Man-handle With Care….

Yesterday morning I found myself eavesdropping with bemusement on a conversation between a very quintessential English couple in my hotel lobby as they observed the social behaviour of today’s youth that were passing back and forth, baggy pant and baseball capped, from reception to breakfast lounge.

It is fair to say that my habitual hotel hideaway in London falls into the fashionable chic-boutique category, a mecca for the creative arts and music scene and, being a Saturday morning, most are grabbing a breakfast snack before they go to bed rather than having just woken up. To say, therefore, that Lord and Lady Manor may have veered off the beaten track of their tailored-tweed bloodline for this weekend break is probably an under-statement, however their tête-à-tête on teens and twenties’ taste has served as an entertaining interlude between coffee and croissants and as I shared their morning showcase I have since found myself wondering ….for today’s modern man in the making, is his understanding of how to be a gentle-man irreversibly mistaken?

The simple meet and greet on the street has become as truncated as a text message - ‘Hello’ has been replaced with ‘Yo’ and, whereas the strength of a handshake was previously indicative of the status of man-stakes, the trend today requires a class in choreographic digit-dancing to know when to spud, shake, snap and click.

Men also continue to be uncomfortable when they come into contact with fellow humans, especially females. For the late twenty and thirty something's there continues to be confusion on just how many cheeks should get a kiss on a new face embrace and the dreaded discomfort with the man-hug is a fornication with femininity that frightens them!

As for the boys-2-men brigade, there is no boundary with their desire on attire. Day to night dressing typically carries the same staple wardrobe of denim and sneakers, regardless of location for wining and dining. They have waved good-bye to the tie, indeed it is only if and when the dance-floor door policy stipulates a shirt that we see the subtle shade selection from the Pantone palette of pale blue to true blue, or perhaps an array of grey. (...brief pause whilst male readers of all ages nod...?)

It seems, too, that today’s modern man has forgotten how to court – he doesn’t do dates, to send flowers would negate his man-powers, in brief to woo is 100% man-taboo. But perhaps our chaps need to seriously realise that, as long as chat-up lines are cowardly non-spoken via chat-lines and the internet becomes a dependency through which to interact, by the time a virtual relationship leaves cyberspace to make a face to face embrace… is second date fate doomed to be killed by poor social man-skills….?

So as we consider how best to manvest I wonder.... has our evolution to equality come at the cost of chivalry…and, in a trend of hip-hop, have real men taken the chop?

‘Til next time, Pandora

There’s No Place like Home…..

Ironically one of the real splendours of leading a life in the fast lane is, in fact, the appreciation that one quickly develops for home comforts - wholesome, soul-some, there's simply no place like home. For when the minutes and hours of precious personal time are involuntarily invested at no-return across shares of land, air and sea it is very rare to get time-out on a sofa, in front of a TV.

Admittedly the corporate city-commute carries its own comfort, but it is an executive trouser-press type that comes with miniature toiletries and hotel laundered towels, as opposed to home made soup and apple pie. The handcrafted 'Home Sweet Home' sign that should hang as a welcome on the front door is quickly relocated to an electronic screen saver, home-cooked meals come pre-packaged or served by a waiter and the white picket fence that protects a finely manicured lawn becomes a virtual personal ‘surround’ from trespassers on coveted personal space.

As a roaming urbanite, the city-bound Dorothy swaps her iconic blue-checked dress for a black pinstripe suit and wholesome, soul-some Kansas is but a keepsake....

In this version, the calm before the Kansas storm is usually the result of a self-induced coma to catch up on lost sleep. The vortex of the twister typically builds up from Sunday evening and, by Monday morning, it has the world successfully spinning at speed, appeasing only to make the drop back in the fast lane to Friday.

But even on a transient temporary leap onto the yellow brick road (or tube) it is a challenge to be more than a passer-by – in the fast moving reality of the city, friends can be merely acquaintances, loyalty faceless in a busy crowd and promises made are too often just passing prophetics. As I pack up my bags and begin my journey to the Great Oz to return me back to Kansas, I reflect on how unfamiliar my companions on the city brick version of the yellow road are to their movie counterparts - in the city the scarecrow doesn’t necessarily use his brain to think of others, the lion doesn’t always demonstrate courage or morals and, whilst there are many tin men, very few really have a heart...

So, as I check out once more from hotel 'Home Suite Home', I wonder ...who is it, in fact, who really needs to click the heels of the ruby slippers and discover the green, green grass of home...?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Please Fasten your Seatbelt…

With 15 flights under my belt (or wings) this month and a circadium rhythm that is pulsating double time, I thought it was time to push aside my departure lounge coffee and share my thoughts on the glamorous world of the jet-set traveller.

Admittedly this has been a month more weighted in the clouds than normal. My journeys have chartered me across timezones and continents and checked me in everywhere from upper deck to chicken coop along the way, but it is this changing travel class that has made me wonder...when flying, just how much are we treated by where we are seated?

At the top end zen of the travel ladder is fast track security, priority passes and peeled grapes in the lounge. AKA the exec-mecca. No stress. No mess. Zero sleeplessness. When flying 'First' I can quite easily clear check-in to departure gate faster than Usain Bolt blind-folded. My familiarity with airports means I have a precision routine that removes my liquids, laptop, shoes, belt and jacket, in that order, with every step as if the security lane was a catwalk that leads me seamlessly to the exec lounge to grab a few zzzz’s over jazz and fizz before being quite literally ushered to my leather seat (soon to be extended to a bed). Air hostessing for the gold-card holder is as we knew it before the spills of the no-frills – the butler-esque, personalised silver service that treats your taste buds with food that fulfils as if it was cooked from your grand-mother’s secret recipe. High priced yes, but high life ohhh-yes.

At the bottom end, be prepared for slow to no-go.

Sitting in the bedlam of London’s Heathrow at mid-term break is a flashback to the summer of holiday hoards. Security lines are 3 times longer than normal and move at snail pace as the city-break masses grind movement to a halt. A lack of security readiness is not cured by an apology (so probably best to save it) but be the perpetrator of the body search grid-lock and do not expect pleasantry of any sorts.

Pre-flight coffee is further delayed by the barista queue for kiddie frapps and smoothies and if you are lucky enough to find a seat you are likely to acquire some form of jammy hand print on one or more of your gadgets or your dry clean only suit. Probably both.

On board the sardine-packed tin, I’m not sure if there is a lack of journeying respect for fellow travellers or if it is in fact the folly of infrequent flying, but there should be rules for head-butting with a recliner seat and limits on the number of toilet visits you take if you choose to sit at an economy window.

So as I impatiently tap my foot in the queue to retrieve my overhead hand luggage I wonder...Is the trick of travelling dependent on the ticket you travel on, or have we commoditised travel in the air to the point that nobody cares? I certainly do. Do you?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Service is Not Included…

This week has found me in New York, the city that never sleeps and whose insomnia is powered by coffee-consumption on every corner to cater to the tourist and traveller from dusk to dawn. Assuming, that is, that you include a pre-defined percentage for every moment of pleasure and leisure in your payment!

The tipple of tipping, US style, is of course an assumed line item to any bill, regardless of service. I confess that I am not typically an advocate of acceptance ‘in advance’. When ‘in Rome’ (or New York in this intance) I do tend follow suit of local custom but, if honest, I believe that tipping should be a reward for a return, not a presumed pre-payment for the simple practicing of purveyance regardless of the standards this provides. Indeed, as a frequent traveller and someone who has an inherently high dependency on the help of hotelier hosts and hospitality, I have developed my own Michelin-esque merits on what determines the star rating between standards, satisfaction and success…as well as what frankly just sucks.

This week, however, I have been inspired by the hospitable nature of the New Yorker. Service is always with a smile and, even if that means that it comes with a supplement with or without compliment, there is undoubtedly a sense of sentiment that is second to none. However, just as I have spent this week submersed in the synchronicity of superior service in the social sense, it has caused me to look at the people around me and I have reflected on just how much we play (or not) by these rules in our personal lives and wonder... do we truly do onto others what we would have done onto ourselves…?

If street service has an expectation of a proverbial smile as standard, why is it that making a contribution of kindness to our inner circles it is often conveniently discounted?

Despite living in a world that encourages goodwill and to give generously it often seems that the satisfaction to be gained from the gesture of a personal gift is now just a hopeful cherry on the cake, served with a disappointing reality that despite goodwill we do not always get the sugar coated topping from giving the treat.

The power of an unspoken thank-you can be the most rewarding silence you can ever hear yet strangely for the recipient they are often some of the hardest words to utter. So, as I distribute my own gestures of goodwill this week, I wonder, have we become so programmed in verseing our gratitude gratuitously on a comments card that we have forgotten the courtesy to do the same in a greetings card, or is it just a fact that the joy of giving has suddenly become the joy of taking....plus 15%?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Life’s a Beach…

Today my travels have taken me tropical. Tropi-local, actually. Kind of like a day at the beach but on the high street, sunbathing without the heat wave. In lieu of my typical 5 hours in an airplane cabin, today I have spent 5 minutes in a sunshine cabin. A tanning booth – the concorde flight-path for an overall tan, sun-kissed in seconds.

Off-boarding my tanning tardis I exit with a glow that would make Willy Wonka’s Umpa Lumpa’s proud, without the sizzle of a sun-bed and safely sprayed without the risk of harmful rays. Simultaneously, however, as I leave I am surprised to see how a queue grows for this quick glow-to-go and it is this tan-thusiasm that has rallied my reflections to wonder about the nation's addiction to the infamous tanorexia and indeed what is it that has driven us all to be such a fan of a fake tan…?

In an environment that is more electronic than ecological, we are encouraged to embrace the eco-nomics of our ergonomics – our gasoline is unleaded, our packaging is biodegradable, bottles are recycled, our kitchen basics are organic, our offices are paperless and as a result our carbon footprints are gradually reduced. But are we as equally e-conscious about our eco-selves as we are for our eco-system?

Programmed to protect our personal packaging from the problematic penetration of the sun and the ageing attack of the elements, today's eco warrrior is just as focussed on our physical well being as we are on our coastlines and countryside.  

Slowing down the effects of time has become an industry in itself and our investment is a small price to pay to save the person from the perils, as well as the planet. The return on the personal investment has short term gain, as well as protecting our future asset – a trip to St Tropez can be as convenient as a trip to the local convenience store, a Barbados bronze is more easily acquired from a bottle than from a beach, and the only place to endure turning and burning is the barbeque rather than the beach towel.

Conversely and somewhat ironically, however, the price we have to pay for this type of sun gone wrong can take a little longer to recover the loss. A glow gone glorange needs patience and time to reduce the redness, not aloe vera. Lesson learned - glo with caution…

So, as I watch my Umpa Lumpa siblings appear one by one from the bronzing booth to dance the tango, I am left to wish for the bliss of a successful sun kiss in 24 hours' time and wonder, in an effort to go green in our physical lives are we running the risk of turning orange in our personal lives?

 ‘Til next time, Pandora

Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda….

If ever there was one man who knew a thing or two about life it was Albert Einstein. A rather random male muse for my meandering mind, I admit, but as I find myself today amidst the quagmire of yes-no-maybe mayhem of a seasonal spring clean, never have his sage words of wisdom been more apt…

Einstein tells us there are 3 rules of work: ''Out of clutter find simplicity; From discord find harmony; In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.”

For me spring cleaning is ubiquitous to the seasons, and as frequent as time allows. Controversially, to live so much of life from a mini mobile wardrobe on wheels, it almost borders on the ridiculous just how much excess baggage you can actually acquire along the way. But there comes a time when the garage door (or the suitcase) just won’t close anymore and the only thing to do is get ready for the boot sale and donate the rest to charity.

Through observing Einstein rules #1 and #2, I have in fact succeeded in metamorphosing the science of de-cluttering into an art. My religious ritual for riddance is duly and divinely correlated to the healing power of my equally religious retail therapy. Make space. Replace.

Whilst there is something refreshingly rejuvenating in re-arranging your wardrobe with new additions, tags still on, Einstein's #3 goes beyond the material things in life and despite life's hectic pace, for this rule the ostrich must pull its head from the sand to find, or make, the space to re-place and keep the proverbial glass half-full.

Categorising clutter into yes and no is fairly simple but, regardless of the boredom from hoarding, are we all guilty of protecting the 'maybe'….just in case? These decisions are never just as straightforward - its always exciting to step out in new shoes, but there is a lot to be said for the comfort of the classics that never go out of style.

As I consider the difficult destiny of the maybe pile I am reminded once more of my movie nemesis Ryan Bingham and I set about the arduous task of re-packing my back-pack within the weight restrictions for the next trail of travel - Wil I wear it, or won’t I? Do I need it, or don’t I? Do I want it, or don’t I?

So, as I procrastinate but promise to unearth the buried treasure from the sand at the next best opportunity, I wonder - is it possible to have our cake and eat it, or when our needs are met, do we actually need them anymore?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Work-Life Balance - Trick or Treat?

In the turbo fast pace of modern living I have often wondered how it is that we don’t actually have more time to spare? Everything around us has evolved to suit life ‘on the go’ – breakfast comes in bars to be eaten on the morning train, coffee is pre-brewed en masse and served with ice so we can consume it before clocking in, drive-thru fast food, e-banking, internet shopping, even our Kindles mean we no longer need two hands to turn the newspaper headlines....

You would imagine that, with all of the minutes we gain every day through our touch-button existance, we would in fact generate extra hours by the time a weekend comes around. Ironically, however, automation does not have a button for relaxation. Life in the fast lane is not a place where less is more, it’s a place for more of the same, and with more efficiency. As multi tasking becomes a basic skill for survival, I wonder, what is the price we pay for performance and productivity?  

...In today's life on the run, can taking time-out really be considered the luxury retreat, or is this an urban legend of years gone by, now itself an essential survival item needed to recharge and maintain our stamina in the rat-race?

In truth, being successful with the accessible actually requires a fine-tuned discipline in your personal life –  2 weeks of global travelling tallies a parallel accrual of mobile massage, facials, threading and waxing to keep up appearances, never mind energies. And when the only regular option for sustenance is fast food it is understandable the high street now offers lunchtime lipo to undo the calories consumed from a late brunch, and to re-direct your fillers to your face instead of your sandwich! 

The treatments that we once considered truly a treat could arguably now be an expense item, if not a tax-exempt benefit, if we are to really reach the ripe old age of retirement. So, as I proactively pre-plan my personal priorities to accommodate my next four weeks working schedule I wonder, is the fast pace of modern living racing us through time before our time and do we have to work even harder to turn back the clock?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Teatosterone Theory

This weekend I played hostess to another client dinner event - the usual business banquet that allows for strategic 'offline' networking yet, despite the abandonment of laptops, still manages to reflect a conclave of papal standards that almost surely reminisces on results past, present and future goals ahead.

Perhaps somewhat tongue in cheek, but these events rarely tend to have much variation – a crustacean starter (I’m convinced this allows for phallic prowess of de-shelling, whereas I tend to opt for the lazy pescatarian choice of squid or smoked salmon), steak of course (any kind, but always rare) and a steady flow of vin rouge (du chateau cher).

Competitive business chit chat never fully relaxes although it gains more fluidity and colour as the wine doth flow and we graze our way through courses towards after-dinner liqueurs. But, just as I awaited the fluffing of feathers that signals the time to engage on the important selection of brandy, port and, on occasion, cigars to wrap up the night, what caught me completely by surprise was that the tipple to tickle the post-meal palate was tea. Yes, let me repeat....Tea.

Faster than we could say one lump or two my conclave had turned Mad Hatters Tea Party, and in true MH character was quickly immersed in stories of limitless fantasy on the chill-factor of chamomile, the soothing refreshment of peppermint and its double invigoration with eucalyptus to fight flu, green tea and nettle tea to cleanse and fight sickness, fruity, red bush caffeine free tea….never did I expect there to be so much manthusiasm for his infusion.

Precariously adding my blasphemous order for double espresso to the tea trolley, I felt like I had somewhat pushed Alice through the looking glass and straight to the dark side, convinced I would undoubtedly face teaspoons at dawn as the Queen of Hearts order me to be beheaded.

But as the table of steak-eating, lobster breaking, wine guzzling machos extended their pinkies to sip their heavenly herbals it seemed our business men were happy to discard their coveted blackberry, as long as they at least had it infused in their leafy night-cap.

So as I considered the working week ahead  I wondered if I was better placed to reschedule my business lunches and brunches to morning elevenses and indeed, if our men folk were turning totally tea-total, is the future of blind dates destined to meet over scones and clotted cream…?

 

‘Til next time, Pandora

One in a Million….

How can it be possible that in a city of 1.6 million people you can actually feel like Number One and not just another face in a very big crowd?

This week I have been travelling in Asia Pacific, countries where the business world follows the sun 24*7. In sync with the round the clock work ethic, business tripping here also tends to push a dusk to dawn schedule of non-stop circuit training between meetings, inner-city crazed traffic and late night working dinners. Here indeed lies the proof that there are more cities than New York that never sleep and, if they do, it is most certainly standing up and with a smile on their face, ready to offer whatever service and help they can, on demand.

Today, conversely, I found myself with the rare luxury of a full day of downtime. Inarguably it is the result of the mixology of uber productivity, insomnia and energy drinks I have been cocktailing on over the last 4 days in order  to maintain the pace but, in the spirit of the cocktail glass being half full, I have used the time to its utmost decadence.

Pampering at any time is the pinnacle of self indulgence but, in a country that has a service culture that is second to none, anything is possible here whenever sir or madam so requires it.

A wholly personalised service starts on first name terms (ok, preceded by sir or miss) on arrival, as if it has been clockwatched to the nano second and a personal butler service for your every whim and need almost levitates you above the ground as you are hosted in and out. 

Admittedly, when your day begins with an aromatic soak in rose petals, you know it can only be good. Even the air is designed to smell to your personal liking with an apothecary of oils and tinctures for a massage that makes you feel you are lying on a lily pad, sole-zen occupancy.

Teleported to the hair salon is a Dorothy experience before visiting the Great Oz – parallel tinkering of fingers and toes, tresses simultaneously groomed with 4 (sometimes 6) hands, and from nowhere more hands indulge you in a neck and back massage that uncovers knots that even a naval periscope couldn’t detect. The power of these hands, combined, is greater than Midas himself, cultivating and setting free a creation of papilionaceous genius, yet oblivious to the magic of time reversal that they are conjuring.

(The nettle tea, however, I might just have to pass on 2^nd time around, but I’m sure it has cleansed me so much that I have probably earned a second ticket for entry at the pearly gates).

But, as I closed the door on my Oz Kingdom, and stepped back to the smoky hustle and bustle of the metro mayhem, I did so with more karma than I had first left it. And protected from the smog in my private bubble of scented oxygen…I wondered, how is it possible to be surrounded by so much but really feel like 1 in a 1.6 million...

'Til next time, Pandora

Can faking it really give you satisfaction?

Eat-Pray-Love is most definitely the topical mantra of the moment, but whilst it may very well represent the spiritual milestones to reach your inner sanctum, in an age of conspicuous consumption, the real journey to find life’s utopia has inevitably become a search for the Holy Grail, with an emphasis on the pleasure of the ‘...ohhhh’.

We have all been there – the magnetic force of the first attraction, the love affair from afar, the lust that turns to obsession, the build up of uncontrollable desire, and,  just as you reach the climatic moment of pure ecstasy .......you have to make the ultimate decision…do I fake it and pretend its great, or go the extra mile and find the true pleasure?

The toss-up for multiple pleasure is a no brainer for me – indeed, the very thought of having a premature e-transaction is a fraud onto itself, a cardinal sin of the Holy Grail of Haute-Couture.

For others, however, it seems the value of authenticity is becoming a diminishing currency, if not fully evolving into one of grand fauxthenticity. 

We may be living in a material world but, in the face of today’s economic down turn, it would appear the pot of gold at the end of the fashion rainbow is in fact gold-plated.

Are we in entering a new crisis where the Recessionista has turned Fauxinista, her Haute-Couture tragically now Cut-Price?

I have no doubt that there are certain times when faking it is not in fact a faux-pas, but when it comes to the teachings of the Fashion Gods, there are some things that should be kept sacred – Dior is not a discount, you never barter for Balenciaga and, quite frankly, Chanel is not meant to be cheap.

The econonists are clear - you need to speculate to accumulate. The chic-onomists will advise that investment today means vintage tomorrow. So, if you insist on trying to make a quick savings, are you really prepared to be that person who carries a Flouis Fluitton?

'Til next time, Pandora

Mile High Club Membership – Sex Symbol or Status Symbol?

Ever since I watched Snakes on a Plane I have to say the entire concept of the infamous Mile High Club has lost its intrigue somewhat. Let’s be honest, it is inarguably a challenge in itself to simply maintain your balance and manoeuvre the bathroom basics in the 4x4 square footage of the powder room in the skies, never mind trying to combine it with a journey to the stars. Even getting in the bathroom door requires the basic agility of a gymnast, so anything involving double occupancy undoubtedly calls for the skills of extreme contortionism. What’s more, with the risks of DVT at high altitude, the prospect of embarking on a mile-high cramped encounter with an anaconda is not quite my idea of a pleasure ride.

For those of us with a regular 9-5 in the skies it is the comfort and convenience of our take-off and landings that is much more important and which has diverted our mile high obsession to the elitist clubs of the frequent flyer.

Many a wry smile and smirk will have identified with the George Clooney character ‘Up in the Air’ , as he compares the perks of each individual wallet-sized aviation treasure - our gold and platinum membership cards are as coveted as our corporate American Express, fast-track check-in and security as essential as a Swiss timepiece for the military-tuned office to air scheduling, and the quietude of the executive lounge is a must-have zen, removed from the holiday-making masses.

For the frequent flyer our home is our cabin, as opposed to our castle. A-la-carte dining is simply a choice of chicken or beef (usually with noodles) and the closest we make it to pillow talk is ‘please fasten your seat-belt’.  So, faced with living from a wardrobe on wheels and sleeping in a different bed every night (alone) isn't it understandable that we hold a secret sky-high snobbery for in-flight personalised service of a different nature?

Leg-room, reclining chairs, porcelain coffee cups, real knives and forks - simple yet luxurious essentials when the alternative is the no-frills attack of the departure lounge mafia, made up of  the one time holiday makers who will undeniably have a crateful of liquids and gels in every pocket and insist on not taking off their shoes until at least a 10 person queue has formed behind them at security. THAT, trip after trip, is enough to send anyone out a plane, without a parachute.

However, for those of you who have created your own in-flight entertainment whilst on-board, wear your mile-high badge with pride, and well done for keeping the myth alive. For everyone else in the queue for the loo, you now know the real reason for the turbulence....

‘Til next time, Pandora

The F-Word finds the G-Spot...

Today my attention and thoughts have been drawn to the millennium makeover of the modern man. As time has elapsed over the years there has been a quiet awakening from male hibernation that has brought about the gradual change from caveman to cool, builder to buff, grunge to groomed. But just as our couch potatoes have started the trade-in for a plush new chaise longue, I wonder if simply being metrosexual is no longer enough?

The basic F-undamentals of the male are changing. Role reversal has gone to the next level – as Nineties Girl Power has broken the female shackles from the kitchen stove, the Noughties have seen the wooden spoon baton pass to our boys.

The Metrosexual has been overtaken by the Gastrosexual - the latest foodimentary man-skill to purvey passion to the palate through his culinary cunningness (…..not to be said too quickly if on your 2^nd glass of Pinot Grigio).

Discovering this g-spot has benefited us all, both in and out of the kitchen. There simply isn’t anything better than a man who can dress the perfect salad and season the perfect sauce and, lets be honest, after a hard day’s work at the office is there anything more rewarding than to know that your man can prepare the perfect meat and two veg for dinner?  

What has been a small step for gastronaut legends such as Ramsay and Pierre-White, has been a giant leap for the rest of mankind, and one to most definitely ‘go large’.

Whilst there is a mastery, however, to guaranteeing a Michelin Star service of such gastrogasmic delights, I wonder ...is it reserved only for the kitchen or is it a case that the true masters either have it or they don’t? The secret recipe to whet our appetites - the art of massaging the plumpest, ripest tomatoes on the vine, adding just enough oil to keep the pan perfectly hot for the most succulent of meat, bringing it all to the boil and keeping it simmering before finally serving al dente. (....we are talking perfect spaghetti bolognese, yeah?)

So, as we prepare to stand more and more heat from the kitchen, perhaps there is only question to be asked….Anyone for dessert?

 ‘Til next time, Pandora