7 Reasons to Hate January

With the New Year upon us, it is sometimes a little difficult to be excited about what's ahead of us. In particular since every new year starts with the month of January which seems amongst the grimmest of them all.

Here are some reasons why we hate January:

1. Overcrowded gyms. The gyms are overcrowded with people who have either just subscribed to a membership they are going to use for about one month or with those who have subscribed in one of the previous year's January. Again, they will be gone by February but nevertheless a nuisance for the next few weeks.
2. Feeling the Weight. The excess weight that is. After eggnog lattes and mince pies galore it is impossible not to feel slightly heavy.
3. The Cold. Currently, London does not get anywhere above 0 degrees. But is it a charming, picturesque Winter Wonderland? No. It's just effing cold.
4. The Time to Bonus. With bonuses (albeit small) either already in your account or at least announced, the clock has effectively been set to zero again. Last year's achievements might not have paid off last year. They definitely won't count for this.
5. Detox. And by that we don't mean the rather dreadful Sylvester Stallone movie (which was D-Tox anyway) but rather the fact that there is a peer pressure of giving up booze and washing those toxins out of you. If only to make room for more toxins come February.
6. The aftermath of New Year's Resolutions. Let's face it - nobody ever keeps them, but that doesn't mean that one cannot feel a bit guilty about not living up to all those promises of New Year's Eve. Even if all those promises were born out of too much champagne.
7. Getting Older. Ok, it's a personal thing due to being born in January. Still counts though.

There might be some other things working in favour of good old Janus. But we will deal with those separately.

Bad Present = Bad Relationship?

Does a gift indicate the state of a relationship? Lots of women think so and lots of men worry so. Which does not help to take the pressure off something that already can be a nerve-racking experience.

As everybody knows, women are sensitive creatures. Men assume relationships are fine unless they are told otherwise. They'll assume everything is great until they come home and either find all their personal belongings packed up in suitcases, or realise that the keys to the front door don't fit anymore. That's when they'll start to suspect that things might not be that rosy anymore.

Women however have a more refined approach and constantly question the state of their relationships. Whilst a lot of comments and actions can serve as a barometer of the emotional climate, presents by partners are the most welcome tool to judge the relationship. A not-very-thoughtful - or outright bad - present is read as an indicator that the partner has lost touch with what is important to her, and is seen as a sign of marital decline.

To be fair, it seems to work both ways: good gifts prove that their partner still cares about them and jumps through hoops to keep them happy.

As an example, I once gave my ex (a well-travelled, curious, worldly person) a huge, leather-bound atlas. Of course, she HATED it and if it hadn't been that oversized and heavy probably would have hit me over the head with it straightaway. Needless to say, it was a sure-fire sign that something was wrong, and not very much later I found myself in divorce court with little material possession left apart from said coffee-table atlas.

Then again, it is much easier to please somebody you are generally fond of. Over the years, I learned that diamonds are in fact, a girl's best friend, and that in general you can never go wrong with jewellery. Since you don't want to come across as an uninventive gift-giver however, there is a dangerous requirement to vary gifts. This can prove to be a lethal combination with the perceived pressure that any mishap on the gift front can be the entry ticket to marital counselling.

So when last year's Christmas shopping dawned, I thought long and carefully and finally came up with something I thought would be the perfect present for my significant other.

However, when wrapping up the present, the shop assistant asked me "Who's the lucky guy getting this gift?"

Needless to say, I was left wondering what that says about the state of my marriage.

Originally published on HereIsTheCity Life on 19th Dec 2007, the original can be viewed here.

The Return of the (Long) Lunch Break

In times where employers cut pay by omitting bonuses, it seems that employees are getting even by cutting down on work hours and reviving a long lost treasure: The Lunch Break.

It does not take the skill of clairvoyance to figure out that come the end of this year, your annual discretionary payment will be - at the discretion of your employer - a lot smaller than it used to be.

While a lot of people came through last year's bonus season relatively unscathed, that is unlikely to happen this year where the number of banks doing well does not exceed the counting skills of a 4-year old.

And with this unfortunate outcome seemingly unavoidable, employees have drawn their own conclusions and seem to be acting accordingly.

Three years ago there was hardly a night when the trading floor was not well-manned at 9pm. It now seems difficult to find anyone around come 7pm.

Furthermore, people seem to have rediscovered socialising at lunch in order to brighten up the gloomy day-to-day proceedings.

Around St Paul's, a number of restaurants have opened in the last few weeks, and - as if the working population had only been waiting for more lunch joints - the likes of D Sum 2 and Le Pain Quotidien have been crowded from day one.

Bumping into a friend at LPQ, his only comment was: "If you look at how crowded this place is, you could wonder exactly where that recession is."

Right now, bankers sans bonus are not committed enough to spend their lunch breaks with a soggy sandwich, surfing the web at their desks. Nor are they too stretched to not be able to afford a sit-down lunch several times a week. We are after all, still speaking about suffering on a fairly high level.

Originally published on HereIsTheCity Life on 08-Sep-08. The original can be found here.

It's Raining Cabs. Not.

There are 21,000 black cabs in London.

Unless it's raining and you need one, then there are none.

Agreed, there is a recession upon us and I know we all have to tighten our belts, but every once in a while I take the liberty to take a black cab.

And most of the time, the cabbies are perfectly fine, sometimes up for a chat, sometimes not. Sometimes you end up with one monologueing about how foreigners take all our jobs (clearly not recognising that he is driving around a foreigner) and sometimes they are just too busy handling their mobiles, a bag of crisp and driving a car at the same time.

Sometimes you find the ones with the light off who agree to pick you up because it's on the way, sometimes you find those with the light on who don't pick you up because they don't like the destination.

However, it seems that once it starts raining, they all disappear. It is impossible to find a taxi in the City when it pours down. Agreed that demand probably spikes, but hey - 21,000 cabs?

Maybe it's just that when there is a prolonged period of precipitation in London, all cabbies decide to go back to their houses in sunny Florida.

If you don't believe - try it: Ask your next cab driver about his house in Florida! Chances are he'll have one and he'll happily tell you about the benefits of hibernating in warmer climes.

Because that's what he does when you are being left in the rain.

Don't Ask Me, I Just Work Here!

For some time I have been increasingly underwhelmed by the shop assistants you find in many high street stores.

What is the point of asking them if they know as much about what they are selling as you do?

From what I recall, it all started out with a visit to a electronic store because my camera (that I had bought in a store of the same chain) was not working properly. The person behind the counter clearly had neither knowledge about cameras nor any intention to help me and recommended going to Jessops. That was a surprising recommendation since I had not bought the camera there and I would have thought their inclination to help would probably be even smaller.

A similar incident occurred when buying a phone which we wanted to make sure that it could be muted. Asking the shop assistant she started reading the pack (which I had done before) and then concluded that the pack didn't say anything. I thought: "Thank you for being my reading assistant, I do have trouble with this occasionally".

I ended up asking her whether we could return the phone if it did not have the feature and simply unpacked it once I had left the store to check. If the mute button hadn't been that apparent I would have returned it right away.

It simply makes you think why anyone should not buy their goods online since the added value of buying offline seems to be fairly limited.

Then again, there are pleasant exceptions: In a standard High Street shop of all places, an employee surprised us with being helpful, knowledgable and - what seems to be very rare - feeling quite passionately about what he was trying to sell.

And you certainly don't want this rare passion to disappear simply because we all end up buying everything from Amazon.

The Traffic Warden From Heaven

I always thought traffic wardens are supposed to write tickets and not point out to you that you shouldn't park where you park but that there is space on the other side of the street.

Who knew how wrong I could be?

Last Sunday, after a pub lunch out of town, we went into Kensington to meet a friend in the afternoon. After navigating our way through a maze of one-way streets, we finally found our destination and a parking spot right across the street from it.

Whilst we were still packing our things and our baby, a traffic warden walked past, but from our side there was no cause for concern since I thought I had legitimately parked the car.

Whilst walking past us he said: "I don't suppose you have a resident's permit, but let's assume I haven't seen that. However, if you want peace of mind, why don't you just pull your car over to the other side where there is a single yellow line which means it is allowed to park there this time of the day?"

From previous experiences, traffic wardens are usually fairly un-approachable and not susceptible to common sense at all.

Whether it was the fact that we were in the middle of getting our baby out of the car (which usually gets young a "young family" bonus) or he was just having a good day, I don't know .

And it doesn't matter, it's the result that counts.

And the fact that he played a role in rounding off a very pleasant Sunday afternoon.

Effortlessly.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

A recent re-connect with a friend, the lack of quality drinking locations in the City and general depression brought us to grab a pint at "The Bolt Hole" off Cannon Street which turned into a after-work horror trip.

While the price of £6.40 for two 275ml bottles of Beck's (that being probably the worst beer that Germany could come up with) is already quite shocking, a more frightening experience occurred when visiting the gents'.

Looking into the bathroom mirror, suddenly an image appeared on that mirror announcing the release of the movie "Mirrors". I was surprised and intrigued about how nifty the projection on the mirror worked but what was being shown was fairly standard "Mirrors - In Theatres October 08" fare and therefore unremarkable.

Continuing to go about my business I turned my head away, and the next time I looked back towards the mirror, I was shell-shocked.

A rather distressed woman was seemingly behind the mirror, pressing her hands against it and screaming, eager to break through.

The announcement had changed to "There is evil on the other side."

And on this side, I was left wondering how small bottles of bad beer can cause such a trip.