Born again

Two days ago I became an eight-month old Brazilian and today, Sam, you become a nine-month old human, which according to some people means you are only now fully born. You spent six of your first nine months swimming in a strange sea in central London. If you'd been born there life would have been easier and your dad would not now be tearing his hair out trying to transform you into a Brit. But easier isn't always better and, whatever my dissatisfactions with life in Brazil, it's certainly been an experience - the experience of your lifetime and therefore perhaps also of mine. Happy "second-birth" day, son.

Prison reform

"Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it." - Thomas Paine. Pretty similar to Thomas Jefferson's "The price of liberty is eternal vigilance." Certainly, the right to bear arms and protect your property were the crude beginnings of this vigilance - after all it was more than 200 years ago - but this most basic of requirements was by no means the end of their lofty ideals.

Polo country

Waiting in line at a local Pao de Acucar supermarket, which seems to enjoy monopolistic pricing, I indulged in another spot of vox pop. Posing as a recently arrived innocent abroad, I asked the man in front of me how Brazilians coped with the cost of living. When asking such questions I always hope for a really interesting, thought-provoking answer but it never arrives. His response was, predictably enough, that this is a wealthy area but when pushed he did add that "there is no medium in Brazil", just very rich or very poor. He obviously hasn't been reading all those articles about the "rise of Brazil's middle class". And he also seemed not to realise that "very simple" areas like our former neighborhood do not enjoy correspondingly "simple" prices. I asked if many people were overstretched financially and he said yes. But as usual there was no sense of perturbation about him; it was business as usual and your frustrated interviewer once again had to admit defeat.

More Livraria Cultura

Finally found free wifi access in beautifully designed central book store

Location:Alameda Santos,Sao Paulo,Brazil

Religion in Brazil: melting pot or meltdown ?

A few random thoughts, let's see if they fit together to make an interesting picture. The annual gay pride parade which took place yesterday is seen as a sign of Brazil's relatively forward-looking society in a part of the world that still creeks under ancient rules and taboos. Yet how do gay rights and the recently introduced civil partnerships square with a continued blanket ban on abortion ? And how, for that matter, does a good Catholic country deem it acceptable to provide relatively cheap birth-control via the pill or monthly injections ? Is it theologically kosher to prevent an egg from being fertilized during the act of sex but not kosher to destroy it once fertilized ? What about Casti Conublii ?

We've got all the time, and money, in the world

In the serviced apartment where we now reside, it costs over 50 reais (£20) to have our clothes washed. And they will be ready by Wednesday, today being Monday. A perfect metaphor for Brazil's infuriating imbalances. I would rather wash my own clothes, having no interest in being Lord of the Manor. (Fond memories of using communal washers and dryers in the basements of New York apartment blocks.) I would also rather it cost me less than a king's ransom and that it was done in real-time rather than slow-motion. Sure, our current accommodation may be a cut above the average. But, still, this place has no running hot water in the kitchen, or toilets which flush paper, or central heating. Give me technologically (cost-)efficient, self-service appliances any day over expensive, sluggish remnants from the bad old days of upstairs-downstairs.

"We are a dishonest people"

So says a polemical opinion piece in today's edition of Estadao newspaper.

The article is headlined "Desonestidade é cultura", dishonesty and culture. The author's main point is that Brazilians like to talk about the shortcomings of their country and compatriots as if they, the ones criticizing, are somehow not included. Yet, says the author, Brazilians have all given a free pass to high-level corruption and criminality. He cites as an example the much-loved politician who is known to have embezzled millions of reais and yet is still widely admired as someone who "gets things done". Likewise, everyone knows how much money is being misused and misdirected under cover of Brazil's World Cup preparations, or lack thereof. In conclusion, he asserts, "we are all accomplices to a crime" and we are all living with a fundamental dishonesty.

If only his powerful words could be translated into action. In recent days we've had marches in favour of drug liberalization, saving the rainforest and, today, gay rights. As I intimated the other day, all three should be relegated in importance far below the as yet non-existent marches demanding an end to rampant crime and corruption.

However, I write these words from my new cocooned accommodation, with security way in excess of the requirements for a "normal" middle-class life. But as each day goes by this becomes my new normal. How long before I too am lulled into my own brand of Brazilian complacency / dishonesty and no longer care about the street outside my door ? As long as in my happy bubble I can "get things done".

A genius for gossip

Have been indulging our tastebuds and stomachs in various local buffets, or rodizios, as they call them here. Found a delicious and super-healthy one today, for 30 reais a head (about £12). The food was natural and tasty, which is perhaps why the restaurant was named Natural & Tasty. No doubt every inch of creativity went into the cooking, leaving nothing left over over for the naming.

The street lighting in our neighbourhood is almost non-existent so ironically it may actually be more dangerous than Bom Retiro in the evenings. We've heard from several sources that attacks in this area have increased.

A retreat

So after almost eight months (longer for P) we finally said goodbye to Bom Retiro, whose name means "pleasant retreat". All sorts of ironies there of course. Minimising our luggage, we had hoped to hire a man with a van but, once again, the locals priced themselves out of our market. Instead we booked two large taxis for 7pm but in classic Brazilian style they simply decided not to turn up.

While waiting for alternative taxis, we spoke with a kippa-wearing Jewish chap who has lived more than fifty years in a neighbouring apartment block (the same as your family's, Betti). As we had taken a final stroll around the neighbourhood today, it was sod's law that there seemed to be an unusually high number of charming, neighbourly interactions. P seems to know a great many people in the shops and cafes, some of whom she met while still pregnant.

A brith in Brazil

My son the half-Brit was unable to have a full-brith after his birth. At least, according to traditional Jewish law, which follows matrilineal descent. The word brith (pronounced Brit and also sometimes spelled bris but where's the pun in that?) means "covenant". The full Hebrew phrase is "brith milah" which translates as "covenant of circumcision". My damn iPad autocorrect keeps writing "brith Milan" which would be a covenant of Milan, sounding like a secret society for fashionistas. Anyway, a brith is supposed to be the first step towards actively joining the Jewish people and being bound by the rules of (their? our? everyone's?) God. A covenant is a posher, more poetic-sounding version of a contract. Posher, more poetic and supposedly unbreakable.

Watching the detectives

So the four detectives made a third and I imagine final appearance at our home, this time to speak at length to P. Their conclusion is that we, or rather I, were definitely targeted, since the attack happened so soon after I had returned home. They also said that the "Brazilian problem" meant that although our break-in was common gossip in the neighbourhood, no-one knew anything when questioned by them. Too much fear of reprisals from all-powerful criminals.

Extreme washing up

In marked contrast to most household chores, I've always loved washing up. Even with a dishwasher to hand, there's something just too tempting about rinsing and scrubbing a dirty plate or pan within moments of it's having been used, knowing how much quicker and easier it is to clean before the goo and gunge has a chance to set. In fact I find it therapeutic and even an aid to post-prandial digestion. Of course, like all "experts" I have my tried and tested techniques and my strict prohibitions (don't even think of dumping unrinsed dirty dishes into a sink-full of soapy water, do pre-clean with kitchen roll, make tactical use of the long soak and always think aeration when drainng !).

The hills, the hills !

Walking in central Sao Paulo again today, we found ourselves ascending a hill that I'm sure you could bungee jump off. Before I lived here I had no idea SP included such mountainous terrain, and I'm talking San Francisco steep, perhaps even steeper in places ? But unlike its US counterpart, Sao Paulo manages to combine near-vertical hills with useless infrastructure, such as barely existing sidewalks which suddenly morph into giant, clumsy steps, perhaps with a fat telegraph pole stuck slap-bang in the middle of the pavement. These kind of pedestrian delights make pushing a baby buggy uphill much more of a danger than a workout.

Opium of the people

Yesterday saw a modest-sized march along Paulista Avenue, as the usual cosmopolitan crowd of young trendies banged the drum, literally, for a liberalization of drug laws. (Have to say, it's a subject which bypasses my passions.) Once again Brazilians are nothing if not scrupulous in following the lead set by their Northern hemisphere brethren. Today's march, in the same location, was significantly bigger and called for greater protection of the Brazilian rainforest. Given that there has been an increase in assassinations of environmental activists lately, such demonstrations serve a doubly serious purpose.

ArgenTea

Sitting in a beautifully designed cafe called Tea Connection. It's in the upmarket, central area of Jardins, which may imminently become our new home, at least temporarily. It's the second time we have visited this cafe.

On the first occasion we had a longish chat with one of the Argentine owners, who were making their first move to expand the chain outside of Buenos Aires. It reminded me of some of the tea houses in London - indeed, the logo looks slightly too close for comfort to at least one of them.

The fact that it has free WiFi, hence this live blog post, is in itself cause for wild celebration here in the WiFi desert that is Sao Paulo. But the thing that really stands out is the style. Beautiful Argentine style.

Is it just because Argentina kept much stronger ties to Europe ? I remember on our recent trip to Buenos Aires being blown away by the quality and style in general. Yet when I visited BA many years ago, direct from London, I don't remember being so impressed.

Conclusion: too long in style-and-quality-challenged Brazil tends to make you go a bit giddy when certain living standards are reinstated.

By the way, the tea is a wide range of exotic concoctions but I find the fruit-infused water - subtle, refreshing and low in added sugar - even tastier.

A tale of two employees

Two people left their jobs on Friday. Let us compare and contrast.

Maria, our now former nanny, has become a recent feature on this blog thanks to suspicions swirling around the violent robbery but also because of my forced intimacy with her in my role as house husband.

Maria was better than the first nanny, but that's not saying much. She was a grandmother, while her predecessor was younger and without children. Sadly, both seemed to come with typical Brazilian nanny qualifications, ie a bit of very narrow life experience. They were unable or unwilling to learn and adapt and seemed stubborn as mules in doing things their way, or as they put it, the Brazilian way.

Ignorance isn't about how much you don't know; it's about how much you don't want to know.

Decline and fall

While all the soap-opera melodramas have been going on, a much more subdued but ultimately bigger drama has been rumbling under the surface. Namely, visas, passports, citizenship, identity.

My son could have been born in the UK had his mother decided to stay three more months. Then the vastly-abused benefits system and all the panoply of British citizen rights and human rights would have been at our mercy, despite his mother not being a British citizen. When it comes to birth, as with property, think: location, location, location.

Strangled by superstition

Whoever's writing the script for the drama into which I have stumbled is getting a bit drunk on non-stop thrills. The latest is P now telling me that Maria, the nanny, was woken up at 3am last night by the ghost of our landlady's allegedly murdered husband, who was trying to throttle her (Maria). The nanny hates football but loves religion.

Since P also has a tendency to superstition, like most Brazilians, she was quick to see this as confirmation of her own previous encounter with said unhappy spirit. This was apparently one night when we heard a noise in the adjacent bedroom (now Maria's room). I don't recall the incident as dramatically but probably more as just another example of random noises that all buildings, and especially really crappy semi-derelict ones like this make.

Cops or robbers ?

With plans to return to the UK being sabotaged on an almost hourly basis by endless visa headaches, yesterday was intense. Long chats with lawyers, emails to the embassy ... and then the intercom buzzes.

I feel more and more like an unwitting actor in a thriller. Answer intercom phone and don't understand the voices at other end. Go down to first floor and buzz my one and only neighbour but of course, in true thriller fashion, she's not in. Go tentatively down long corridor to our building's front door and try to make out figures on other side of the frosted glass. Can't.

Up, up and away !

When people talk about a baby's first words, and whether they might be mu-ma or da-da, mae or pae, shouldn't they be equally, or more, excited by the first sign of comprehension ? Just now I think we had clear evidence of Sam the linguist. "Balloon" ... "ba-loon", says I, while holding him a few feet away from the delightful object which we bought in Buenos Aires and which has been a source of (rather violent) fascination for him ever since. And on hearing the word, in marked contrast to the many previous occasions, he turns his head away from my face and towards said object. Gulp. I think we just created our own little piece of history. 8.15am, Tuesday June 14, 2011, 8.5 months after entering the world, Sam now sets sail on a voyage of verbal discovery.

PS: Retried experiment a couple more times and, no question, he associates the word with the object. Eureka !

Mutant mosquito

I can't believe what has just happened. It's after midnight, baby asleep, me reading, P trying to sleep, the orange light of our electric heater shining brightly from across the room. In the insane microclimate of our flat we are concerned that Sam may have caught a cold. You get the picture, it's unpleasant and wintry, even though outside during the day it still feels at least springlike. Just another weird fact of life here. Anyway, P suddenly says: did you hear that ? She's convinced there is a mosquito. I say, that's impossible, the change of season has ensured an end to that nocturnal nightmare. But I look anyway and see nothing. Assume it can't have been. Sure enough, five minutes later she hears the evil noise once more. This time it's all lights on and a more thorough check. As I'm doing so I realize I've received a nasty bite on my index finger. Can see no mosquito until ... WTF ?! Hiding on the wall next to her pillow is some kind of giant mosquito. Thank heavens its post-prandial agility is not so great, and thank heavens too that my electric tennis racquet thing is still charged up, so that I am able to electrocute the b*stard and ensure he fries. I can't risk him not being dead. I am at my wit's end with this country: HOW do we get a giant mosquito when we have to have a heater burning all night to stay warm ?!

Think global, act louco

The nanny didn't arrive at 9am as she had solemnly promised when she was given early leave on Friday afternoon. Nor did she phone to tell us why she wasn't here. Luckily, P, who is working a long and busy day in a bank, found her number and called, to be told that there was a bus strike (can any local resident confirm this ?) affecting her journey. Apparently it's a massive 3 hour commute to our place, via two buses and the usual insane traffic, hence her preference for sleeping over here Monday to Friday.

Next time I'll be better prepared ...

A local shop supplies the very latest in riot police fashion. To be fair, there is a major police station on Tiradents square. Talking of security, I've been spending too much time in the local branch of HSBC today (more of which in next post) and noted the paranoid defenses. Was kept waiting far too long for someone to open the door marked "disabled" (a very rare concession in SP, which basically means anyone who has to push any kind of wheeled object on these impossibly unfriendly sidewalks and entrances). As ever, there is no sense of urgency. On subsequent return visits, sans push chair, I kept getting stuck in the revolving door, which was having a hard time understanding it's raison d'etre. The security guards floating around had suspicious eyes and wore bullet proof vests. I was reminded of the couple of occasions I have seen armed guards delivering cash to banks in SP. They actually had their guns drawn, looking for all the world like some kind of desperadoes from the Wild West. On second thoughts, that seems an entirely appropriate description of all money men in Sao Paulo.

PS: Oh, how I miss my iPhone camera. The one on this iPad is pretty useless and I feel daft using a great big tablet as a camera.

Not falling for it

Finally made it to MASP, the famous red-and-grey concrete box on stilts in central Sao Paulo. As with museums in general, and Sao Paulo museums in particular, I went reluctantly, more interested in getting to the big fat Bovinus buffet afterwards, located a brisk walk away down Avenida Paulista.

From digital to dark age

How many material losses before you completely lose the plot ? We left our one and only remaining digital device, an iPad, in a taxi last night. Spent much of the night insomniac and with no clue as to the time, since watches also stolen. Local internet cafes closed. Thankgod we still had the telephone, albeit a horrible line. Managed to get sister across the sea to log into my Facebook and provide key phone number, of our hosts Angelica and Mark, leading to contact with taxi driver (thankfully a personal contact of theirs rather than anonymous) and return some hours later of iPad, for a handsome carriage fee. Am writing on it now. Another unwelcome reminder of the thin thread by which our (digital) lives hang.

And for my hundredth post ...

This morning my Nationwide debit card decided not to work, leaving me with 2.2 reais. I needed 2.9 for a one-way tube ticket to Higienopolis to teach my English class and earn 50 reais (c. £20). I considered begging but then tried the metro station ticket office where I hoped they would accept a credit card. They didn't. But to my pleasant surprise, the man took pity on me and my perhaps dubious mugging story and waived the remainder. Enjoy the rest of your stay, he said, thinking I was here for a few days rather than 7.5 months. Did I imagine he had a slightly sorrowful or even ashamed look ?

Power to the people

Today saw the second power cut in two days, albeit much, much longer than yesterday's (hours rather than minutes). Obviously a by-product of the endless rain, thunder and lightning which seem to have resumed after an unaccustomedly long break. If I was a travel writer I might welcome this plunge into darkness as a "colourful" detail of life in "colourful" Brazil (did someone mention "the soft racism of low expectations" again ?). Ditto the latest leak, coming through the strip light in our kitchen. But back in the real world, I / we have a baby to look after, feed, amuse and keep warm. Life in boring old monochrome would be very welcome. ( I noticed, btw, on a walk around our local streets that not all the restaurants and shops had lost power.)

The best kind of Brazilians

Sam's Brazilian grandmother and uncle unexpectedly arrive, worried and angry. She keeps shaking her head and saying, "There's something very strange about it ..." Sam is lucky to have some of the warmest and kindest people you could hope to meet as his Brazilian-side family. And I've been lucky to have them, too.

An inspector calls

Every nook and cranny forensically examined and a series of dazzling, deductive questions fired off ... or not. But they seemed nice enough and I'm sure his quip about Scotland Yard on leaving must have been funny.

Invasion of the booty snatchers

I, my son and his nanny were just held at gun point in our home by two low lifes. Priscila had always said to me, wait until all the "booming Brazil" brigade get violently mugged, then they'll change their tune. Well, after "helping" the invaders with their "shopping" we were tied up, hands and feet and gagged. Thankfully they were satisfied with taking large amounts of cash, iPhones, iPods, net books and other assorted things, which I've yet to itemise. Great that they missed this iPad even though it was sitting in clear view on the table. I thought it might be the end, City of God and all that, and no accounting for drug-crazed sadism.

The child within and without

They say the reason time goes by faster as an adult is because, unlike children, we are too familiar with our surroundings. The way to slow time down is to recreate childhood by opening yourself to new experiences on a daily basis. This phenomenon is most obvious when you travel. I have been "traveling" for some time now, and since I have also experienced life through the eyes of a newborn, witnessing giant leaps in his life in a period of time through which my former self would have sleep-walked, I can confirm that by becoming doubly childlike, this busier life has indeed slowed down. Gives new meaning to "more haste, less speed."

Medium was the message

The rise of TV and mass-media in the '60s prompted this infamous phrase by Marshall McLuhan. Mybe it was childish enthusiasm and neophilia that made him more excited by the genie's bottle than by what came out of it. But the "love of the new" has been with us ever since.

Bionic baby

I have of course been living in at least two new countries simultaneously. The other is first-time fatherhood. In the past two weeks, or maybe three, my eight and a bit month boy has suddenly transformed into a Staffordshire Terrier, phenomenal muscle power where before there was none.

More southern-hemisphere "hay fever"

I last mentioned this strange mirroring phenomenon in April, when I usually get my first intense dose of hay fever in the UK. May, just as in the UK, was quiet, but June so far is a nasal nightmare, with chronic sneezing and runny nose. This can happen at all times of the day but seems especially bad at night and early morning, like right now, at 6am. P tells me that growing up here she would call it autumnal Rhinitis (she also is a bit sneezy now but not on my scale). It seems to me, as a hay fever detective, that there is something going on here which links the two hemispheres - the same kind of pollen or something occurring in spring / summer in the UK and in autumn / winter over here. Whatever it is, my nose needs a break !

Toilet humour

How cheap can you get ? Not as cheap as our damn landlords. They have just replaced the toilet, which took several days because that's how long it takes for a bit of concrete to dry here. Why the hell were they using concrete ? Because it's Brazil where you need a very good reason not to use concrete !

Why did they change the toilet, since doing anything to enhance our existence in this death trap of a flat is like getting blood out of a stone ? Because every time we flushed it caused water problems in their flat below. So they changed the toilet, with great reluctance, but stopped short at providing a toilet seat. That non-essential luxury is apparently to come out of our pocket. Or so I was informed by the not-very-handyman who did the work and whom I had to ask to refrain from taking fag breaks in our bathroom,

Do we want a toilet seat ? I've been wondering whether perhaps we can re-imagine our toilet a bit like trendy cyclists in London re-imagine their bicycles: stripped down to the bare minimum. Perhaps it's even more hygienic not having a seat under which germs collect ? But at least one of the two females in this household would prefer a good old-fashioned toilet seat. The nanny didn't seem bothered when I asked her.

Failing infrastructure but funky uniforms

Parking police. But impressively sporty and colorful workwear also applies to bin men and other municipal workers. Ironically they look much more professional than their counterparts in the UK.

Brasil: where crap clothes cost more

£62 or $101 for this rag. If only it was the exception.

Still life in light park

My local. Used to be a den of vice and criminality, notably drugs, prostitution and mugging. The sex trade is still very much on display, but in I suppose a Brazilian way: obvious but low-key. The park's inhabitants are either painted ladies of a certain age (past their prime, if they ever had one) or their punters, or other assorted simple folk, all a bit raggedy. But the most salient feature of Parque da luz is ... the quiet. It's almost still life, hypnotic in it's calmness.

Locked-in syndrome

These days I don't feel like quite so much of a prisoner in Brazil as before. But my apartment is determined to maintain the incarceration theme. This morning P inadvertently left for work with both sets of keys, meaning that I, the nanny and my son were all locked inside this surreal, crumbling fortress of a building. Despite having to cancel an English class I was due to give, I was surprisingly philosophical about our fate, certainly more so than on previous occasions. P arranged for a courier to bring the keys over and soon enough we were able once again to inhale the sweet scent of freedom. Ah, liberdade !

Professors of Bom Retiro, unite !

Yesterday lunchtime in Tiradents Square, teachers at the local Fatec technical college were staging a protest over low wages, accompanied by some ear-splitting fireworks, launched by someone in the crowd. Seems the current burst of inflation is starting to take the shine off booming Brasil. Incidentally, when I asked Maria, the nanny, why she thought Pampers nappies here cost significantly more than in the UK, she said "Inflation". I said, what about political corruption ? She sheepishly agreed. After all those years of "Robin Hood" Lula, Brazil's underclass are still light years away from the notion that they must hold their government accountable, rather than passively accepting something called inflation.

Update: P just back from work. Said tube was much less crowded than usual because many commuters stayed at home today, thanks to a rail strike, also over wages. Yet the poor who rely on trains can't afford to lose even a day's income. Is this going to be Brazil's winter of discontent ? Or is it just business (disruption) as usual ?

Going underground ?

In a modern metropolis all these cables should be buried beneath well-tarmac'd roads and pavements - for security as well as efficiency. But in SP, no matter how posh the neighbourhood, these spaghetti junctions blot and blight the landscape. The scale of such an infrastructure overhaul is scary, and I can't see it happening anytime soon.

Update: Recall how massively high my Telefonica charges are, for line rental as well as calls ? Well today I was speaking to someone on the phone, who lives nearby in Higienopolis, and he said let's switch to Skype. On doing so, the leap in sound quality was amazing. Brazil would probably be better off abandoning traditional voice telecoms altogether and switching exclusively to VoIP. An even more absurdly improbable scenario.

Nanny states

What would a nanny do in her down-time in the UK or US, or indeed anywhere ? I'm asking because our second nanny, a grandmother who started this week, shares the same trait as her predecessor.

Which is to say, they both sit there, staring into space. No reading material, not even a glossy mag, nothing to keep their minds active, apart from I suppose thinking. Perhaps if we had a TV they would be watching that ? There is the occasional phone call.

Of course, this might sound absurdly intrusive of me to want to investigate their quiet, vegging moments. I'm only asking, in a pub-psychology, amateur-anthropology way because it seems symptomatic of the education deficit in Brazil.

No. 7

Livraria Cultura, a wonderfully interior designed bookshop. If only it had free wifi, would be perfect. Oh yes, and less deafening acoustics in it's basement cafe.

Things I like about Sao Paulo, no.s 5 and 6

Actually, not sure if they are numbers five and six, must check back to that post I did trying, and failing, to counterbalance my many negatives in SP. But you get the point, I'm sure. So let's call it number five, and a big hand for the Sala Sao Paulo, a magnificent concert hall just down the road from us, here in Bom Retiro. Beautiful space, visually and aurally pleasing, in what was once a train station and then, whisper it, a political prison during the military dictatorship. But blotting out that memory for a moment, we now have a concert venue attached to a still in use train station. How amazing to travel literally door to door for a concert. Sadly, your typical concert goer in this city moves only by car. The train is for the lower orders. I'm sure the Brits who built this station and the nearby Luz would be shocked to see how Brazil had failed to capitalise on and appreciate the wonders of rail travel. Anyway, going to Sala again tnight to hear an Israeli jazz singer, called something Cohen.

Com licenca, another rant

Funny hearing people say "Com licenca" when I suppose they mean the equivalent of "excuse me", getting past you in eg a supermarket. There's that ornately formal language again. Also amuses me how people not only say "de nada" (your welcome) without fail in reply to obrigado (thanks) but so often it is more of a "Naaaaaaaada".

But onto the rant. Today I enjoyed some bihemispherical stress. It began with the lovely surprise that my now rented out flat in London is late in paying it's half-yearly service charge (my responsibility). Everything else in the flat's running has been managed very well by email, between myself and the tenant, but the managing agent which "runs" my block of flats has never quite discovered email notifications. Since I am away from the UK and unable to check my snail mail, and being somewhat distracted by life in Brazil and a baby, I forgot to pay my March instalment. An oversight that has only ever happened once before in 14 years.