) that loves language precisely because it evolves, because of the way words can be woven together to form lyrical phrases that sound like music, because of how it can be used to express ideas and feelings.

Here’s an example of precisely what I mean. Last month my friend and I were playing top trumps with our levels of boredom. Mine was caused by a slight quarter-life crisis moment, whereas hers was due to the experience of having to vacuum some kamikaze peas from her freezer. My response to the banality of her situation was, “I bow in deference to the mundanity of your boredom.” And the improvisation of that little phrase and the way it flowed and sounded instantly cheered me up. Quarter-life crisis successfully, if only temporarily, averted. At work there’s a few of us that are constantly playing with the meaning and sound of words, it’s a well-used pastime in my family, and I’ve had various playful arguments with a number of friends about use of words and their meaning. Those same friends also write, and we often read each other’s work, commenting on passages, ideas and use of words that we particularly like or think could be improved. (A few of them have blogs, which I definitely recommend and can be found on the left-hand side of this page.)

When you’re reading, or listening to a song, or a speech, or writing, or just chatting with your friends, it’s those moments where you can’t help but applaud the use of language. Maybe the idea that’s been conveyed has been expressed in such a way that it’s made you smile. Maybe it’s a word you’ve not heard in ages that evokes particular nostalgic feelings.

I’ve read a few authors this year whose writing styles I love. They couldn’t be more different from one another. On the one hand we’ve got Oscar Wilde and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Both are self-indulgent in their use of language, using words and phrases that are ripe with description, poeticism, and tangents. I don’t think I’ve come across any writers today who write like those of the past, where meaning and form are so interwoven, where complex feelings and philosophies are veiled within the vocabulary selected. I love it. I wish I could not only write like that, but get away with writing like that. On the other hand we have George Orwell. Putting his novels to one side, I’ve read a few of his non-fictional works this year. His use of language sits in such stark contrast to Fitzgerald's and Wilde's. It’s simple, matter-of-fact, there are very few trills or flourishes. He has a set of rules for writing that were created in opposition to a trend in political writing in the ‘40s that he raged against. He loathed the style that favoured recycling of metaphors and the use of twenty words where two would do. As one of my brothers wrote last month, sometimes simplicity is best.

All three authors have their own particular styles and ways that they choose to use words. I respect all three, and all three have passages that I’ve come across that have made me pause with admiration and jealousy at how they’ve expressed themselves. Yes it’s the ideas and story that they’re composing that have struck a chord. But – a bit like my amateur phrase on boredom (seriously, go back and say it out loud) – there’s something about the way they pluck out their words and combine them. It’s their masterful use of the language that we all have at our disposal, and it evokes a simple love of the infinite number of ways that we can play with what’s essentially a finite number of words. 

The choice of these three authors is indicative of another facet of language that I love. Although it evolves over time, and the meaning of words change, we can appreciate use of language from the past. There was an excellent programme on ITV earlier this year called Lenny Henry: Finding Shakespeare where Henry spoke to a number of people to find out about their feelings towards good ol' Bill (*shudder* Apologies). Two of the best parts of the programme were a blind test of Shakespearean phrases against hip-hop lyrics, and a kids' workshop run by actor Adrian Lester. Henry had a difficult time guessing correctly what was Shakespeare and what was Snoop Dog, whilst the workshop got the kids rapping and acting out Shakespeare. Both exercises were a fantastic way of thinking through the Bard's use of language and showing that, although written centuries ago, we can still enjoy his choice of words.

This is love of the written word (I’m including speeches and songs in that group, as they’re initially refined through writing), but there’s an equal love of the use of language that comes out in conversation. As I said, quite a few of my friends and work colleagues banter purely about the use of language and words. It might be about taking particular words out of context to change their meaning, about x-rated double entendres, arguing about the meaning of a word. It’s always playful, always quick-witted. Trust me, anyone who refuses to argue about semantics is missing out.  

So yes, I’m a lover of language. I think it has to be allowed to evolve because the world around us evolves, and we evolve. How else can we fully express ourselves unless language adapts to both reflect and shape what we’re thinking? Why shouldn’t we play with words and create new ones where the old don’t suffice, don’t reflect how our culture has shifted? But on an even simpler level, we should appreciate the words, the phrases – whether carefully crafted or spontaneous – that flow, that make us pause at their brilliance, make us laugh in wonder at their existence. We all have the same building blocks at our disposal. As Orwell says in his rules, we shouldn’t slip into lazily using the same language that we’ve heard before but be playful in our originality, creative in how we use those words. 

Go on, what's your favourite phrase, your favourite word? Do you play with language or do you find yourself getting stuck using the same phrases? (If your hands have been in the air all this time, I suggest you put them down before you type your answer. Unless you can in fact type with your nose. In which case I have a separate but equally good business proposition for you too.)

Whilst you're having a think, I'm just going to have a watch of this video overlaid with a monologue from Stephen Fry on language. If you've got the time, maybe have a watch too. 

Try South London. It really is better than North London.

Some common prejudiced opinions about South London for you:
- It isn't really 'London'
- It's full of people like Del Boy
- It's a heaving mass of people ready to stab you and steal your money
- They tend to enjoy a good riot down that way.

I've been known to say variations of all these things, although only ever in jest and as provocative rhetoric. I don't believe any of them. I actually quite like South London, in the same way I like East London, West London, Central London... you get the gist.

Some facts about South London that you may not have been aware of:
- Like your art and festivals? Well, there's quite a few festivals and art events that take place over the year.
- If you're into your art why not check out the Camberwell Arts Festival between 17th and 21st June 2012.
- Or if a good street party is more your thing, then there's the Bermondsey Street Festival on 22 September 2012. Let's see, what else is there...
- Waterloo Carnival on 15th July 2012 (the theme is superheroes. Awesome)
- The Affordable Art Fair at Battersea (this one was in March I'm afraid)
- The Greenwich + Docklands International Festival from 21st to 30th June 2012.
- There's lots of interesting history for each of the boroughs (if you're curious, then check out this page).
- Southbank, one of my favourite parts of London, is in the south of London.
- Apparently some famous people were born there.

Okay, time for full disclosure: the title of this post was given to me by a friend after we agreed we would each come up with a title on which the other had to write this month. I've drawn the short straw. This is a title perfectly crafted to either provoke me or to try and force me to sing the praises of South London, although he says it was to try and get me to do a little research on the area. I'm a lover of North London. He's a lover of South London. It's not hard to connect the dots. We're not the only ones that have had this debate either; check out this article from Time Out that pits North London and South London against each other to see how just how deep the prejudices and xenophobia goes (it starts off with a rant against North London, so make sure you read page 2 for the mirrored attack).

However, my education in History wasn't for nothing, and today it finally pays for itself. I know that you can write whatever you want under any title; you simply need to define your terms.

So these are my terms:

1) I'm not about to play the game and write a polemic against South London.
2) I'm not about to pretend that I love South London.
3) I am going to interpret the title as being indicative of how attached we get to the area that we call home, and how it comes to define us, to become a facet of our identity.

Let me try and unpick why I so stubbornly defend the charms of North London, even though South London may well be better than (or at least just as good as) north or east or west, and even though I may well end up living away from the northern part of the city.

I grew up in North London. My childhood and teenage years were spent in North London, with the odd foray into the centre. I wasn't aware of west, east nor south until I got older and started to explore the capital a little more. When I think of London, I think of the City and central. But when I think of home it's the north that forms the backdrop of that thought. Edgware (which, for the record, the journalist in the Time Out article refers to as 'proper' London), Mill Hill, Camden, Hampstead, Golders Green, Hendon, Finchley — these are the places that make up my emotional London. They're not my favourite places. Not by a long shot. My favourite area changes by day depending on what I'm doing, who I'm with, the weather. But North London will always be home, no matter where I'm living. Coming back from university in Manchester I always knew I was 'home' when we hit the sign to Edgware on the M1, or when I was on the Northern Line heading towards Edgware from Euston, blissfully surrounded by everyday chatter in a London accent.

We all know that the 'north versus south' debate isn't one confined to a particular city. There's all sorts of prejudices associated with these two polar compass points, with those prejudices varying depending on the context. My two best friends from university are from Warrington, near Manchester. There's a running joke between the three of us that I'm a southern softie from 'Lahndahn'. Apparently I once expressed surprise at how clever they both are because I thought everyone from up north was of sub-intelligence (I don't remember ever saying this and, if I did, I know myself well enough to know that I would have been playing with stereotypes for satirical effect. At least I hope I was). We joke about it through our language; after eight years it still throws me when they talk about having "tea" at 8:30 in the evening (that's "dinner" for us southern softies. What kind of an idiot calls dinner "tea" anyway?). My boss at work is a northerner, and mocks my accent when I say words like "bath", and I mock him back.

Physical locations define us through the experiences we had there, through the language we adopt there. My nursery, primary school, secondary school and sixth form were all melting pots of different ethnic, religious and national backgrounds. I didn't realise how very 'London' that was until I went to Manchester and met people from different areas of the UK where there was less of a mix of people, or started spending time in other cities where the population was typically Anglo-Saxon. I always feel slightly out of place in these areas. Not because I'm a hybrid of British, Israeli, Iranian, Polish, Russian and Austrian (they won't mind me saying this, but the two uni friends thought I was Indian when we first met because Warrington typically doesn't have mongrels like me). No, I feel out of place because I'm so used to being surrounded by people from all over the world, because I grew up thinking that that was the norm.

What's ironic is that we live in a time when technology has shrunk our world and globalisation and environmental issues have made us all global citizens (at least, in theory). Our food, our clothes, our gadgets, news, neighbours, everything is sourced from all over the world. What does my emotional allegiance to North London over South London, to London over the rest of Britain, really mean if I adopt the view that I'm a citizen of the world that just happens to have been born in a particular place? If my parents had had their way, I could have just as easily been born in Israel. And wouldn't this wider view of who we are eliminate all the false loyalties we have to postcodes, to travel zones, to cities, to countries, to continents? Wouldn't the world be happier and more peaceful if we recognised the fundamental biological similarities we all have rather than the differences that result from the accidents of the location of our birth or where we've chosen to live?

But it's funny, we become defined by the geography over which we lay our experiences. I was recently introduced to the concept of psychogeography from someone at work, which was defined by Guy Debord as:

...the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behavior of individuals.

It includes the idea that a physical location becomes steeped in the events that took place there. As an example, if you go into a church you're not just experiencing the bricks and mortar of the building. Rather, you're also experiencing years of religious fervour, of prayers, of hope, of devotion. This is why we go on pilgrimages, why we visit childhood homes long after we've moved on, why we have favourite cities, favourite places to go on holiday. We associate the physical location with our feelings about that place; we want to remember or feel closer to an intangible history by visiting a tangible location. It's probably why I recently had to talk myself out of spending £3,000 I don't have on a print by artist Stephen Walter called London Subterranea that is essentially a map of London annotated with its history.

Yes, we could rationally say that our attachment to geographical location is something that prevents us from achieving a greater unity as human beings, or even from just recognising that an area really is or isn't better than we feel it is. But humans aren't purely rational beings. We attach our emotions, our experiences — these intangible facets that are the parts that make up our sum — to tangible things: to locations, to books, to jewellery, to music.

So yes, South London may well be better than North London. I may well end up living there one day, particularly considering the ridiculous property prices in the north. But North London is me. I am North London. And no attempt from a South Londoner (who's actually from Bath) will make me think otherwise. How do you like them apples.

London Subterranea, by Stephen Walter

Image source: Tag Fine Arts Gallery

Anyone for a cuppa?

This is a horrendous cliche, but there's something that's so perfectly British about tea. It elicits fine bone china teapots, teacups and saucers, with delicately fragrant liquid, a dainty little milk jug, a fantastically decorated sugar spoon, a carefully laid out tea table in someone's house on a quiet Sunday afternoon. And, of course, polite conversation. Asking after one's family, one's work, one's health. But never dipping below the surface to discuss and debate the more intense subjects that make up a social minefield laden with potential faux pas.

There are, however, other teas and tea pots out there that lend themselves to more philosophical conversation and ways of living. The Tea House in Covent Garden is a little shrine to tea as a ritual, a concept that has a rich history in Japan. I'm a little ashamed (although not really) to admit I get a tad excited by a tea pot I bought a few years back, supported by an eccentric collection of loose leaf teas, and a few Japanese teacups. They beautifully lend themselves to creating your own little bubble of zen, sitting or lounging, sipping and pouring, and serenely discussing life, the universe and everything.

Coffee, on the other hand, has a more fiery past. London itself has its own history of the coffee house, where people would go to debate politics, ideologies, science, history, religion with friends and with strangers. There are even those that suggest that the Age of Enlightenment was fuelled by coffee and these coffee houses. This is also a scene that you see around (the more liberal) Middle-Eastern/Mediterranean countries, or the MidMed as my flatmate has labelled this cultural crossover; people sitting around in coffee houses or dropping in on each other unannounced, hands gesturing wildly with passion as politics and other topics of extreme opinion are heatedly debated over a hastily put together table heavy with coffee, juice, fruit and nuts.

I love this combination of MidMed/coffee house culture. I've already written about Foyles Cafe, and described one of the unexpected conversations I've had there as an example. Going to a coffee shop not to "grab" a coffee (a turn of phrase that appears to be rife in the busy city) but to sit there with a drink and either work, read or talk is a brilliant way of getting some headspace. I adore the history of it, the fact that ideas are born there. We're seeing the emergence of that same culture now over in Tech City in east London, where people gather together to discuss and share minds.

So why am I going on about the differences in culture around different teas and different coffees? It's actually related to my last post about impulse and serendipity. Out last Saturday night chatting to two good friends, the three of us had an epiphany. We never phone each other up on the spur of the moment to say, "What are you up to? Fancy going for a coffee?" We always assume the other is too busy, that we need to plan seeing each other. In that perfectly British polite way that lends itself so well to queuing, we don't want to impose on the others' day. Chatting about it, we realised the reality was more often than not that each of us is free and would love a coffee, or a drink of any kind; it's less about the beverage, more about the setting and the conversation.

The culture shock of the forwardness of someone from the MidMed is tangible, and can often offend even the stiffest of British sensibilities. But they've got something right. The passion and the spontaneity of their get-togethers and their conversation lends itself to meeting up informally before then finding yourself having your opinion challenged, being offended, being forced to defend your corner. Going back to the history of coffee houses in London, how can you know what you believe, how do you know what you stand for, until you're challenged or until you hear a new idea that you find yourself agreeing with? Asking after family and health and work is all important, but how can you really know someone and know yourself until confronted with something you don't agree with or that excites you by its truth?

If you're with friends or with strangers, there's no need for ceremony. Of course, you need to be respectful of others' opinions; otherwise you're just arguing and attempting to preach and impose your own way of thinking, without being open to new thoughts. And I'm a great believer in the more realistic shades of grey within any debate that can't be tied up with pretty ribbons as you dust off your hands at a job done, as opposed to backing extreme black and white ways of looking at the world. Nor have we always got the luxury of sitting around for hours waxing lyrical. But if you've got time to kill and you're wondering what to do, why not head down to the nearest coffee house, grab the nearest friend (not literally, as that may lead to an awkward court case and subsequent restraining order), abandon the norms of polite conversation, and see where the next few hours take you.

Image source: I Heart Pencils blog

Here's to serendipity

How often do you follow impulse? I don’t mean a "If that guy sniffs that way one more time I’m going to deck him", desperate ‘I just can’t take it anymore!’ impulse. Or even a bargain-hunting "What?! 100 kilos of dolphin-friendly flaked tuna for £9.99!" impulse. These are the kind that may possibly wind you up in front of a jury, in jail, or drowning in a lifetime’s supply of tuna-mayo-sweetcorn sandwiches. Rather, I mean the "I wonder where that walkway goes?" or "What do I really feel like doing now?" impulse. The sort of unplanned moment where serendipity can sneak in by the side-door and surprise you with a bouquet of flowers, a foot massage, and an offer to take your grandparents out for tea and scones.

This isn’t for the faint of heart. Are you a meticulous planner, who knows the times of the local trains down to the minute? Do you know what you’re doing to the day weeks, no months, in advance? Does an inexplicable twitchiness take hold if an unexpected event throws up the potential of deviating from your beautifully drawn out itinerary? If so, you may want to look away now.

The above character sketch is alien to me. I have tried to be that person. Jokes about being a commitmentphobe aside, there’s something about always knowing what I’m going to be doing at any given time – and not being able to be flexible around that timetable – that makes me a little nervous. I’m not incapable of doing it; I’ll take on the role of planner and organiser if I must, and I’m happy to get out the diary to pencil in a dinner with friends. But I’ll need a little room to manoeuvre, the ability to tinker with the plans last minute, the flexibility for us to choose where we’re going on the day, rather than in advance.

This isn’t to say I’m an untrustworthy person, who’ll bail on you last minute on a whim. Let me elaborate: I think there’s an intimate connection between not being wedded to intricate plans, having an innate curiosity about the world around you, embracing impulse, and serendipity.

An illustrative story for you:

A good university friend of mine came to stay with me in London over Easter weekend. She’s from Warrington, is currently living and working in Berlin, has been to London a few times but hasn’t ever really ‘done’ the city as a camera-carrying tourist. I’d come up with a rough plan of which sights we could see, as we have similar interests. But we agreed we’d simply see which way the wind (and the rain) blew us on the day.

Bar a lie on the Sunday morning (bed… so… very… comfortable...) we got off to a good start with the Tube down to Westminster to gawp at the Houses of Parliament. On the cards next was a wander down South Bank, back over to St Paul’s Cathedral and then a Thames Clipper down to North Greenwich to see The O2 (formerly known as The Millennium Dome), before jumping on the Tube back home.

We may not have completely stuck to my finger-in-the-air plan. In turns out much of the day was influenced by my complete inability to locate places I’ve been to before, as well as my friend's craving for Nando’s. By way of justification for the latter, apparently there’s only one in the whole of Berlin; she was suffering withdrawal symptoms. There was also the crushing realisation that our mid-20’s joints can apparently no longer walk for more than three hours at a time. All was not lost however. It meant she also got to see the buildings around Whitehall, for a start. I rediscovered a beautiful, enchanted part of St James’ Park I stumbled upon over a year ago but hadn’t been able to relocate. Buckingham Palace also made an appearance (driven by the Nando’s urge, not my broken compass), as did Trafalgar Square. Even more unexpectedly, we found ourselves listening to the choir boys in Westminster Abbey during an Easter Sunday service. As well as lots of other lovely discoveries in between.

I hadn’t planned to do anything of these things. But they added to what turned out to be a lovely, relaxing day of sightseeing, minus the calls we’ll be making to our doctors requesting hip-replacements. All stemmed from a militaristic about-turn halfway down Westminster Bridge in order to hunt down the nearest Nando’s, and both of us then listening to our ‘I wonder what’s through there?’ impulse.

One of the things I'm seeking to capture in my rambling monologues is this very attitude – following the twists and turns of a city, as well as embracing feelings of impulse and curiosity. Cities are made for exploration, to be walked, made for discovery. One of the many things I love about London is the way its history is pinned proudly to its sleeve, forcing its way into your consciousness every step of the way. Another facet of my love affair with the city is that it’s grown organically throughout that history. Paradoxically, the result is a beautiful patchwork of architecture, culture and experiences lying in wait to be uncovered by the curious flaneur.

So many times over the last year I’ve almost ignored that twinge of "Ooooh I wonder what’s down there?" or "That sounds like it could be good" whilst out and about. Almost ignored. I’ve not yet been disappointed when I’ve listened to that childlike questioning in my head that wants to explore anything and everything. Like Alice heading down the rabbit hole, saying to herself "curiouser and curiouser", if a hidden walkway between shops looks promising, I’ll duck into it (note I said "promising" and not "dark, mysterious and foreboding". Safety first folks.) If I see a sign to an exhibition that sounds interesting I’ll do my best to check it out there and then or, if I’m unable to, I’ll go back to it when I can.  If a busker is playing music I like the sound of, I’ll try and sit a little to listen. Back to my ‘Headphones out, boys' post, I once managed to get the contact details of a book publisher for a friend after switching my music off on a whim. Nothing may come of following the impulse, but then what have you got to lose?

There’s so much that can come out of seeing the world in this way, outside of wandering a city. Some of the best photographs, for example, have been taken on impulse rather than planned. The Internet works on this philosophy, that you discover content you didn’t know you were looking for until you stumble upon it, after following a desire line of hyperlinks. Much like the other thread that runs through this blog – finding happiness in small things – I’m hoping to share more of my discoveries through the little stories I post here.  For now, I'll just say that if you embrace distraction and impulse – if you listen to the Alice in your head that wants to head down the rabbit hole – then who knows what you may find, what you may learn, what you may discover. You may well be pleasantly surprised by the serendipity that greets you when you reach the bottom.

A few photos from our lost but found Sunday

Looking out from the little cottage in St James' Park, rediscovered

Next to the rediscovered part of St James' Park

Curvature in buildings, something you see all around London 

Cutting through Whitehall Gardens

A patchwork of building styles in the Dean's Yard of Westminster Abbey

Choirboys running after finishing their choiring in Westminster Abbey

A grave laid in Westminster Abbey in 1082

A different view of the Houses of Parliament after cutting through another garden

The view after a detour over Lambeth Bridge, whilst hunting down a Thames Clipper