There are no men allowed in the Sanctuary in Covent Garden, where I have just spent the day with my (currently literally) fragrant friend K, who gets credit both for this post title and for generally making it happen. It was the final leg of my 40th birthday celebrations and the first leg of hers. Our package deal was called Girls' Delight, which made me squirm a little, as did the house copies of Tatler and the invitation, during my Sleep Retreat, to enter my very own secret garden.
But mostly it was a gorgeous experience. There is a sauna and steam room, and a pool big enough for proper swimming. Upstairs is the Koi Carp lounge, featuring koi carp and lounging. For the latter, there are double bed size cushions for friends, blankets for snoozing, and quite the loveliest ginger and honey tea imaginable. There's also the famous pool with the swing, and a super-hot hot tub tucked into a stairwell.
And no men. Which somehow felt appropriate for a sanctuary, but it took a bit of getting used to. We discussed -- among many other things, of course -- how far back behind the scenes this womanliness extends. Is it a philosophy, or a business decision? Are there men working in the kitchens? In the laundry room? Do they come out at night to change the lightbulbs, or is there an army of maintenance women in dungarees?
On the way to the pool, we passed the Plant Room. As in plant room, not as in greenhouse. I'm betting they have men in there. But if not, what an amazing place to work *that* must be.
joella
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Friday, April 09, 2010
Oh Lord, won't you erase all memory of every interaction with Mercedes-Benz
I'm going to tell you what happened to the car. I'll try and keep it brief, because it's not really the interesting bit, but it's important background.
Summer 1998: M buys Velba, a dark green ex-demo Mercedes A140, from Inchcape, aka Mercedes-Benz of Oxford. It wasn't that he *wanted* a Mercedes, it was more that the ancient Golf he'd driven away from his marriage in got written off by a bus, and the ancient Golf he replaced it with was fading fast. There was something about wanting to have a decent car, something about having the money to buy one (hey, it was 1998 - Things Could Only Get Better), and something about liking the shape of it. There are loads of cars that look like the Mercedes A Class now, but there weren't then. And the early ones were especially pleasing. So he bought one.
Summer 1998 - January 2010: M drives Velba, and, especially after we moved in together in 2001 and I sold my beloved 2cv, so do I. I think it's fair to say that we love Velba, and, the vast majority of the time, she loves us right back. She has a comfortable driving seat, which you can raise and lower and move backwards and forwards, and lovely glowing lights to welcome you back when you press the 'unlock' button from ten metres away across a dark car park. She is warm in the winter and, for a while, cool in the summer, though the air conditioning packed up about five years ago and we never got it fixed. She has an incredible haulage capacity for a small car: you can get a lot in the boot, but if you need more, you can fold the back seats forward in several different ways, and even, in extremis, take them out altogether. She can carry two full size bikes and a week's worth of self-catering supplies, or a whole band's equipment, or a toilet and basin and all the tools, fittings and pipes you need to put them in. She's economical on petrol, starts first time every time, and parks like a dream. They know how to build cars, do Mercedes-Benz.
The only drawback is that when stuff needs doing, and it regularly does, it costs a screaming arm and a screaming leg. The car never actually breaks down, she is designed to fail elegantly, but over the years M spends what, in retrospect, is an eye-watering amount of money on her. Mainly this is because he continues to get her looked after by Mercedes-Benz of Oxford, so various warranties and guarantees and service histories are maintained. After a certain point this becomes economically pointless, as the car is not worth enough to make those warranties and guarantees and service histories anything like worthwhile, but we don't really notice that point passing. And it's hardly in their interest to point out that we could get the same work done tons cheaper elsewhere, so of course they don't.
A bit like when we were briefly members of Esporta, I am faintly ashamed, even once removed, of my association with Mercedes-Benz of Oxford and their Living The Dream, You're Worth It, Finer Things In Life aesthetic. When I go with M to drop off or pick up Velba, we get to sit on shiny chairs and drink coffee from a shiny machine, brought over by a young woman with shiny hair and shiny lips. There are flowers in shiny bowls, of the type you find on the tables at a certain kind of wedding, and a range of Mercedes-Benz merchandise (cufflinks, pens, clothing) in shiny cabinets. Through my head, without fail, plays 'what the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here...'
But the car is not like that. The car has values we share. The car is worth it.
Until the big snow. Actually, until the service just before the big snow, when N, the Human Face of Mercedes-Benz of Oxford (whom I am only annoyed with because if he wasn't actually a nice guy we might have moved on several years ago), pointed out that the clutch was 'on the way out' and that to carry out that scale of repair on a car of Velba's age was possibly not the best decision. So, he advised us, we should think about what we wanted to do when that happened.
And then it snowed. I was the first person to drive Velba after the roads cleared, and there was a strange engine noise. A couple of days later we were taking stuff to the tip, and there was a loud cracking noise as M moved the driving seat from 5'4" to 5'11".
There was no obvious performance impact resulting from either of these things, but the noises were a little alarming, so we booked her in for a check-up. M dropped her off, and caught the bus* back to Oxford. Later that day, they called M and informed him that repairs would cost £1200, including-but-not-limited-to new shock absorbers, tyres and windscreen wipers. This was a shock that needed absorbing in its own right, but for various reasons, including-but-not-limited-to a daughter who wanted to borrow the car that weekend, he agreed to go ahead without much further deliberation.
M's thinking was that this would see the car through until the clutch needed replacing. This would give us the time to think about our options, which, despite N's advice, we had not really done. There was no suggestion whatever that these repairs might not fix the problems he had reported (and indeed he paid over £100 for 'diagnosis').
But they didn't. When Velba was ready, he caught the bus* to collect her, paid the bill of £1196.61, filled in a form saying he was happy with the service he had received, and drove her back to Oxford. By the time he got back, the car was making the same noise as before, so he turned round and drove straight back to the garage.
And from then on it just got worse. M was informed that more diagnosis would involve 'dropping the engine out' (at a cost of more hundreds of pounds), but that the car was 'probably' fine to drive around town. He drove home, and later rang to complain about the service he'd received. There was an offer to diagnose the problem free of charge, but, once the car was returned yet again, this was retracted... the person who had made the offer was over-ruled by the Service Manager.
This same man would not come and talk to us when we both caught the bus* to the garage to try and resolve things. We drove the rattly car home again knowing nothing more than it might be something to do with the alternator, or it might be something to do with the air conditioner. It was probably the latter, said the Service Manager, when he finally did return M's calls, and it would probably 'last longer than the clutch'. (Subtext: stop making a fuss, and go away).
It wasn't, and it didn't. Less than a week later the alternator went bang while M was driving me to work. We have had a dead car parked outside the house ever since, and two more calls to the Service Manager have gone unreturned. I feel he may be the kind of man who is rude to his wife in company.
It's all been very, very stressful. M has been wounded, and not just financially, because he still puts value on loyalty, and doing the right thing, and it pains him when in fact there's nothing behind the facade of 'service' beyond naked capitalism. I am less surprised and more angry, because when it comes down to it, naked capitalism is breaking the world, and makes decent people, who have to work in it, miserable.
But maybe my car days are over. I am exploring my thoughts about this, but gently, as they were formed over 20 years ago when the car keys in my pocket ignited a whole lot more than petrol.
Meanwhile I stroke Velba's flank gently as I pass her, and tell her that we know it's not her fault. And maybe as car doors close, other doors open. To be continued.
joella
* Technically, two buses - Mercedes-Benz of Oxford is actually in Kidlington. But Mercedes-Benz of Kidlington would not sound so Finer Things in Life, would it.
Summer 1998: M buys Velba, a dark green ex-demo Mercedes A140, from Inchcape, aka Mercedes-Benz of Oxford. It wasn't that he *wanted* a Mercedes, it was more that the ancient Golf he'd driven away from his marriage in got written off by a bus, and the ancient Golf he replaced it with was fading fast. There was something about wanting to have a decent car, something about having the money to buy one (hey, it was 1998 - Things Could Only Get Better), and something about liking the shape of it. There are loads of cars that look like the Mercedes A Class now, but there weren't then. And the early ones were especially pleasing. So he bought one.
Summer 1998 - January 2010: M drives Velba, and, especially after we moved in together in 2001 and I sold my beloved 2cv, so do I. I think it's fair to say that we love Velba, and, the vast majority of the time, she loves us right back. She has a comfortable driving seat, which you can raise and lower and move backwards and forwards, and lovely glowing lights to welcome you back when you press the 'unlock' button from ten metres away across a dark car park. She is warm in the winter and, for a while, cool in the summer, though the air conditioning packed up about five years ago and we never got it fixed. She has an incredible haulage capacity for a small car: you can get a lot in the boot, but if you need more, you can fold the back seats forward in several different ways, and even, in extremis, take them out altogether. She can carry two full size bikes and a week's worth of self-catering supplies, or a whole band's equipment, or a toilet and basin and all the tools, fittings and pipes you need to put them in. She's economical on petrol, starts first time every time, and parks like a dream. They know how to build cars, do Mercedes-Benz.
The only drawback is that when stuff needs doing, and it regularly does, it costs a screaming arm and a screaming leg. The car never actually breaks down, she is designed to fail elegantly, but over the years M spends what, in retrospect, is an eye-watering amount of money on her. Mainly this is because he continues to get her looked after by Mercedes-Benz of Oxford, so various warranties and guarantees and service histories are maintained. After a certain point this becomes economically pointless, as the car is not worth enough to make those warranties and guarantees and service histories anything like worthwhile, but we don't really notice that point passing. And it's hardly in their interest to point out that we could get the same work done tons cheaper elsewhere, so of course they don't.
A bit like when we were briefly members of Esporta, I am faintly ashamed, even once removed, of my association with Mercedes-Benz of Oxford and their Living The Dream, You're Worth It, Finer Things In Life aesthetic. When I go with M to drop off or pick up Velba, we get to sit on shiny chairs and drink coffee from a shiny machine, brought over by a young woman with shiny hair and shiny lips. There are flowers in shiny bowls, of the type you find on the tables at a certain kind of wedding, and a range of Mercedes-Benz merchandise (cufflinks, pens, clothing) in shiny cabinets. Through my head, without fail, plays 'what the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here...'
But the car is not like that. The car has values we share. The car is worth it.
Until the big snow. Actually, until the service just before the big snow, when N, the Human Face of Mercedes-Benz of Oxford (whom I am only annoyed with because if he wasn't actually a nice guy we might have moved on several years ago), pointed out that the clutch was 'on the way out' and that to carry out that scale of repair on a car of Velba's age was possibly not the best decision. So, he advised us, we should think about what we wanted to do when that happened.
And then it snowed. I was the first person to drive Velba after the roads cleared, and there was a strange engine noise. A couple of days later we were taking stuff to the tip, and there was a loud cracking noise as M moved the driving seat from 5'4" to 5'11".
There was no obvious performance impact resulting from either of these things, but the noises were a little alarming, so we booked her in for a check-up. M dropped her off, and caught the bus* back to Oxford. Later that day, they called M and informed him that repairs would cost £1200, including-but-not-limited-to new shock absorbers, tyres and windscreen wipers. This was a shock that needed absorbing in its own right, but for various reasons, including-but-not-limited-to a daughter who wanted to borrow the car that weekend, he agreed to go ahead without much further deliberation.
M's thinking was that this would see the car through until the clutch needed replacing. This would give us the time to think about our options, which, despite N's advice, we had not really done. There was no suggestion whatever that these repairs might not fix the problems he had reported (and indeed he paid over £100 for 'diagnosis').
But they didn't. When Velba was ready, he caught the bus* to collect her, paid the bill of £1196.61, filled in a form saying he was happy with the service he had received, and drove her back to Oxford. By the time he got back, the car was making the same noise as before, so he turned round and drove straight back to the garage.
And from then on it just got worse. M was informed that more diagnosis would involve 'dropping the engine out' (at a cost of more hundreds of pounds), but that the car was 'probably' fine to drive around town. He drove home, and later rang to complain about the service he'd received. There was an offer to diagnose the problem free of charge, but, once the car was returned yet again, this was retracted... the person who had made the offer was over-ruled by the Service Manager.
This same man would not come and talk to us when we both caught the bus* to the garage to try and resolve things. We drove the rattly car home again knowing nothing more than it might be something to do with the alternator, or it might be something to do with the air conditioner. It was probably the latter, said the Service Manager, when he finally did return M's calls, and it would probably 'last longer than the clutch'. (Subtext: stop making a fuss, and go away).
It wasn't, and it didn't. Less than a week later the alternator went bang while M was driving me to work. We have had a dead car parked outside the house ever since, and two more calls to the Service Manager have gone unreturned. I feel he may be the kind of man who is rude to his wife in company.
It's all been very, very stressful. M has been wounded, and not just financially, because he still puts value on loyalty, and doing the right thing, and it pains him when in fact there's nothing behind the facade of 'service' beyond naked capitalism. I am less surprised and more angry, because when it comes down to it, naked capitalism is breaking the world, and makes decent people, who have to work in it, miserable.
But maybe my car days are over. I am exploring my thoughts about this, but gently, as they were formed over 20 years ago when the car keys in my pocket ignited a whole lot more than petrol.
Meanwhile I stroke Velba's flank gently as I pass her, and tell her that we know it's not her fault. And maybe as car doors close, other doors open. To be continued.
joella
* Technically, two buses - Mercedes-Benz of Oxford is actually in Kidlington. But Mercedes-Benz of Kidlington would not sound so Finer Things in Life, would it.
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