Barcelona breaks my heart, singing for my supper and the definition of corruption

He is perhaps in his fifties, dressed in what I have come to know is the casual wear of a certain type of English man- the brightly coloured jumper ( or sweater, as I'd have called it back in Naija), the corduroy trousers and the lace-up shoes. He is tall and appears hunched down in the small seat of the tiny two-carriage train running into the Cotswolds. As I look out through the window at the unfolding vast landscape, I hear him speak in a quiet, again almost quintessentially English diffident manner, his words directed to the plump middle aged woman dressed in a ticket collector's uniform making her way through the carriage, checking tickets. I do not hear what he says to her, but I hear her asking him to "give her a moment", I return to the report that I am reading on my laptop and am startled a few minutes later as the conductress plops herself into the seat beside the man. He begins to fire off a series of questions which I cannot hear, but from her answers, it appears he is asking about her work- what hours does she work,how long has she worked for the train company and so on.... As she leaves to continue her work, he thanks her for her time in a soft voice and leaves me wondering what that was all about. Is he a director in the train company, or a novelist doing research for his next book, or is he just exploring a midlife career change?

The first time I travelled on my own outside he UK after I arrived here, was to Barcelona, and I promptly fell in love with the city- its relaxed vibe, the mix of beach and urban sophistication, the Gaudi buildings, the eclecticism of the Ramblas the long pathway filled with market stalls and street artists and impresarios- and I loved the fact that no one seemed to care where you were from. Barcelona was my introduction to Spain, a country I have often returned to, but the photographs last week of racist fans taunting Lewis Hamilton upset me.....

I finish the presentation and step back from the lectern, enjoying the heady adrenaline buzz that accompanies a successful speech or presentation. The audience swarms round and then recedes and I am left with the two organizers who offer to take me to lunch. We head for Covent Garden and end up in a dark room, painted with black walls enlivened by bold splashes of red and green- red roses, red chilli peppers, vegetables. We are in L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon and as we take our seats round the bar that surrounds the cooking space, I prepare for a dining experience. In front of us, a large Jabugo ham is painstakingly being cleaned and trimmed by one of the staff, further in, our meal is being cooked. I have a deep fried soft boiled egg on a bed of salad to start and it is amazing to see what looks like a scotch egg served warm, but without the sausagemeat and with the yolk still runny... the venison canneloni is a huge tube of pasta filled with a rich, meaty sauce that reminds me a bit of cowtail pepper soup, without the pepper, and the warm chocolate tart wih vanilla icecream is simply delighful. As I stagger out sated, I can't help but think that I have sung, almost literally for my supper..

It's been a busy time in UK politics with the MP Derek Conway scandal like something lifted straight out of Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty, then the fuss over whether the government plans to tax the non-domiciled wealthy would lead to an exodus of the rich and talented from the City of London and bring about London's demise as a financial powerhouse. Yet only a few months ago, everyone- pundits and players alike were hailing the idea, first put forward by the Tories as brilliant, and pontificating on how unsustainable the current situation was...sometimes I think I must be living in a parallel universe...

Just finished two books, non-fiction that I would strongly recommend. The first is Ian Burumas Murder in Amsterdam which is a thoughtful exploration of the Netherlands in the context of Pim Fortuyn and Theo Van Gogh's murders. It reminded me that I still haven't read Ayaan Hirsi Ali's autobiography. Buruma gets it wrong though in one page where he refers to countries like Saudi Arabia and Nigeria where women are stoned to death for adultery. As far as I know, no Nigerian woman has been stoned to death for adultery, or have they?

The second book is Poor Story by Giles Bolton who used to work for the UK Dept. for International Development in Rwanda and is one of the best accounts of the aid industry by someone who has been there, acknowledges the problems but hasn't become completely cynical. I particularly liked his exposition about why it might not be such a good idea to send a goat/cow/sheep to Africa....

Is it just me, or does Nigerian politics seem to have slipped into a bit of a lull at the moment? I had looked forward to getting a list of the 419 fraudsters posing as distinguished senators after Nuhu Aliyu, a former police boss who is now a Senator threatened to reveal their names. He however soon withdrew his claim and apologized, obviously after having had his ear bent by his colleagues. The pulling together to cover u and protect each other is sadly reminiscent of the way UK MPs have pulled together to defend their right to employ family members as their staff. In Africa, that is corruption and nepotism, in Westminster, its a long and noble tradition that fosters family ties....