"I've got Patrick on the line"

I recently went to the V&A Museum to see the exhibition of Kylie Minogue's performance costumes. Unfortunately, the exhibition was sold out when I arrived, but I took advantage of the unreserved areas and browsed the store. The store had laid out a number of fashion related products and this imposing book caught my eye. The first name in the list of celebrated designers is Patrick Demarchelier... a name that Meryl streep immortalised for me in The Devil Wears Prada with her imperious demands to "get me Demarchelier".



On the other side of the street a group of people had gathered outside the Fashion Week venue to decry the "size zero" standards of contemporary fashion design. I'm pleased that some people will not tolerate unrealistic standards being propagated by the media and the fashion mafia. I would love to be able to wear the things that appeal to me visually, but those things are rarely tailored for the endomorph. This doesn't seem fair, but then again, perhaps I should choose something more appropriate to wear.

I love Meryl Streep's character in the film. It's with equal measures of mirth and disgust that I marvel at her caustically benevolent decision to "hire the smart, fat girl" for a change. It's all the more satisfying when the said girl realises that it's her choice to play the game, or not. But is it really a choice if you're conditioned over a lifetime?

Farewell, Munich

Munich rocks. Well, actually, it doesn't rock... it's a little bit too Catholic for all that although I've been assured that the Oktoberfest can be a spectacle of wholly unchaste behaviour. I'm going to miss my clever, jovial and kind new friends.

One of the best thing about Munich, though, is how much it's rejuvenated my love for London. I could barely wait to rejoin my seven and half million neighbours. Nowadays, that seems to be rather a nice number of people to have around you.

The first thing that struck me as I stepped onto the Paddington concourse was the youthfulness... an ironic observation considering how old and crusty London is in almost every detail except the inhabitants and the odd skyscraper.

I'm more portrait than Dorian myself, and my choice of 'fashion' extends to those things that I can squeeze past my thighs and multiple chins, but somehow the mod-punks, the grunge-goths, even the posh posers and the conspicuously casual elicit warm feelings of affiliation.

I've been reading Richard Dawkins' "The God Delusion" and it has the disquieting but entertaining effect of redressing everyone as a packet of replicating genes - a complex of behaviours engineered for the purpose of duplicating it's chromosomal components.

In a city so big, it's as if we are little genes, influencing a larger organism, endowing it, individually, with attributes more complex than eye colour... with agendas instead of phenotypes. We compete and co-operate, merge and multiply, asserting our individual wills by forming communities.

Pork for dinner

Pork for dinner, originally uploaded by david.stockwell.

Bavaria does not look kindly on vegetarians. The signs are everywhere. Bronze boar statues along the central parade, menus that include a single lonely pasta dish as the vegetarian alternative to thirty different kinds of sausage. This photo, shot at a store-front in the town centre, takes the obsessive carnivore thing to cannibalistic, if artistic heights.

It's not all bad news, though. This evening I discovered a pastry that is both croissant and pretzel... soft and buttery on the inside, salty and dark on the outside. Also, at the local supermarket I found coconut flavoured cereal bars delightfully called "Corny".

And then there's the doughnuts...

Munich, Day 7

As I learnt yesterday, Munich is in the heart of Bavaria... which is a kind of überdeutsche Germany. This is where the stereotypical lederhosen come from and even today apparently, walking around with a dead squirrel tail extending from your William Tell style hat does not solicit the merest giggle.

So... in a town where you could miss rush hour if you blinked, and shopping on Sunday is considered devil-worship, it's a little surprising to find that many are things are enviably modern and well-designed. The Alianz Arena is Munich's sports stadium and it's enormous, clever and approachable in the way of a giant marshmallow.

The exterior is made of cushions of dry air which can be individually illuminated (but they aren't because it tends to distract drivers on the adjacent autobahn). Inside it's all German engineering with broad concrete passages and masses of steel scaffolding. Check out the pictures here.

Munich, Day 4

Life in Munich seems to have a very civilised pace. It's so civilised in fact that even the homeless people seem to be only half-heartedly invested in their role as failures of society. There's was something suspiciously industrious in the loitering of the haphazardly dressed lady on twisted crutches that I passed this morning.

My colleague and I continue to flail around in the sea of knowledge that surrounds us. It would seem that just as soon as you grasp the finer details of the bit you're focusing on, a previously understood component dissolves into a gooey mass of brain-gunk. Some days I feel triumphant as another puzzle piece slides into place and other days I feel like I'm justs free-wheeling along one of those spaghetti strands on a Jackson Pollock canvas. By all accounts this is the common experience and we can expect Normality or a reasonable facsimile thereof within a couple of months.

The process is slightly defeated by a panicky competitiveness that sometimes arises. My colleague's leg twitches and his eyes dart around the room if he thinks I've gotten slightly ahead of him in the process of understanding something. I should be so lucky. I'm going to switch his espresso with decaf.

Munich, Day 1

It's not even ten o' clock but I'm knackered. The excitement of imminent travel and deeply rooted fears of missing planes means I got little sleep last night before setting off at five this morning for Heathrow.

Munich is lovely. The skyscraper to cow ratio leans heavily in the bovine direction and I get the feeling that people like it that way. The staff at the Munich office are, much like London's staff, friendly, warm, good-humoured and enthusiastic.

We had a buffet lunch at the local Italian (where Holger was at pains to find something even a little bit vegetarian for me) and the bill came to a shocking six euros each. It's easy to forget how expensive London is if you live there.

After a vigorous discussion about work and the training ahead, Jose and I headed for the All You Can Eat 'Running Sushi' (because 'Conveyer Belt' is such an unappetising phrase) from whence the photo comes. Just when I thought I could well and truly dispose of my stereotypes about Germans, a lovely leather-clad couple with the better part of a slinky stitched into their faces sat down across the way.

Between our collective Portuguese, French, English and Afrikaans, we eventually muddled our way through the ordering and paying with touristy giggles. It still tickles me to see a Japanese woman rattling off in German or French. Our bill once again came to a total that would buy you a breadstick and bowl of olives in Soho.

The cigarette vending machines hang outside buildings where you would expect telephones to be and the houses and apartment blocks look like giant pastel-coloured lego blocks. Everyone looks German in a way that seems oddly familiar - probably because Cape Town, where I lived for eight years, is something of a Berlin-by-the-sea.

Blue Steel

Blue Steel, originally uploaded by david.stockwell.

Dave is never short of attitude but occasionally it hits you between the temples like a triple espresso. This photo captures such a moment - reminiscent of the infamous Blue Steel (Zoolander), the coiffe, pursed lips and assymetric, narrowed eyes conspire to disdain where no man has disdained before.

It was supposedly a solemn occasion - the last time I will see Dave before he returns to SA for a few months. Solemnity was scarce, though, and inversely proportional to the amount of Jack Daniels consumed.

The merriment threatened to overtake more practical concerns exemplified by the three hours it took to mash some potatoes. We did however manage to prepare and enjoy four courses including a lemon garlic prawns (eaten with sticky fingers) and one of Dave's pear desserts (the kind that requires an entire plantation of cinnamon to produce).

Kimpton, where our dinner took place, is one of those postcard-pretty English villages, replete with rolling green hills, the occasional copse and a healthy population of horses, chickens, dogs and Mercedes driving retirees.