Entering the Wine Trade

Unfortunately we still have no internet in the flat, which explains why I haven't written anything for a few weeks. Things have changed since my last post so I feel the need to explain. Most obviously, I have moved. Me and Tay are now living in a brilliant flat in Croydon, and the only thing lacking is an internet connection. Apart from that, it's perfect. We even have one of those spoons for serving spaghetti.

Regrettably the move required me to bow out of the ice cream business. My commute would have been over an hour each way. Fortunately the move coincided with a new job offer, and I entered the wine trade. The job itself is pretty straight forward, and having established that 'Côté a Ouvrir' is not a type of wine, I feel confident in describing myself as a Wine Merchant. Perversely, with wine paying the bills, I should be able to pursue law as a hobby in my spare time. Maybe I will be a rich 'lawyer' after all...

Selling Ice Cream

Things are looking up since my depressing return to England: I've got a job selling ice cream. I work alone in a small metal and glass box which reaches 35°. My only companion is the ice cream machine, a surly individual which expresses itself only in numbers and often goes to sleep at inappropriate times. So long as the number is over 50, the ice cream will be stiff enough to stay on the cone. This creates a delay as the machine reluctantly climbs from the low thirties towards what is no know by the local children as The Magic Number.

The delay causes controversy. Some people have actually suggested that I wait on purpose in order to build up a queue and increase ice cream sales. It's ice cream. It's the summer. I'm surrounded by children. I don't need to artificially boost my turnover by delaying the production of each ice cream. In fact, my sole aim is to complete each transaction as quickly as possible so that I can go back to my book. So resisting the temptation to confirm that yes, I am holding up the queue on purpose as part of the Global Zionist Conspiracy, I politely inform people that I have to wait for the number to reach 50. This often provokes the mindless question, "Oh, is that the temperature?" Yes sir, that's correct. Once the ice cream has reached 50° it's half way to boiling and therefore ready to serve. Any colder than that and you wouldn't be able to eat it. Evidently the number represents some measure of pressure, but my inability to give a precise definition allows my customers to wander smugly away, suspecting that it is temperature and the ice cream salesman is a fool.

The other mind-numbing conversation I am forced to repeat each day concerns the price of the ice cream. £1.50 is considered outrageous by some people. One lady sarcastically requested "One of your '99s that isn't 99p." When was the last time you paid 99p for an ice cream? 1999? That was 9 years ago! And besides, nowhere on the ice cream kiosk does the number '99' appear. It just says 'ice cream, £1.50'. If you think that's too much to pay, just don't buy one. I didn't set the price, I'm not responsible for the recession, and it's not my fault if your four-year-old screams if he doesn't get what he wants.

All in all it's not a bad job. It actually is, in part, about the smiles on the children's faces. And unlike my last paid job it doesn't require me to ruin anybody's life. The only ethical dilemma it presents is whether the child who just dropped their ice cream on the floor can have another one, and I solved that one on the first day. Of course they can.

Back home

Having returned to England, I'm beginning to notice the differences between here and New Orleans. Most obviously the weather has been awful so far, but apart from that the people I've had to deal with have been incredibly rude and unhelpful. Perhaps my impression is coloured by the fact that the job I thought I was starting next week no longer exists. It seems a combination of the recession and the Carter reforms to legal aid has made admin staff in criminal defence firms an unaffordable luxury, rendering me virtually unemployable in criminal law.

One difference I had been looking forward to since the Americans refused to accept my medical insurance, was the NHS. But when I saw a doctor yesterday it was a complete disappointment. I explained that my Chrons disease appears to be relapsing and she asked me what I usually do in that situation. I explained as politely as I could that I usually go to see a doctor, and they usually know what to do. She asked what the doctor usually does and I told her that they generally prescribe some kind of treatment to resolve the situation. She actually asked me which drug she should prescribe, and I gave her a name of something I was given 4 years ago in Liverpool because it was the only drug I could remember. Then she had to call the hospital to ask for advice, spectacularly misquoting everything I had just told her. After the call she prescribed me the drug I had named, and said that if it gets worse I should go to the hospital. I'm beginning to think I should have studied medicine...