Winfield House

Winfield House was on the telly this morning. President Barack Obama was supposed to be staying overnight at the US Ambassador’s House before his G20 summit in London. It brought back memories ………..

It was June 1994. The secretary handed me the gold embossed envelope and made a ‘woo-hoo’ sound. I turned it over and noticed it was from the ‘Office of the Ambassador of the United States’. Must be a mistake I thought but my name was spelled correctly which is usually a clue if it's kosher. I opened the envelope and inside was a stiff white invitation card which said, ‘The Ambassador to the Court of St James respectfully requests your attendance at a reception to be held at Winfield House, on xxxxxx. Dress Code – Business Suits’.

I was still a bit puzzled until I saw the American Chamber of Commerce logo and then it all fell into place. In IBM, our division had membership of the Amcham (as it was called), primarily so that we could use their monthly lunches to entertain clients.

These lunches were one of the highlights in the business calendar and were a superb way of impressing a client and getting two to three hours with them, when otherwise, they were totally unavailable. Much business was done on the back of these events and so when I joined British Telecom, one of the first things I did was to get BT to take out a membership of the American Chamber.

At that time, my directors were all American, based in Atlanta and were highly impressed when I organised a lunch for them at the Amcham one day and the guest speaker was none other than Margaret Thatcher, who had given up her Premiership a few years earlier. They were even more impressed when I managed to get them both a copy of her memoirs, signed on the spot by the great lady. I still have mine.

I also remember that one lunch featured Jeffery Archer, the novelist, Member of Parliament and erstwhile convict, who also signed copies of his book that day. I recall him asking me as I stood before him what I wanted him to write. ’To Tom Cupples from Jeffery Archer’, I said. ‘That’ll be £50 plus the cost of the book’, he said. ‘What’ll you do for £25’, I asked. ‘Just my name’, he said. ‘That’ll do fine’, I said and handed over my £29.99 – actually I gave them £30.  The money was going to the Conservative party!

But back to the Ambassador’s invite. I bought my then girlfriend a new dress and wore one of my IBM-type suits - dark blue pin-stripe, white shirt and red tie. We got a taxi to Winfield House which is the Ambassador’s official residence located in Regent’s Park and donated to the US by Barbara Hutton, the Woolworths heiress. That’s the US Woolworths, not our bankrupt store of the same name.

Security was quite tight as you can imagine but once inside, I recognised Reymond Seitz, the Ambassador who was quite a public figure at the time. Moira, my girlfriend and I wandered around and it wasn’t long before one of the Amcham organisers whom I knew quite well, came over with Raymond and introduced us. I knew who he was, but he had absolutely no idea who I was, other than that I worked for BT. It was even more surreal when, desperate to meet the Ambassador, some Chairman of a large stock-exchange listed company barged in and offered his hand in greeting.

‘I’ll be with you shortly. I’m just talking to Tom about the state of the telecommunications business’, Raymond Seitz lied, quite clearly annoyed that his discussion with Moira about something or other had been interrupted.  

I went off to get another glass of champagne and left Seitz talking animatedly to my girlfriend. I think he quite fancied her!

Details of Winfield House at the following link…

http://london.usembassy.gov/rcwinfld.html

Obama's 500

OK I know the guy is important, but to have an entourage of 500 people with you when you travel to the G20 summit, is almost as preposterous as Maria  Carey’s demands when she and her ‘support group’ hit town.

Why have a team of chefs with you? What’s wrong with Downing Street chefs then? Were they worried he’d be served a Full English for his breakfast with Gordon Brown which would incite the fury of the Scots, the Welsh and the Irish?

Ok – having a couple of doctors/physicians with you might make sense as they’ll know the ‘ins and outs’ of the body of the ‘most powerful man in the world’ and might be useful if the worst happens, but word is he had enough medical personnel with him to staff a small hospital!

Most people will know about Air Force One but there’s actually two of them  (two jumbo jets) and I don’t know if both arrived at Stanstead on Tuesday but if they did and they caused some delay to Ryanair’s flights, you can just imagine Michael O’Leary, the rather rude boss of the budget airline, saying a few things. ‘What the **** is happening? Who the **** is hogging the runways. Who the **** does he think he is? Two ****ing jumbos – I hope he’s paid his ****ing landing fees’. And so on.

Then we get to the 200 secret service (SS) agents. I’ve been watching them on the telly. When Michelle Obama, who has her own compliment of minders, visited a hospital, I noticed that one of the SS tried to push away a women who was just a bit close to the First Lady. She protested but was pushed away again. Turned out she was one of the receiving dignitaries at the hospital! Then, when Barack Obama had finished a speech somewhere during the afternoon, as soon as he stepped away from the podium, an SS lackey rushed in to pick up his papers, presumably so no one could get their hands on them and see his doodles, which no doubt would have had funny pictures of Gordon Brown scrawled on them and little quips about his ‘bunker mentality’ etc etc.

No matter how you try though, it’s difficult to work out what the 500 do (some papers say it’s 600) but they must have a budget of a small developing country – like the UK – ha ha !  And who controls all these people? Does somebody count them back onto the two jumbos when they’re leaving to ensure nobody is left behind? I also suppose that if you’re a bit of a fantasist you could have, with the right haircut and your trousers two inches too short, wandered into London bars last week, say you’re part of the President’s ‘ring of steel’, let the girls feel the bulge of your weapon and generally have a good time.

But, and it’s a big but, I bet this has nothing to do with the President. The ‘administration’ will have taken over and he’ll probably not even know that there’s 499 people walking behind him. One thing I did notice however, and it was heartwarming. All day on Wednesday, a stream of world leaders and various statesmen and stateswomen entered number 10 Downing Street to meet Gordon and Mrs Brown. Of the hundred or so people who wandered through that glossy black door, only one stopped to say ‘hello’ to the doorman and shake his hand. That person was Barack Obama. What a guy!      

Eds

There I was. 9.00am and my trolley was at the ready. We jostled for position and I tried to get round the blind side of one old guy but his wife put her walking stick in the way. I could have run over it but that might have caused a riot and a couple of heart attacks! There was no talking. Everybody had their eyes on the doors waiting for the red jacketed guy to come and activate the automatic opening mechanism.

The crowd stirred a bit as they thought they had spied him inside, but it was a false alarm, nevertheless the crowd move forward in little shuffles, the front trolley actually touching the glass doors. I tried another manoeuvre through the middle but I was spotted and they closed ranks. There was no way through.

Finally, Mr Red Jacket appeared, the crowd murmured and the doors sprung open. There was no point in rushing now.

I was at Ed’s – the supermarket which is a part of Carrefour, the second biggest retailer after Wal Mart. J is off on one of her spring holidays and I am left at home managing kids and pets alike. So far, so good – she’s only been gone 24 hours but things can change!

J did offer to get ‘the shopping in’ before she went but I decided I needed a trip to Ed’s to get my own stuff and sometimes they have some good plants, so after dropping the kids off for the school bus, I motored the 8 miles or so to the shed known as Ed’s.  

J once described it as ‘a not very nice shopping experience’, but if you tend to spend a couple of hours in there I could appreciate that point of view, but in and out in 30  minutes max and it’s ok. When I occasionally go with J, it’s a study in everything men say about women. No plan. No strategy. Looking at the sell-by-date on everything – even toilet rolls for God’s sake! Reading the ingredients on dog biscuits which she read only last week – have they changed?  Forgetting the kids’ coke and having to go all the way back through the store to get it and then when we eventually get to the check-out, everything is arranged on the belt as if there was going to be an inspection of how neatly the items have been placed on it. Maybe she thinks she’ll get a discount for having the neatest conveyor belt of items?

Anyway, back to 9am and the reason I was trying to pull a flanker on all the old codgers who were waiting for the doors to burst open – it’s the veg section you see. For some absolutely mind numbing reason, everybody who enters Ed’s has to go through the veg and meat section in order to get to the main bit of the store. Even if you just wanted a baguette, a quick in and out for your lunchtime bit of bread, you’d have to go past the aisles and aisles of fruit and veg, before coming to the meat counter where trolleys are casually abandoned right in the middle of the passageway. The nutters who drive little white Peugeots and Renaults like maniacs - they end their days trolley-ramming in Ed’s and when the shins become sore, they cast aside their ‘chariots’ (French for trolley) any old where.

So I knew what was coming. As soon as the doors opened and the trolleys, being used as ad-hoc zimmer frames, moved in fits and bursts towards the veg section, there was an almighty log jam. Wheels locked together. Walking sticks were pointed and voices raised. Some trolleys were simply cast aside as their owners went in search of the best aubergine on display, totally oblivious to the fact that they’d caused utter carnage.

I could see all this coming so despite the fact that I wanted to beat my record of 22 minutes (in and out) I simply moved my trolley to the side and wandered off to look at the plants. Ten minutes later, after several of the codgers had been moved aside by the mini fork-lift truck and the aisles were clear, I wandered through the veg section with not a soul in sight. Reminded me of a nursing home at dinner time!

 

Sarkozy Is At It Again

When Sarky became President, he appointed all sorts of unknowns to senior cabinet posts in the French government including an old girlfriend (Rachida Dati – see post of 9^th January) and some he quite clearly fancied but hadn’t got his hands on yet. The word was and still is, that these ‘emotional’ appointees weren’t quite up to the job and only last week he managed to convince Dati to leave the cabinet and take up another, more lucrative post elsewhere. That’s diplomatic speak for being fired!

You’d think he’d learn his lesson or at least his missus would ‘advise’ him on some of his appointments but nope, he’s at it again. With Dati going, there was a bit of musical chairs in the French Government and the chair which was left empty (yes – I know that’s not how the game is played), is reputedly to be occupied by one Christine Kelly.

It’s not a very French name is it but she’s a very popular TV presenter in France and is probably even more popular when she strips down to her bikini for some of her shows (see picture)? Apparently, Kelly, who has been ‘hand-picked’ by Sarkozy, is to be the new face of ethnic diversity in France by becoming the minister for overseas territories, an especially important role as many of the islands involved are currently suffering severe economic hardship and social unrest. Kelly, 39, is probably reasonably well qualified for the role as she was born on the Caribbean island of Guadeloupe, a department of France.

There have been various denials about Ms Kelly’s  possible appearance in the French Government, with political commentators saying that it was all a smoke-screen to take the attention away from Dati, who was something of a favourite after returning to work five days after giving birth to a daughter. Political opponents on the other hand are talking up Kelly’s ‘appointment’ as a way of drawing attention to Sarkozy’s blatant disregard for political skills and experience when he makes his appointments, preferring to concentrate on how good looking they are.

So – what’s my view? I think Sarkozy has got it spot on. Look at his appointments and his love life and then compare that to the British Government and Gordon Brown.

For Rachida Dati – think Jacqui Smith. For Christine Kelly – think Hazel Blears. Nuff said.

France on a Monday Morning

I had to take J to the airport this morning which was something of a departure for me as I usually only go as far as the bus stop with the kids and then get back into bed to watch Breakfast TV with a nice cup of tea. But this morning was a bit different, not only as I had to venture further afield but the clocks were an hour ahead so when the alarm went off at 6.30am it was really only 5.30am!

I perform this silly charade twice every year – looking at the clock and working out what the ‘real’ time is, so J’s flight isn’t really at 9.30am it’s 8.30am and the kids wont be home from school at 5.30pm, it’ll be 4.30pm. The problem will come when it’s 9.30pm and time for them to lay their sleepy heads down and go to bed – they’ll still feel wide awake and all hell will break loose!  Time to get the studded belt out I think – mother’s away so I can whip them!

Anyway, on the way to and from the airport, particularly in the village, you see the real France waking up and going to work. There are the local workers who all head for Tourrettes’ two cafés/bars for their morning shot of caffeine and maybe a glass of pastis with which they start the day. The same workers can also be seen to be heading to and from the boulangerie to get their baguettes for lunch and possibly a croissant for breakfast which they take to the cafés and have with their miniscule cups of thick espresso coffee.

That’s one of the little things I like about France. Even though the cafés have a small basket of rolls and croissants to sell, they don’t object if you bring your own in and sit there and cover the floor in crumbs. It’s all part of the service.

Then there are the people who have to drive to work. The men driving like lunatics with misted up windows and headlights on full beam (why can’t they see the little light on the dashboard?). The women with cigarettes hanging from a hand loosely holding the steering wheel or, even worse, dangling from their lips and covering their face in wisps of smoke, making them blind to any hazzard on the road.

The maniacal way they, both males and females, hit roundabouts at speed with absolutely no thought of letting anyone else know whether they are going straight on, or round to exit one or two. The woman driving beside me who dropped her lipstick in mid application and without a second thought just bent her head down to pick it up and literally disappeared from view. The grand-prix race when you get through the péage (toll booth) and six lanes disappear into two in the space of about 50 yards and all those little white Peugeots and Renaults are screaming at their mechanical limits trying to beat the guy with the battered old Honda Jeep – me!

But then you leave the hustle and the bustle of the coast and you get back to civilisation and to the supermarket where there are even more workers feeling the baskets of baguettes to try and find the warmest one so that it’s still fresh for lunch. And I think – I’ve never seen ANYBODY out here buy a ready-made sandwich. Why would they when a newly-baked, warm baguette costs 69 cents and you can get fresh ham and tomatoes and make your own delicious lunch for less than €1.50?

Warm baguette in hand and a bottle of drain cleaning fluid (strange combination – eh?), I head back to Tourrettes and come across the guy who is employed as the village street sweeper who looks a trifle less harassed now most of the leaves have disappeared from the trees and he can concentrate on cigarette ends. The cafés are now empty of their breakfast customers and are getting ready for lunchtime, when the same workers once again, will descend on the village to partake of their two hour lunches.

I’m tempted to stop and have a café crème but I can’t – I have a blog to post!