Best Birthday Ever

And there you were thinking that my most recent return to blogging had flagged already. Oh ye of little faith.

Anyway, last week was the Special One's birthday. Now, a bit of context: in the weeks leading up to it, she'd quit her pub job, as you know, and so we'd been having a pretty lean month. With this in mind, we'd kind of agreed that her trip to France to see her friends would count as her birthday present, since it fell (just about) within two weeks of her birthday. Happily, we sorted out our money woes far earlier than expected, and so I could afford a proper present.

Now, normally, I'll spend weeks, nay, months thinking of the perfect present for the Special One's birthday. This year, it had seemed that I was off the hook. There's always a down-side to coming into money, isn't there.

Completely bereft of ideas, I went out to Camden and picked up five or six smallish presents, things that I knew the Special One wanted or would like: books, a t-shirt with a piglet on it (not content with a cat, she also wants a pet pig...), etc. Still, it all seemed to lack impact, so I did what any self-respecting 28-year-old would do for his fianceé and made her a treasure hunt for when she got home from work. However, the Special One's joy soon furrowed into a frown; for all her skill at crosswords (the grown-up, cryptic ones you'd find in the Times, etc) she and I seem to have very, very different ideas as to what actually constitutes a cryptic clue: while I thought 'the deepest depth a man can go' woul quickly lead her to find a clue in a Six Feet Under box set, the Special One, after much hair-pulling, was considering pulling up a manhole and investigating the drains. Nonetheless, we got there in the end.

The next evening, the day of her birthday, was spent on the couch with popcorn and Coke, watching Ghostbusters, one of her treasure hunt presents. What, no piss-up? Well, it's not that we're getting sensible in our old age, but the Special One in particular feels no need to go out and get wrecked just because it's the form thing to do.

The night after was the big night out, anyway. I don't think a show or gig counts as a birthday present, because you've nothing to show after it - it's more a birthday treat - but she'd already had her presents, so going to see Immodesty Blaize and her burlesque revue in the Bloomsbury Ballroom was the icing on the cake. And what icing too. For those of you afraid to follow the link, Immodesty Blaize is Britain's premier burlesque artist, and the Bloomsbury Ballroom is the kind of place you pay £8 for a G&T and a coke. So, dressing to kill was in order. Even before the show started, the audience was a sight to behold: dapper suits, spats, fedoras for the guys; corsets, feather boas and blood-red lipstick for the dolls.

And what a show. I find strip clubs, lap-dancing clubs, etc, quite unsexy, downright depressing in fact. It's not that I have anything against admiring naked bodies, but there's such a soulless, perfunctory arrangement regarding money and nudity. There's not a hint of personality, of performance, of enjoyment, and while that might be fine for some, I find it hard to see the point. You might as well be watching porn, but without the privacy of your own home that makes it in any way worthwhile. Burlsque, however, is an entirely different beast. For one, while there's a fair bit of exposed flesh, there's no actual nudity per se: nipple tassels and g-strings stay firmly in place (I asked the Special One about the glue, but she had no answers). More importantly, burlesque is entirely about theatre, about performance, and is enormously entertaining. In one sense, it's not actually about sex at all, but only inasmuch as it's coy, teasing, titiliating. In another sense, obviously, it's entirely about sex, but the pretence is what gives it its charm.

The evening was compered by drag king Mr Murray Hill - think a Rat Pack Benny Hill - who goes under the epitaph of 'the hardest working middle-aged man in showbusiness', and while I'm not going to get into the yawnsome 'size zero' debate here, it should suffice to say that the performers were hot, whatever their dress size. There was Miss Dirty Martini, a big woman who spent her five-minute slot en pointe - the Special One, who now works with a lot of dancers, was particularly impressed; there was Miss Exotic World 2006, the otherworldly Julie Atlas Muz - big eyes and head, palest of skin and very thin, she looked like a Tim Burton mermaid - who first did the 'climbing inside a balloon trick' and then, in the second act, came on wrapped in heavy rope and thrashed around until free (it sounds line undergraduate feminist performance art, but it was captivating). Incidentally, Wiki lists both as 'notable neo-burlesque performers'.

Finally, as befits the headline act, Immodesty Blaize was amazing. She's about six foot tall - taller in the obligatory killer heels, of course - with a 36E bust and a 27-inch waist corsetted down to 20 inches. Dressed in black and carrying big black fans, she rode a giant black rocking horse, looking for all the world like a vaudeville valkyrie, all to the sound of the O Fortuna chorus from Carl Orff's Carmina Burana: style, attitude, costume, sex, performance, charm and music all coming together.

Any suggestions of a Homer present - I looked at tits while the Special One looked at fashion - will be firmly refuted. And if you find yourself short of brownie points in the coming weeks, well, you know who to come to.

A Bray of Sloanes

I think the collective noun for a group of Sloane Rangers is a 'bray' of sloanes, isn't it?

I only ask because I went down to Chelsea to pick up the Special One from her new job at the weekend. She was cashing up and locking up; all those things associated with being the assistant manager at a posh fashion boutique. Needless to say, she's loving it: meeting targets, impressing bosses and customers alike. She's at a posh London hotel for a management meeting today. I'm told there's champagne afterwards.

But, my goodness, we're not in Cricklewood any more, Toto. Notable differences about Chelsea:

• Barely a black face in sight. Not a single kebab shop.
• I passed about 20 phoneboxes before seeing a prostitute calling card. And, while in Cricklewood they're cheap photocopied slips of paper, usually green or pink, with pictures of topless women with their nipples blacked out, the cards in Chelsea phoneboxes are classy, glossy affairs showing a discreet beknickered hip or fluttered eyelash. It's like comparing Harper's magazine with the Limerick Leader.
• The cars, the cut of people's clothes, etc, obviously.
• The buses (of course) are clean and fresh-smelling. They're a more spacious model too, with an attendent down the back handing out paper towels, aftershave and breath mints.
• People walk far slower in Chelsea than in Cricklewood. I don't know whether it's because you can be sure no-one is going to have the bad manners to barge past you if you walk two abreast, or that riches buy a slower pace of life, but while walking down to the Special One's shop, I constantly found myself stuck behind a logjam of expensive coats.

And the whole damn street is dedicated to conspicuous consumption; expensive clothes, furniture shops (is there a posh word for 'furniture shop'?), wine-sellers (no mere off-licence for Chelsea, you know) and the kind of restaurant that uses a recruitment agency to hire waiters. Now, you know I'm the type of person who thinks that anyone who spends £3,000 on a pair of shoes should be taxed until they squeak, but I did find myself momentarily envious. What must it be like to live somewhere like that, or, more to the point, to be able to afford to live somewhere like that? To go out and buy yourself something absolutely luxurious - not just cool or stylish, but luxurious, silk/diamonds/truffles/yacht-level luxury - just because you want it? You can see why some people value it so highly. Still, it would make it very hard to be so self-righteous all the time, wouldn't it?

It's nice for a holiday, but the Special One and I were glad to get back to Cricklewood. We'll be doing the lottery this weekend though...

Was going to mention the cold weather

Frost, crunchy grass, clouds of breath, morning light, etc, etc. But I was mugged on Saturday night, and that's much more interesting.

First of all, let me assure you all that I am fine, barely a scratch on me except a little pain in my side where I landed when they knocked me over. There was about £40 in my wallet, £15 on my travel card and maybe a fiver on my work card. If you value the phone at £40, then I'm £100 down on the deal. I've cancelled the bank cards and so on, and the muggers can't use the phone or travel card, so they're only £40 up on the deal. Not very good economics, is it? I've also lost things like loyalty cards, my blood donor and organ donor card and photos of my family and the Special One.

Anyway, the nitty-gritty: I was walking home from a night out, almost home, and I took my phone out to perhaps text the Special One, who is on holiday in France. Two lads came up to me and started talking, one in front of me, one slightly off to the side. The guy to my side nipped my wallet out of my back pocket and as I turned to him, his buddy pushed me over, grabbed my dropped phone and off they scarpered. I briefly gave chase, but realised after a couple of metres that there was no way I was going to catch them, and, more importantly, that catching them wasn't going to be good for me. Better to cut my losses while I'm not too far behind, so to speak, and, in fairness, it was a fairly gentle bit of street crime, as street crimes go.

I spent much of the next day walking to the local cop shop - it's miles out of the way, just what you'd want from the local law enforcement - and filling out a crime report, not because I expect they cops to catch these two, but because it's important for insurance, security, etc, and I'd nothing else to be doing that day. Experience new things, meet new people, that sort of thing. The local cop shop has a regular waiting room, then, in front of the two counters, is a set-up of bullet-proof glass and security doors that can only be opened by the duty officer from behind his counter (and more bullet-proof glass), meaning that you can't get to the counter without permission; nor can you leave the counter, which I found slightly creepy.

The duty officer asked me to describe the two boys, the scene, etc - the usual, I suppose - and also asked what my ethnic origin was, what was the IIB number of my phone, why I hadn't reported it immediately (it was late, I was tired) and whether I had any of their DNA, which I found rather amusing. While down there, though, I realised that cops have to approach such matters from a different point of view to mine, with the intention of solving every crime, catching every two-bit, toe-rag mugger. If they were as lassaiz-faire about it as me, they'd be unable to do their jobs.

Should I be so apathetic about it? Last night, when I was feeling a little cross about the matter, I found myself wishing I was able to indulge in a little Daily Wail indignation - bring back flogging, etc - but what's the point? We're all aware of the causes of crime and so on; this is just the price of living in a big city these days, and all I've lost is £100 and a couple of keepsakes - it's just stuff, I haven't been injured or anything else. In fact, the only thing that's upset me at all about this is the thought of telling the Special One, because she will think I've been hurt, and that will upset her.