A weekend away and the sorrowful story of Rhinefield House.

My wonderful husband took me away for a surprise two night mini-break out of London this weekend. This was to celebrate our secret wedding anniversary as it is the anniversary of when we were legally married even though our actual wedding took place a few months later. This was delayed so that we could get the venue we wanted but that is a story for another post.


We stayed at a luxury hotel in a manor house called Rhinefield House which is in New Forest in Hampshire. It is located deep in the New Forest National Park surrounded by the biggest redwood trees I have ever seen. The whole setting looks like something out of a Hans Christian Anderson fairytale. However, the story behind this incredible property is far from a fairytale. The land on which the house was built passed into the hands of the Walker family in the 1880s. When the only daughter of the family got engaged to be married her father gave her, as an engagement gift, the then enormous sum of £250,000 to build a family home with. The daughter and her husband barreled their surnames to became Mr and Mrs Walker-Munro and as you can see they built a rather grand abode. 

 I always find it kind of funny that the English refer to this type of structure as a 'house' - I once read that Buckingham Palace was originally called Buckingham House. 

But before the house was even built the air was already awash with the scent of problems to come. Mrs Walker-Munro commissioned that the house would contain, in addition to the master suite, four additional bedrooms for the four daughters she wished to bear. As fate would have it she gave birth to a son and was subsequently told she would not be able to conceive again. This led to her having great contempt for her poor little boy and he is said to have been brought up by servants and sent off to boarding school at a very young age. 

Clearly in those dark days before cognitive behavioural therapy and anti-depressants no one could send this dastardly woman to therapy to remedy her pathological ways. When the son grew up he emigrated to Kenya - probably in an attempt to leave the rainy isle of England with its memories of his cruel childhood behind him. He went on rather ironically to have four sons. 

But the sordid saga continues because when she died Mrs Walker-Munro (aka Mummy Evilness Bitch) tried to write her son out of his inheritance. Luckily this plan backfired and by trying to change her will she left her self essentially without one. Her son was thereby able to get back control of the house after her death. After his death his widow lost control of the house due in part to crippling death duties. The house was later both a boy's boarding school and a property used by MI5 for training sleuths before being turned into a hotel. 


While sleeping in our marvelous room I did for a minute wonder if the frustrated ghost of Mrs Walker-Munro scrapes its fingernails down the wallpaper still feeling rather sorry for herself...

B is for Banking...

Ever since the economic crisis began in 2008 discussions of bankers and their often enormous bonuses has been a scorching topic of conversation across the UK. I've heard the opinions of many people calling into radio stations and writing online and in newspapers and the vast majority of them are enraged by the huge remuneration packages that top bankers are paid because the bankers were blamed for sparking the crisis. 

Over the past seven years I have had a rarified glimpse into the fairly insular world of banking because of dating and subsequently becoming married to an investment banker. I also have a close family member and two close friends who have managed to rise fairly high up in the banking stratosphere. Through this I have learnt some fascinating things about the world of bankers.

In my opinion, the most striking two things about the profession is firstly the amount of money the people at the top of the pile work and, secondly, the insane work hours and huge amounts of pressure placed on these people. I believe that these two factors are intimately and causally related because if it wasn't for the hope of one day potentially having your name on the top of a seven figure bank statement then no one would work the often appalling hours. Of course there are other professions who work really long hours (I have a cousin who is an intern in a government hospital in South Africa and have heard of 48 hour shifts going down. I also have a few friends who work in advertising which is also an industry renowned for its unforgiving hours) but I have never come across anything as bad as the banking profession. I have a friend who while working as an investment banking analyst in London only had one Saturday off in a 6 month period. The rest of the time she worked 14 - 20 hour days without any break. I have heard bankers say that six hours of sleep is too much because it takes you out of the swing of being able to function on four hours only. 

Whilst working on a deal with a particularly important client who was in a totally different time zone my husband set his Blackberry to alarm whenever the client emailed him - even if it was at four in the morning London time. I sometimes wonder if the client ever thought that my husband was a type of android who doesn't ever need to sleep, shower or eat. I have often bankers if there isn't a better way to divide tasks so that more people work on a deal and everyone gets to sleep more even if it meant a bit of a pay cut but they have all told me that it would be virtually impossible to do this efficiently.

The result of all this hard work and no play is often broken relationships, nervous breakdowns and other insane anecdotes - some of which have been told to me by the black cab drivers who regularly drive bankers home in the early hours of the morning. The other day one of these cabbies told me husband that he had a 20-somehting banker who hadn't left the office for 48 hours. While in the cab on the way home he got a phonecall from his boss telling him to return to the office and he subsequently burst into  tears.

You could respond to this by saying that it is their choice to work as bankers and that they are greedily after the hope of one day getting a huge bonus. On the other hand, reasonably paid jobs that are fast-paced and interesting are not that easy to find and changing careers is not an easy option either. Its also so competitive to actually get into this field that many young people feel they better not waste the opportunity. So although they might seem to earn a disproportionate amount of money, the road to a successful career in banking is not planted with platinum-plated roses. 

 

December in the sun!

During December I returned to my land of birth, South Africa for a month long holiday. Oh the joys of being unemployed! I had a wonderful time with my family and friends and spent some time in Johannesburg, the city I grew up in, and some time at my parent's holiday house which is on a dam about an hour's drive from Johannesburg.

Johannesburg is the biggest city in South Africa and is economically the most important city in all of sub-Saharan Africa. It is also the largest man-made forest and has in my opinion the best climate on earth. The days are warm and the air is perpetually dry. This is because it is one of the few cities in the world at such a high altitude. The altitude together with the almost perpetual daytime sunlight combine to create a sparkly, somewhat dusty atmosphere.

Despite the climate and the many other advantages that Johannesburg offers over other cities, the reason my husband and I decided to emigrate is because of the crime. A drive around Joburg would not betray the fact that the city has one of the highest murder rates in the world. Most of the city is composed of sprawling, tree-lined suburbs which I once heard have more swimming pools per kilometre than anywhere else on earth. The people are incredibly friendly and warm no matter what their demographic and it appears to be a wonderful place. However, if you stay a while and chat to people you may notice the electric fences and high gates surrounding almost every house except for in the shanty towns crammed with people to poor to live in real brick and mortar structures - of which there are millions. The crime stories are quite horrific and are told by everyone from the richest to the poorest of Jozi's inhabitants.

My parents-in-law's cleaner who lives in a township on the city outskirts has a son who was stabbed while walking home one night. The criminals demanded his cellphone and when they found out he didn't have one they stabbed him and stole his shoes. Richer people in the affluent suburbs all have a hundred crime stories to tell. So many that as a former resident it almost bores me to think about it. I was held up at gun point in my own home when I was 17 but because I was the lucky owner of a panic button our private security company arrived promptly and saved me from the thugs. Just the other day one of my parent's friends had a gun fired at his temple at point blank range but the gun didn't go off and so he lived to add his tale to the thousands of others.

There is an Oscar winning film about crime in South Africa called Tsotsi and I would recommend it to anyone interested in getting a glimpse into life in my former homeland. Tsotsi is a word that means a black, urban criminal - almost always a young man - and the word is believed to come from Sesotho which is an African language and one of South Africa's many official languages. 

And so I find myself back in London after the holidays with a feeling of homesickness, yet glad to be able to live somewhere where I don't worry about being killed everytime I leave the house or inside my own house, which they say is the most dangerous place to be in Johannesburg. On that uplifting note, I plan on spending today exploring Belsize Park in the North of London as part of my quest to find the best place in London for us to settle in.

You know you're an expat living in London when...

• For the first time in 30 years you realise why kettle descaler exists.
• Scarves and gloves are not just fashion accessories anymore.
• You wonder why that girl on the bus is wearing a ton of make-up and jewelery but didn't bother getting changed out of her tracksuit.
• The cab driver knows more about the intra-party politics of the ruling political party in your home country than you do because he 'reads a lot in his breaks.'
• The rubbish man gives you excellent tips on how best to cook oysters (this one happened to a friend of mine!).
• You drive to a friend's house and just happen to pass Buckingham Palace on the way.

Liberty London

Yesterday I went shopping at Liberty. I believe that it could be the most beautiful department store in the world. From its mock-Tudor exterior to its vintage own brand fabrics, curving wooden staircases and delightful stock - I love it all!

Here are pictures of the outside of the store: 

 Here it is at night - so pretty...

 Here is one of their beautiful own brand fabrics. I love this so much I recently bought some to cover up a plain glass sideboard.

 For my most recent birthday my husband spoilt me with a ring made by Annina Vogel who sells her wonderful wares at Liberty. The ring has a scottish terrier in gold adorning it and is very similar to the necklace below. This is also one of her pieces. Many of her pieces are recreated out of antique or vintage jewellery pieces. My dog was once an antique brooch. I also love the staff at her counter - they are super-friendly and a little eccentric. When I went to get my ring re-sized the woman helping me asked me if I had named him yet. Today when I went to fetch it the gorgeously effervescent girl who helped me gushed about how much she loved the jewellery and she looked incredible wearing an intricate necklace on which many different charms were strung.
 
If I ever win the lottery you'll find me in those hallowed halls on Regent Street, arms breaking under the curiosities of wonderment I am about to buy!