The Lair

The Freakonomics blog dissects arcana and tells us, among other things, that this whole economic thing is deceptively easy. Since everyone is a self-described economics expert these days, let me offer my anecdotal nugget of not-really-economic-wisdom.

Based on approximately the same time last year, London is doing anything between 66% and 80% worse, in an economic sense at least.

You totally didn’t see that one coming, I can tell. But here’s why …

Walking along a deserted Hounslow high street on a Saturday night (not all that late, either!), I was offered drugs by far fewer people (literally, a “pssst, mah brother. You want some [insert colloquial phrase here]“) than at the same time last year. It’s hard times when even drug dealing seems to have been affected by the credit crunch. Or maybe the druggies have moved elsewhere, I don’t know.

In other news, the number of people offering entertainment of other varieties (the so-called recreational category of pills and so on) went down from 2 to 0. Clearly, this means I have now crossed into the old-fart-probably-doesnt-have-use-for-party-drugs threshold in the last year. I sob silently for these visible signals of my advancing years.

But no – the high street is deserted early, shops are shuttered, plenty of stores are announcing gigantic clearout sales. It all looks like doom and gloom from here.

I like to complain. This is well known. I can be the crankiest, most depressing person ever. My glass is always stolen; never mind half full or empty. I can be the black hole of negativity into which all things positive are sucked in, never to return (much like the dryer and my socks, I think).

So, for a change – instead of bitching about the weather, the allegedly rough neighbourhood, the depressing environs of this town and sundry other causes for complaint – let me share what I like about this country.

In no particular order –

• Malt vinegar – on chips (fish are optional, since I find that approximately 1-2% of fish varieties give me horrendous allergic reactions)
• Sunday roast. Preferably with nice and crisp Yorkshire puddings that sop up the gravy
• The whole pub culture in this country. No, seriously. I don’t know of many places where it is acceptable to nurse a few beers and watch a widescreen television intently … which brings me to
• Football, Six Nations rugby and various other sporting events, most of which the Beeb screens for free
• The sense of humour. Acerbic wit is so very under-rated, but among people of a certain age and educational background, it’s practically a sine-qua-non.

• Decent cider. No, this does not include Strongbow. It never will.

So what if most of those things are food and drink? That’s just how I roll.

It seems not. I go into the local Aldi when I land and even the shelf configuration is almost exactly as I recall from last year. Never mind that I shopped in a supermarket nearly 300 miles away – within a few minutes, I was on shopping autopilot – throwing things into the cart without even thinking about it too much.

Something I try to do in a new and strange town if I have time – intentionally get lost. Given that my sense of direction is all sorts of weird, this isn’t difficult. What happens next is a walk of a few hours while I try to remember place names and street names and find my way home.

Sometimes this works. Of course, it is cheating to consult strangers or hop into taxis. Given that the town I’m in is smaller than York, navigation wasn’t too difficult. A castle looming in the hillside above the town also helps.

Now, if only the town wasn’t inhabited by chavvish teens after dark…