Machines have feelings too

If you think your home appliances have no feelings and are simply inanimate lumps of plastic and paint with a few wires and bits of metal, think again. They seem to want attention and get jealous, with dire consequences, if too much court is paid to one over another.

Let me start at the beginning, always a good place to start if a little unimaginative. For reasons best known to my wife, redecoration time was declared last Friday. With her usual approach to turning thought into action the decorators arrived on Monday morning, paint, thinners, brushes and masking tape having spent the weekend arriving like eager guests at a party.

The first rebellion was from our central air conditioning system, which began to make groaning and creaking noises sounding just like it was in real pain and of such magnitude our next door neighbour beseeched us to turn it off before disaster struck. As if in sympathy the plan “B” AC began blowing out warm air only. Service men arrived and performed the machine equivalent of major surgery on the main one “cash, please”, but only the last rights were possible on our so called Little AC – replacement required.

Then it was the turn of our faithful old gas hob; imported from a refurbished flat in England, it had never really been able to digest the local propane gas properly, in spite of replacement nozzles, burners, connections and such like. One of its burners finally went out, so another set of men arrived to fit a new one. Bigger and better it may be, but many a good meal has come from that old hob, now gone for a third life in the home of Mohamed the decorator.

Our fridge freezer clearly mourned the loss its friend across the way and wanted attention, so the fridge stopped cooling and the freezer iced up. Another service man, another part replaced and another bill paid “cash, please”: attention duly delivered.

As an aside, services here are extremely responsive. The cooker hob and air conditioning unit were delivered and installed the day after purchase, the decorator came to give a quote and then started immediately after negotiations were completed, “cash, please”; the fridge repair man was at the door fifteen minutes after the mayday call. But (oh, yes, there’s always a “but”) they tend only to bring their hands with them – “do you have a hammer/screwdriver/pair of pliers/junction box/drill bits/dust sheets”  – all those have been asked of us in the last week. Since DIY stores are difficult to come by, I am amazed to be able to say the answer was, in all cases, “yes”.

Was that it then? Oh, dear me, no! I don’t really think of us as technology freaks: OK, we have a couple of laptops, a PC, an iPad, a couple of iPhones, streaming video and music piped around the house from iTunes, but that’s about par for the course these days isn’t it? The whole thing relies on the internet and, given the vagaries of the electricity supply, the clever bits of electronics that whizz bits and bytes into, out of and all around our flat are protected by a black box which smooths out all the electrical lumps and bumps as Electricity du Liban (EDL), the generator on the balcony and our local bakery dance around one another taking turns to supply us. The black box is known as an Uninterruptible Power Supply or UPS for short. The UPS resented being moved from of its hideaway in order to give the decorators free access to the wall behind it, and became an UIPS – an Unreliable and Interruptible Power Supply. Off to the menders for twenty-four hours, “cash, please”.

Perhaps foolishly we exposed our modem and routers to the power sources directly. “It’s only for a day”, we told ourselves, “it should be all right”. It wasn’t. They did what we all do when our proper sustenance is suddenly cut off, they got all grumpy and sulked. They just refused to pass on the bits and bytes to their usual proper places. We spent an hour while resetting and reloading was going on, in the waiting room of our internet service provider, which was rather like being in a dentist’s waiting room but with fewer comforts and more anxiety. Going in person was the only way to get them to help with the mix of boxes we’ve wired together over the years.

The series of hiccoughs and failures listed above looks unbelievable, but they all did happen in the last week, like some collective mechanical epidemic. The only machine that carried on working happily all through was the bank’s cash dispenser across the road, presumably delighted with the increased attention it has been getting.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go out, let’s hope the car hasn’t noticed …….

The British are coming

Almost directly opposite where I live there’s a “Commercial Centre” with names like “Clean House” (a cleaning service), “Jump and Slide” (a gym for kids) and “Christine’s Clothing” (a clothing shop, nothing quite like stating the obvious).  Friday means happy hour at the Duke of Wellington pub, watering hole of the Brits here and also at the Greedy Goose which tends to be more Irish orientated. Where am I? Surprise – West Beirut. It makes a bit of a change from the al-Maroush and al-Dar restaurants, flanked by Halal shops in the Edgware Road. In all fairness, I nod thanks to our American cousins, who with Hollywood and the internet, are also in there pushing the English language, and I have to smile at the “Duke of Wellington”, named after the hero of Waterloo, and this a francophone country.

But things go deeper than just the name of the shops and bars. Jaguar is, and has been for years, a favourite mark here, jostling with BMW, Mercedes and Chevrolet, so the imminent launch of Jaguar’s “F” series is eagerly awaited. British Airways have bought back the London-Beirut route from Lufthansa and earlier this year upped the number of flights. Marks and Spencer are opening in Downtown Beirut next month, with a fashion show to launch it (the first I've been to). Tescos are back in here via a local supermarket chain – does “good food tastes better at Spinneys” sound familiar? McVities’ Hobnobs, Walkers’ shortbread, Whiskeys galore and smoked salmon are part of the Scottish contingent. Oh, and yesterday I listened to Virgin radio (just started up) while driving (in my Swindon made Honda) to Beirut’s most famous Hotel, the Phoenicia, (part of the Intercontinental Hotels PLC chain) to have lunch with a friend (a senior executive at HSBC). I could go on, but I won’t, so apologies to any brand that feels passed over, but lists get boring in the end and the point is made, I think.

Why is this? I’m not an economist and this is not intended as a research paper, but let me just speculate a bit. Most of my recent ancestors worked in those industries spawned by the industrial evolution; a steel-maker, two cutlers and a shipbuilder have passed their genes to me, but not the industries. Most have headed to the Far East (the industries, not my ancestors), painful losses that have left a legacy, though, of Brits finding what they’re good at, doing it, selling it then shipping it off by sea. The Lebanese have been great traders, and that means buying good stuff and selling it on, Beirut wasn’t one of the Silk Road’s great ports simply as an accident of geography. So, there is a natural symbiosis, a set of points of contact, albeit at a distance. Add to that the catalysts of language, noted above, and the five year long stagnation in Europe making extending markets essential and I think we have some if by no means all of the reasons for the increase in British brands here.

 

I have a long running duel going on with some Lebanese friends about British cuisine with good natured banter as the weapon of choice. Try as I might to persuade them of the rich delight of venison stew (“oh no, you eat Bambi”), that wonderful combination of zest and fruit and pastry called Bakewell tart, the savoury luxury of beef Wellington (“that’s French”; with a name like that – yeah right), the angelic simplicity of Yorkshire pudding and that meaty winter warmer, Lancashire hot-pot, all I get back are comments about fish ‘n’ chips. But who knows, Pontefract cakes may be next on the list; come to think of it, Tescos might be shipping them already.

Happy Birthday Ma'am, Great Party

The British Embassy here just threw a party to celebrate Her Majesty the Queen’s (HMQ) official birthday. They call it, not surprisingly, the Queen’s Birthday Party, or “QBP”.

  

Actually HMQ has two birthdays. The anniversary of her date of birth is the obvious one; it’s easy for me to remember, April 21^st, because it’s also my granddaughter’s. And then there’s the “official” one celebrated on the first, second or third Saturday in June. Edward VII was a great party goer and loved events, but, being born in November, found his own birthday celebrations frequently ruined by the infamous British weather: his solution was to invent the Monarch’s official birthday, have it in June and even then to have a plan A, B and C – the three Saturdays. Though extremely simple, this was clearly a seriously good idea as, over a hundred years later, it’s still going strong.

The celebrations are held in late May or June across all the commonwealth countries and territories, (even though the Falklands might prefer Kind Edward’s November) at more or less the same time and by all British embassies as well. It’s an opportunity to say “thank you” to many, to wave the flag and to have a good time.

Lebanese weddings, as noted elsewhere in this blog, can be massive affairs. This has led to the creation of specialised locations at which to hold them. This year’s chosen QBP location was one such, called Nuit blanche (a French expression meaning “party all night”). It boasts a spectacular view over Beirut and the Bay of Junieh. It’s about 60km West to the Mediterranean horizon and with city pollution left far below, the sunset is of the multi-coloured, many faceted variety that can only be seen from an Eastern Mediterranean vantage point. The closest I've seen elsewhere is while standing on a hill-top looking out from the Isle of Skye and standing on San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, but you don’t get the unique Mediterranean blue in those places. Then the stars come out.

A fleet of London style taxi cabs ferried us back and forth from the car park – nice touch. First stop the flag waving, with stalls offering Scottish smoked salmon, a view of the new Range Rover and many others of the British brands available here, including a plethora of Scotch whiskies. Champagne, of course, was there for those who preferred it.

Down a walkway to the main mingle area with music, canapés and more champagne enjoyed by the two thousand invitees. The only formalities were the two national anthems, performed live by a baritone soloist and a short speech from the British Ambassador, Tom Fletcher, during which he read a message from Her Majesty.

The invitation said clearly “until 9:00 p.m.” but things were still going strong at midnight. About the only thing missing was the lady being celebrated parachuting in herself, but I suppose the embassy had to keep something back for next year. Great party.