One of the nicest parts of being in London last week was sitting outside the Bank of England in Tshirt and jeans at 12 o'clock on Friday rather than scurrying around Threadneedle Street in high heels with the rest of the suits.
My visit wasn't a business one so I could sit in the sun and watch a news reporter doing her report to camera while a circle of onlookers commented on the fact that the warm but steady breeze was causing her all sorts of difficulties in the hair department.
Whatever financial crisis the TV report was about (and I never got to see it afterwards) it definitely can't have generated the interest that her efforts with brush and hairspray did. There's something very deflating about watching a TV reporter in action - in real life it doesn't seem to be half as impressive as it does on the TV. Which is how things like the Federal Open Market Committee (FOMC) meetings turn out when they're reported in the media.
A simple report doesn't reflect the angst that has enveloped markets for the past few weeks as rumour, counter
rumour and wild guesses disguised as informed opinion tried to predict Fed chairman Alan Greenspan's monetary policy decisions. Naturally, by the time the FOMC actually makes an announcement, people have already started to look forward to the next item of news and the opportunity to make a few bucks again.
Although attention was focused more on the US than Britain this week, it seems to me that talk about a resurgent British economy is hitting the mark. I went to dinner in one of London's currently fashionable restaurants, Bluebird, on Wednesday evening and the place was absolutely heaving. It was almost as bad as any restaurant, fashionable or not, in Dublin. And, because the weather was warm and balmy, there were people sitting at outside tables in the late evening sun, chatting about Wimbledon (tennis), Notting Hill (the movie) and house prices (in selected areas).
House prices have become a hot item again across the water with houses in some desirable London suburbs having almost doubled in the last few years. All the same, I was stunned to realise that I could pick up a charming three-storey over-basement in Camden Town for around a quarter of a million if I happened to have that kind of sum lying around. That would hardly get you a three-bed semi in some of our flightier suburbs these days.
One of my dinner companions was shocked to discover that a two-bed apartment within a 15-minute commute of her office was being quoted at £160,000. A blatant rip-off she said while I wondered how many two-bedroom apartments you could get in Dublin for that money these days.
Even outside London - although still within commuting distance - prices seem to be picking up. A 30-minute train ride away and you can find a three-bed semi for £129,000 - or less, depending on the condition. I know that people in Britain, particularly those who are in the south-east, complain endlessly about the train service but it's bloody good compared with what we have.
It was entirely my own fault that I ended up sprinting along the platform at Charing Cross, knocking over bystanders with my oversized bag, as I leaped onto the 6.08 to Gravesend (or somewhere). I got what I fondly imagined to be the last available standing space, having rejected the first four carriages on the basis that, while I might be able to squeeze in, the bag certainly wouldn't, but I was stunned to realise that another half-a-dozen people thought they'd fit in too. And they did, although it was reminiscent of one of those trains in India where you see people hanging off the sides and the roofs. Anyway, we got going exactly on time and reached our destination exactly on time too.
The journey was enlivened all the while, though, by people in suits ringing home to give their exact locations and instructions regarding the precise nature of what they wanted for dinner. Does this happen on the DART? I don't use it for commuting anymore but, when I did, nobody bothered ringing home to say that they were in Killester and any chance of extra spuds with the steak.
To the horror of the traffic planners, no doubt, I'm still driving to and from the IFSC, although getting in and out of the car-park has become fraught once again. Whether it's because there is even more construction work going on in the environs of Commons Street, or whether it's because some of the buildings are now in use and more and more people are bringing their cars in and parking them on the street, I don't know, but getting in and out of the car-park has become a complete lottery. You might remember that I spent 20 minutes one morning trying to get in. Twenty minutes trying to get out in the evening is even more stressful. Especially if it's sunny.
Still on the transport front, my return flight from Britain was with BA this time. The delay wasn't as long as the Ryanair flight last time - just an hour - which gave plenty of opportunity to wander around the Duty Free for one last time. Some shops were manfully trying to sell discounted boxes of Belgian chocolates as an incredible bargain. Given the recent food scares in Belgium, not even 20 per cent off was having much effect, although business was brisk in the more traditional areas of booze, cigarettes and perfume.
Actually all I usually buy in the Duty Free are books - with the amount of time generally spent hanging around waiting for the flight to depart, there's plenty of opportunity to get through a quick hundred pages or so. Once on the flight we were strongly urged to fill up with Duty Free too - the cabin crew warned us that this might be our very last chance. Actually, if the abolition of Duty Free means that we won't have cabin crew pleading with us to buy even more booze and fags, or other passengers trying in vain to stow an oversized piece of so-called cabin luggage plus assorted bottles of drink in the overhead lockers, it might not be such a bad trade at all.
Sheila O'Flanagan is a fixed-income specialist at NCB Stockbrokers
