Chivalry

So finally, I am writing a post on here. After two months of not very much, I've found some inspiration. I have a policy you see, of not writing on here unless I have something interesting (at least in my humble opinion) to say. So much meaningless and unconsidered pap abounds on the Internet, that while not necessarily always being able to avoid adding to the pile, I'd like to think that I can at least self-censor until I have something a)vaguely witty b)vaguely thematic or c) where a and b cannot be achieved, something that meets the basic threshold criteria of being, vaguely interesting.

I have thus decided to write a note on British chivalry. I hope you don't mind if I simultaneously tuck in to my wild mushroom ravioli having just got in from a muscle pulverising session on the power plates - my new favourite gym equipment.

So.

The British are known for having good manners. As a British-born Australian-raised anomaly, I often find these manners rather stultifying, however equally as often, I find them quite nice and endearing.

One thing that I find quite hard to adjust to, and which I don't recall happening anywhere near as consistently in Australia, is when I am waiting either to get in or out of the lift at work, and find that any member of the male species who happens to be waiting to do the same, makes a very English point of allowing me to either enter or exit first.

After over nine months I still don't think I have got the feminine etiquette right in this situation.

Does one simply ignore the fact that every man in the lift is standing there waiting politely for you to exit first, and stride out, chin up and feigning oblivion? (Sometimes I do this.) Or rather, make subtle eye contact with the waiting gent, tilt her head ever so slightly in self-effacing acknowledgement and then walk out? (Sometimes I do this.) Or do I (and this is my instinctive reaction) - roll my eyes in reluctant acceptance of this chivalry, say 'thanks' in my broadest Austrayan accent, and walk on ahead?

Sigh. Daily, five, six, seven times I take the lift between floors and am faced with this quandary, which I suspect, were I born and bread in mother England, wouldn't even register on my 'thing-dar' as being a thing.

The other chivalrous act which causes me some trepidation is the assistance that British (and central European for that matter) gentlemen will often provide with one's coat. Being a northern lass, broad-of shoulder but disproportionately narrow in lower rib-cage, the cut of coat I seem to buy does not lend itself to the athletic manoeuvre that is, struggling into a coat that is being held open behind you by a date/friend/senior partner of the firm, however kind their intentions. I am therefore often at my most unwieldy and least glamorous when struggling into a coat at the end of a pleasant lunch/dinner/drink in a bar...... Woe is me, the tall woman who prefers to wear 2-3 inch heels, participates enthusiastically in conversation, thereby drawing enough attention to herself to ensure that the coat-struggling leads to one of those embarrassing flushes to which she is prone - the kind that creeps down the sides of her neck and betrays her discomfort!

My final note on British chivalry is this. All of the above flies madly out of the window when one takes the Underground. The kindly Associate who might wait for you to step into the lift, will elbow you out of the way, without a qualm, should he happen to meet you in the Hobbesian world of the platform at King's Cross station at 9.05am. The polite and softly spoken gent with whom you have shared a quiet cocktail or two in some chichi bar prior to his ably provided assistance with your coat, will happily elbow you in the face whilst smushed against you like a sardine, leaving you hunched like a wilting hydrangea in that annoying section at the side of each tube carriage (on the Piccadilly line especially) that was created for hobbits, dwarfs and all other beings under 4'11.

The philosophical question which I now pose is this? If these good manners, and particularly the gendered ones of the nature I have described above, don't extend to the Londoner's daily commute - what in fact is the point of them? :-)

Anyway, I've said all I need to say on that.

A quick update on other news - I spent Easter in Latvia, as the loyal amongst you would know. It was great and I'd recommend a visit. Don't expect to sleep.

I was meant to go to Vienna for work today, but the trip was cancelled at the last minute because one of the Partners who was due to come, had to work on a big transaction which was going to close at the same time as she was meant to be standing in front of a client teaching them about share purchase agreements. So that was a bit annoying.

I've started reading my first piece of central and eastern European literature - The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. Dad did you ever read him at Uni?

There are a couple of other developments, but they are a bit embarrassing and I've not decided whether I am prepared to publicly humiliate myself yet for your reading-pleasure.....

Mum is coming in May and we are going to visit Marbella in Spain (the alarming growth of my carbon footprint by virtue of air travel this year, does not escape my attention - fear not.)

I have my first trip to Kyiv, also in May which friends tell me makes the hedonism of Warsaw, Riga and Moscow look dilute.

In June I intend to attend a big summer festival here in London.

July = bonus time! Yippee!

August = the central European odyssey with Ellie. Jumping out of my skin with excitement at the though of sitting in a chalet in the Julian Alps overlooking Lake Bled in Slovenia, sitting on a towel admiring the southern Croatian coast, catching a train to a spa-island just outside Bratislava. Sigh.

Sorry folks. Can't see myself leaving this part of the world quiiiiiteee yet.

xx