A Week in December

I managed to escape to my dear friends on the Algarve for Christmas, luckily slotting in through the snow via Luton Airport on Christmas Eve. Given the ex-pat, transient nature of the community down there, everyone I met had been directly or indirectly affected by the weather - delayed or cancelled flights and train journeys, road accidents - some friend or family member was missing from every festive gathering. I came home yesterday, delayed, landing and driving through a blanket of thick fog as the temperature was rising and the snow melting. Accustomed as many of us are to regular travelling, I think we forget just how complicated, inter-linked and cleverly managed the whole international journey process usually is and that most of the time, it is robust enough to withstand what's thrown at it. Not much comfort, I expect, when you've just spent the night on the floor at Heathrow. And I'm glad not to be flying again, for a few weeks anyway.
When I was away, I thought Sebastian Faulks' 'A Week in December' would be a timely read. Goodness, it was grim! Unlike the Daily Telegraph, I did not find it 'hilarious' though it certainly was 'clever and compelling'. What did make me smile was the description of the Auction House Gala on Dover Street, with its prize exhibit, the £4mill Cash Cow made of sterling bank notes and lutetium, which could be viewed for no longer than 30 secs by each fabulously wealthy guest. Vicious satire, indeed. I shall think of it next time I venture to a contemporary art exhibition - market manipulation par excellence.