Early London (2)

I had an idea that if I looked at old photos I'd find something of the old london I remembered. A little dowdy but definitely london.






From top: Myddleton Square, looking over to the Embankment, Coram's Fields, a telephone box, caff sign (toast 8p, and remember Tab?), view off Waterloo Bridge (no Gherkin, Natwest Tower or Lloyds building, amongst others), Covent Garden hordings.

Early London

A reader's email reminded me of some early London memories. The particular memory was as a kid in the 70s cycling with my sister and dad to Dunkin Donuts (for at least two decades I thought it was Duncan Donuts) on Farringdon Road on Sunday mornings to collect 8 donuts - two each a white iced one and a brown iced one - to take back for breakfast. The streets would be deserted, not a soul around, just the buildngs, the sunlight and a very occassional car.

We would sometimes pass Smithfield meat market, stopping to peer inside at the men carting big slabs of beef around on wooden trolleys or over their shoulders. Sawdust and the smell of raw meat.

We would also walk around Covent Garden which at the time had many open spaces, where buildings had been demolished, that were turned into public gardens - sunken, below street level, full of hippies. Covent Garden is claustrophobic now by comparison.

I remember riding routemaster buses down Pentonville Road from the stop by the reservoir on the corner of Amwell Street. One time there was a man with one leg - his trouser folded up where the other leg was missing (caused much embarrassement asking my mother why he only had one leg). I also remember a man in a sheepskin coat who got up from the bench seat to stand when it got crowded, his coat being too thick for 4 to sit comfortably.

We used to go to Regent's Park for picnics in the summer. I wanted to live in one of those cream coloured houses with two columns outside. In the summer of 76 mum's flip flop got stuck to the melted tarmac and broke. Which I expect was funny, although I don't quite remember.

Our local grocer was Mr Lloyds (commonly known to everyone except me as Fatty Lloyd on account of his rotund figure). A large man who wore a navy blue and white stripped apron. The counter was wooden (I think) and they stacked the goods in triangular configurations. We also bought 10p mix bags of sweets from the sweet shop. You'd get fried eggs, spaceships, liquorish, buttons with sprinkles, coca cola bottles, bubblegum, marshmallow banana thingys amongst other things. My sister was always fond of a sherbert dip.

Tiger Lilly Love

2 people in white jackets and white straw hats come onto a large balck stage and twiddle with synths making musical sound while we watch the tops of their heads, since their faces are down to the deck. Large screen images don't enhance the music or catch the interest. This is music for movement. It feels very odd sitting silently watching when this is a much more kinetic feeling sound. Those making it seem rather disinterested in it and their audience who in all likelihood are here for the Tiger Lillies.

The sound of a cigarette lighter (the stroke and the flame) is similar to a motorbike's roar but on a synthetic level. Other sounds used were mic feedback, white noise and synthetic drips. Sort of decided you needed drugs to really get into this music. After half an hour that was that.

Its hard to watch the Tiger Lillies in a concert hall - their roots in the two-penny street opera and their early days in the Kings Head competing against the hubbub of a crowded bar and an audience who danced their own version of the waltz whilst drinking and screaming felt closer to the filth, debauchery and desperate-slum-ecstacy that the music evokes. Much harder to feel that in the comfort and quiet of the Queen Elizabeth Hall where the stage, lighting and conventions of the concert divide the musicians from the audience and decree that those listening sit still. However, Alexander Hacke's sound effects, horror voiceover and general demeanour worked very well against Martin's falsetto and the sound of the band. So while I miss the riotous early gigs its still a treat to see them.

Waiting

While I love not having to get up rush out the house cram onto a crowded train fight for a handrail change to the tube fight to get onto the train rush the escalator run up to platform 15 to catch the train for the final leg stomp along the chilly road to the office, I resent having to take a day off to wait for the washing machine repair man. Be here between 8 and 10 she told me. I joked to the boyfiend about betting it'd be 09.55. Its 09.55 now and he hasn't shown up yet.

Of Order and Curly Hair

After class we sat drinking cheap beer in the student union. The group divided into two conversations. A muslim, a jew and a christian (two thirds of whom weren't drinking) discussed religion. The rest of us discovered that we all had a propensity for perpetual motion. I control my itchy feet by changing jobs when it ceases to be a challenge, thus enabling me to maintain stability in the personal and home life. The others had different degrees of flux and stability with home, work and personal balanced in different ratios. We also found that we preferred spontaneous arrangements rather than plans, and being organised was saved for work.

I think its to do with having curly hair. Particularly in times when most people are controlling their waves with straightening irons.

Death and the Pigeon

Walking to a morning meeting I spied a pigeon landing oddly on the street, he instantly tried to flap away but somehow had broken his wings or legs. His flapping had him dragging his body across the street with his outstretched wings. I couldn't bring myself to put him out of his misery, but I suspect he wouldn't last long.

Slag

There's a bloke on the train, checked shirt, cream cotton jacket, black cap, squashed nose. He's pacing between the doors, shouting into his mobile, "ello darlin, where are ya then? You aht & abaht? ... Na, your phone sarnds terrible. ...so yer indoors. You want me to drop the stuff raund then? ... I'm on the train, I'll be 10 minutes ... I'll sell em on," he threatens, "ok ... I'll leave em ahtside your front door", the call ends, fuckin slag he mutters to himself, storming down the aisle.

He gets off at South Bermondsey. Home of Millwall Football Club and a station entrance commonly known as muggers alley due to the fact there's nowhere to run and its a bit like being caged prey. A real life Del boy only nasty.

Wet Wednesday

So its lunchtime in London and I'm walking from the Downside Fischer Boys Club along Tooley Street past the building sites next to the London Assembly Buildings, through crowds of builders standing around in hard hats and waterproofs, past cafes full of smart suits power lunching, cursing that I failed to take heed of the weather forecast and left the umbrella at the office becuase it was only spitting when I left. My hair is wet through, not really a problem, apart from the fact that it is dyed red at the front with a non-permanent dye that I am now worried is running down my face in red streaks. How come I'm the least cool fool to get caught in the rain? I duck into a Cafe Nero and order a panini and a cup of tea. The strains of MC Solaar are playing and the server pretends not to notice my rain spattered glasses, dripping hair and sodden coat, or the smell of wet wool that I'm emitting, or the fact that I am mopping red dye off my brow on a number of paper napkins.

Religion and Oxford Street

Oxford Street seems to have recently become a magnet for religious fervour. Gone are the days of an occassional procession with wild dancing and drums by the salmon-pink robed Krishnas and the somber old man with his placard urging us to have less lust from less protein (eat less fish, meat, eggs, cheese.... the list was very long, and if you did eat less of these things you probably would indeed have less lust but also less energy and less will).

These have been replaced by an altogether more intrusive approach which has gathered steam since megaphone man first starting preaching the need to end our consuming ways and open our hearts to Jesus whilst standing outside Top Shop or Nike Town. This weekend there was a different set of preachers at Oxford Circus. And I rode the number 12 from Peckham Rye with a couple of United Church of the Kingdom of God-ers on their way to distribute leaflets to the shopping throng. And a woman giving out Seventh Day adventist pamphlets on the 73 and loudly announcing that she wanted to bring the gospel to us, particularly some part of John (but I wasn't listening properly).

I get that urge to shrink into my coat in an attempt to ignore the righteous. However Bails decided she ought to start standing up to share her aetheism publicly as an antedote to all this religious piety, but on thinking about it wasn't sure of her wording so thought she'd start tomorrow.

Whitehall

A man slowly and deliberately checks under a white delivery van using a round mirror mounted on a stick, before it goes down the back of Downing Street.

Thronging with tourists, pounding up and down between Trafalgar Square and the Houses of Parliament. A horseguard stands guard without his horse, looking short and overwhelmed by his red coat and helmet, perhaps because we're seeing him from a strangely human angle.

2 men try to frame a photo of their friend so it looks like he is holding the statue behind him in his outstretched hand.

A man take pictures of his wife and baby standing in front of a white building. His camera equipment would appear to be over-qualified for the job.

Russell Square

Today in Russell Square, after drinking tea in the cafe, I noticed a colourful something hanging from a tree. Thought it was a scarf that someone had lost but it turned out to be many colourful origami cranes linked together hanging from an oak tree planted in memory of those who died in the 07/07 bombings.

Snow Flurries



As I travel north I can see the snow fuzzing up the edges of the dark clouds. Cold snap for the start of spring.

Fruits of my labours
A post for pops

The sun is out, the sky is blue (dear prudence) I had to go out in the garden and clean up after the fox who had obviously eaten pigeon for dinner. Don't know exactly what happens but all that is left are a couple of wing feathers joined together and a whole heap of fluffy inner feathers, the rest - skeleton, feet, beak, everything - is gone. That'll be twice I've had to do that now. Then I filled up the bird feeders, which got me a bit conflicted (we feed the birds knowing there is a fox who eats them, well the big ones amongst them).

While I was out there I took joy at the signs of spring - everything spurting new growth and the bulbs planted last autumn coming up, so I'm following the gardening fraternity and posting some pictures. Pops has been away for almost half a year now and is likely to miss the spring bulbs. So here they are.




He'll also miss the christmas cactus' best ever display - all six laiden with flowers.




I feel like my grandad. He used to make us sit through slide shows of plants from his trips to South Africa. Well, intermingled with relatives, which we didn't mind watching. It was just he did so like the plants, and the pictures were just so, um, boring, and he did have absolute control of the slide projector so he could tell you all about each shot. So, just in case this is really really boring you, I'll try not to do it again! Its just that almost anything is more interesting at the moment than 'do we need a curriculum for lifelong learning' which I'm going back to the minute I click publish.

Favourite London Places 2

Sitting in a cafe next to the Globe Tavern, watching working people hurry home huddled in their coats, an occassional train rattling by overhead, a sizzle of electricity fires off the tracks, the blue lights under the railway arch flashing.

I want a bit of magic to happen, I say to Bails. Remember walking in Paris, it was freezing cold and turning a corner we'd come across a beautiful square, find a cafe, sit for hours with a thick hot chocolate watching some gorgeous Gaul drink dark coffee and drag slowly on a cigarette while reading the paper?




Unable to decide what to do we set off on a stroll along the Thames, a chill wind blowing, watching the lights on the water, hearing the still, away from the street traffic. Past the Tate Modern with its silver birches and then taking a peek at the Museum of... behind the Oxo Tower, swathed in flourescent lights. In the park next door the trees are twinkling blue and white. An Oberon in a black leather jacket danced around excitedly gazing up at the glittering forest, listening to the Thames lapping at the shore, shouting to his friend, drinking in the magic of the night. We laughed at his delight.

On we walked as our fingers went numb with cold, past the skateboarders and the new resturaunts and up onto Hungerford Bridge, where we passed a suitable Titania in a skirt made of chiffon and a sequinned scarf. And then turned away from the riverside to find a watering hole.

Hypothetically Speaking

You're in a helicopter chasing burglars through the neighbourhood with a search beam. Can you see into the windows of rooms with the curtains open? Do you have high powered binoculars? Or heat sensitive cameras? Can your heat sensitive camera see through the walls of buildings?

Lost

The Humble Toothbrush

When exactly did the world of the toothbrush get so complicated? Remember when the choice was between big or small head, hard or soft bristles, and you changed it when the hairs bent over?

Bails proudly presented her new brush - the head configuration was three interlocking circles of bristles, each with the obligatory outer blue ring of wear-indicating bristles, and small gum-massaging rubber nodes, plus on the otherside a tongue brush which could be tested before purchase by stroking a patch on the outside of the packet (presumably a finger-test rather than a live tongue-test) and an ergonomic handle with grip. She said it took her ages to pick one out. I use electric because it also times me for the optimum brushing length. I'm assuming all this has improved our dental hygiene.

Road Works

Traffic on Seven Sisters from junction at Manor House is reduced to two lanes in both directions. Queues are long.

Five men in flourescent yellow jackets stare into a hole, hands in pockets, shaking their heads. Euch, its a big job.

The Impossible High Heels

Stopped in the middle of Upper Street, leaning on the plate glass window of gallery, dropping flatties on the pavement from the ample handbag, boyfriend watching.

"Sort of spoils the impact of shoes to impress the boyfriend when you can't walk in them", we titter.
"Yes, shoes that you can only stand up in are not a good choice for a pub crawl".
"Shoes you can only sit down in".
"Oh I don't know, I think I might be able to cling to the bar in those".

Noticing the Neighbours

In a living room opposite, bathed in yellowish light, where a woman once sat watching out of the middle window, there is now a plant. A man (possibly the man in the red sweater) gets up from sitting on the floor, presumably watching the news, and rearranges his towel about his body, failing to shield his arse from the street. Well perhaps the street couldn't see, but I could. He leaves the room. And then comes back. After a short while he must be dry. He gets up and folds the towel as he walks out of the door. Having left the towel to dry he comes back into the living room, still naked, and draws the curtains against the night.

Favourite London Places

On a stroll the other day we cut through Broadgate from Finsbury Square on our way to Spitalfields. There's a place there just before you get to the arena (ice-skating in winter, cloaked in ivy in summer) which has a floor like a video game. I first saw it in blue on my way home one evening, it was dark and I came through there quite by accident and found it. Its one of those suprises that I love. The other day it was fading to and from red as the commuters swarmed diagonally across on their way to Liverpool street station. On the far side the George Segal's Rush Hour capturing a mimickry of them forever in bronze.




I first came here when I was at college because they have a Richard Serra sculpture here nestled between tall buildings, gradually becoming more and more rust to match with the pinky marble. I photographed it for my degree dissertation, as someone passed by they said to me, "you don't actually like that do you?" Well actually I do, I love the fact that these huge pieces of steel lean against one another and hold themselves up. Brutal but clever.

Valentines Day

Today I am at home eating chocolate that the boyfiend dropped round earlier and attempting to write an essay about why we need a curriculum in lifelong learning (will be off the rest of the week doing this). I was very good yesterday and worked hard all day. Didn't even go out of the house. Today I've got cabin fever. Later I reckon I'll go the supermarket to get the makings for play-doh (recipe from my sister) for an activity in my MA module - the things we do for an education!

Skyview

In my 7 by 2 paned office window the sky is blue. The merest tip of a fluffy white cloud is visible in the bottom of the bottom left pane. An tiny areoplane climbs into the blue travelling from the bottom right through the bottom left pane leaving a double trail of vapour that gradually fades until its the faintest etched line. The tip of the cloud (like an iceberg I'm sure if I stood up it would be much bigger than I can see) moves in the opposite direction, until it slides out of view from the bottom right pane, trailing wisps of cloud following it.

I can tell its a sunny day and I long to leave here, to be outside feeling the chill of the air and the merest touch of sun on my face rather than staring at it out of the Victorian school window in my cell-like office.

Big flock (not sure flock sounds right) loft of pigeons swoops around flashing grey and silver as their undersides are exposed whilst banking. A wisp of jealousy of their freedom courses through my body.

Embrace

Under a street light down an alley, he pulls her close to him and kisses her, her body relents and folds into his arms. They hold a long embrace, until his arms release her and they continue on their way holding hands.

A middle aged couple in puffer jackets, with a dog, on a winter's night spied from new bendy 29 bus.

Pictorial Respite



Its been stifling hot indoors the last few days and then I came across these long forgot christmas snow scenes from Dundee. I can feel the chill stillness. Was lovely, wandering in the park, nobody around but us. Looking out across the hill to the town as the dark descended.

Waiting

In a living room opposite, bathed in yellowish light, a woman sits watching out of the middle window. She sits there for hour after hour. Periodically a man in a red pullover comes in and speaks to her. She doesn't turn to face him. He looks concerned. He goes away.

The room has an oval mirror on the wall above an old fashioned settee with stiff cushioning and wooden arms. To the left side of the room is a desk with a wooden chair and a stool discarded towards the middle of the room. Over the desk is a double wall lamp that they used to have in hotels - with the pleated cloth shades.

The man with the red pullover comes back, he is drinking a cup of tea. He speaks to the woman for some time. Another man comes and leans against the door frame. An older man with hair greying at the temples, wearing a charcaol sleeveless cardigan. He's drying a plate. He smiles. The woman finally gives up her post at the window and sits down on the settee.

I wonder if she is waiting for her black and white cat. I think thats the windowsill he sits on.

Our Transforming Street

I think our street will soon look like a seaside town. The fashion for brick is being overwhelmed by pale exterior paint. Large victorian houses slathered in cream, or white, and more recently two that are pale blue, and a pale pink one.

Used to be that those which weren't rendered on the outside and retained their original brickwork would either be just brick or painted in brick-coloured paint (a sort of mustard or dark red) with grouting in black (the outlined brick was very popular for some time, and there are still examples today). Or those who steered clear of the outline and kept with their brick colours. Even the houses with rendered outsides would be dark - dark red mostly, or pebble-dashed. Apart from the one green one.

The cream is creeping in at remarkable speed. Even the green house (a semi-detached whose side is open to the canal) is now cream on the front and back and on the side as far up as the painter could reach without scaffolding (a good two thirds of the side remains dirty pale green, but at least the family won't notice as they walk down their side path, as long as they don't look up).

I like the seaside look for cottagey streets - theres a lovely little street of small houses in Finsbury Park which I used to like walking down, and periodically you come across them in Islington. I like the grand cream coloured houses of Regent's Park with their columns and railings. But I'm not sure we'll ever pull it off here. I suppose its a sign of gentrification, and people do care about their property more now than ever before (which is a good thing). Perhaps I'd prefer if we laid off the cream and went with the other candi colours a bit more - it might convince me a little better. Maybe I should try to get the neighbourhood group to adopt a palette!

The world at large

First day venturing out after a sickness-induced incarceration, spent living vicariously through TV and blogging. Things seemed different. In part I suspect due to the altered head I've been experiencing (severe dizziness has given way to a headache which stops me focusing quite fully). Details are engaging me rather than the bigger picutre.

Pigeons eat pizza. A discarded banana skin lying on someones front wall goes dark brown, filled out at one end by the remaining fruit. A couple wrestle their 2 year old child into a pushchair. I pass a man whose aftershave engulfs me and settles in the back of my throat.

The supermarket is packed with trolley wielding family groups. And by the time I get home I'm very glad of the quiet and stillness.

Pheasant



We've gotten used to the screams of foxes in the night and the sight of them wandering through the back garden in search of food, but what on earth is a pheasant doing in an inner city garden? An escaped christmas dinner? Or laying low from shooting season? And where's he living - there aren't enough bushes to hide in. I'm worried the fox'll get him.

BlogiChef Week
Ode to the Mediterranean Using Chinese Techniques

You can stir fry anything. I like this because its fresh and while you may think some of the ingredients may be a little odd it does work, honest.

Time taken 35 minutes (as long as the rice takes to cook basically)
This makes enough for one medium and one big appetite

Brown basmati rice
Extra virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves (or to taste) crushed
Root ginger (to taste – I like lots) chopped finely
1 medium red onion chopped (I like mine finely but you may prefer otherwise)
1 fennel chopped (as with the onion)
1 large yellow pepper (sliced into long thin strips)
Handful of pine nuts (also to taste – again I like lots)
1 packet of feta cheese
Fresh coriander
Juice of 1 lime or lemon
Splash of white balsamic vinegar (or other pale vinegar, not malt, cidar or white wine)
Spoonful of honey

Boil a pan of water big enough for your serving of rice. I like brown basmati because it has good flavour and doesn’t go too soft. Throw the rice into the pan of boiling water. It takes 25 minutes to cook.

Prepare the vegetables.

When the rice has 10 minutes left to cook, heat some olive oil in a wok. Cook the garlic, root ginger, red onion and fennel until the onion is soft. Add the pine nuts and brown them a little. Then add the yellow pepper. When the pepper is cooked (I like mine to be still firm but you might like it cooked more), add the lime or lemon juice and a generous splash of white balsamic vinegar (this is the basis of the sauce so make sure there is enough). Let it cook for a minute or two to steam off the harshness of the vinegar. Add a spoonful of honey (or more – to taste) – slightly sweetening the sauce. Open the packet of feta, grind black pepper onto the block, crumble it onto the top of the stir fry. Turn off the heat (too much heat will melt the cheese). Toss it in the wok and put it into a serving dish. Tear fresh coriander over the top as garnish (but be generous). Drain and dish up the rice. Eat with chopsticks (if you can).

If you have cheap, easy and quick recipes - hop over to Blue Witch to join in.

Harriet and the Staff Lunch Suspicion (to steal a title phraseology from Greavsie)

Conference. Invitees 100. RSVPs 56. Catering for 60 (Krishna proportions). Actual attendees 39. Conference went well. Lots of lunch left over. Thoughts of being kind, boxed up food for a back-at-the-office staff lunch today.

Staff meandered in, eyed food greedily, asked, "so, who made it then?" Hare Krishnas. Staff eye me with suspicion. Eye the food with suspicion. Then dish some up for selves after they find no trace of bald blokes in salmon pink robes. Honestly, the catering policy was all vegetarian, and didn't intend to trigger mass conversions to krishna. And the food has moved on from when we used to go there in the 80s for a square of pizza on a piece of cardboard.

My What Long Words You are Using

In my work we are striving to communicate in language that everyone will understand - y'know clear, simple, concise. We're fond of the Plain English campaign and attempt to rid our communications of jargon and acronyms. Our aim is that even our ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) learners will understand what we're on about (not always possible of course but pictures help sometimes).

In my MA they are striving to communicate in language that academics will swoon at - y'know clever, complicated and verbose. They're fond of long, obscure words, that only appear in the biggest dictionaries. They claim its to aid higher understanding. I consider my self fluent in English but its hard reading, let alone understanding. Pictures are unheard of, and probably would be of little help.

Best long word so far:
technologicalisation

Going Home and Everything's Weird

I'm on the bus. The bus is crowded. It stops on City Road and two drunks get on, loaded with falling-apart plastic bags, they're smoking. The bus driver asks the woman to put out her cigarette. She ignores him and heads for the stairs. Her boyfriend bundles after her. Bus driver gets out of his cabin and tells them to get off the bus. They start ranting and raving about discrimination. Bus driver man-handles them off the bus and closes the doors. In his rage the drunk kicks the door as we drive away.

Off the bus at Angel there's a man lying flat out cold on the pavement by the cashpoints of Lloyds bank. He's in the shape of someone who has fallen from a building (in films). A crowd is standing around looking at him. A man is trying to wake him up. Its hard to fathom what is going on. His clothes are dirty, possibly sleeping, possibly passed out.

The Stressed Librarians

I forgot to write about this the other week. I used to work in a libraries. Well not exactly libraries. They were in colleges and had changed their names to learning centres. The main difference, it appeared to me, between a library and a learning centre was that the users forgot their approapriate library-behaviour because they were in a learning centre. That and the availability of computers (although all libraries have computers these days).

I wouldn't exactly say these jobs were stressful. Well perhaps there were times of stress, mostly they were repetative. Certainly weren't hard.

My first post, at the then Kingsway College, was given to me by a woman I used to do cat-sitting for. She needed someone, I was unemployed. I was lord of the library for 6 hours at a time, on my own. Only a problem when I needed the toilet. My boss would come and go - mostly she'd be at meetings at a different site, rushing back feeling guilty, bringing gifts of fancy sandwiches and chocolate cake. We didn't have many books, reference only, and we didn't have many computers either. We did have a fantastic electronic stapler - love those. It was extremely loud - people would quake as they nudged their papers into its jaws, and jump out of their skin when it snapped a staple through them. But it could staple 80 leaves easy. There was a lady who used to come to college with her cat in one of those shopping baskets on wheels that people used in the 70s before the shopping-trolley-bag was introduced. The most unfriendly cat you've ever met.

Then I went to work for Lewisham College. Weird mix of hormones in that place - girls would come to college looking like they were about to hit the nightclubs and the boys would jostle for their attention, overloaded with testosterone. If they weren't trying to chat you up, they'd be calling you a bitch because you asked them to be quiet. We only had to do an hour of shelving a week but it was a thankless task. After tidying up the section I was responsible for I felt like banning students from using it - it only took 5 minutes and the whole place was like we'd never been there. Still at least I didn't have to do book covering and labelling. The best thing was looking out (from the 3rd floor) over the rooftops of Deptford and occassionally seeing a ship passing slowly between them - surreal seeming but we were relatively close to the Thames. As hugely glad as I was to stop working there, I find that no other work place has been such a laugh since. Stressed? We didn't know we had it so good!

Southbank

The Thames was high, strangely pale - reflecting back a cloudy night sky - and running vigorously, flanked on either side by lit up buildings. Lit up from below they reminded me of the grotesques of Toulouse Lautrec or the ballet dancing beauties of Degas paintings, lit unsympathetically from below with strangely green light. The London Eye, going round at a much greater speed than it feels while you ride it, was lit with red and yellow bulbs. One pod encased with a hording depicting a performing band - it took several glances to see that it wasn't real. Young people spilled off the last ride of the evening from some project called London Schools celebrating success and that superhead was there.

It felt like Paris in winter wandering along the paving stones flanked by bare trees swathed in twinkly lights with a chill wind blowing. Couples meandering. Joggers and cyclists. A train trundled overhead. And a thought popped up. But this is London. The sky is sort of organe. The trees are decked in blue lights. For a moment I basked in the love affair I have with my city.


Later we wandered through the After the Wave: the tusami remembered photographs. Devastating but beautiful, strangely. Rubble, but sort of directional. Recognisable bits. Large concrete pieces the painted insides lying upwards strewn across the beach front. Wood planks scattered like matchsticks. A boat on top, a digger buried underneath, 4 kilometres inland. A huge expanse of beach, a few palm trees in the distance, a patchwork of concrete floors stretching out across it. Horrifying. But also some hopeful signs of rebuilding.

People Who Talk About Poo

As I went for my regular on-the-way-out-the-buidling trip to our rather ropey lavs it suddenly occured to me that I hadn't had a conversation about poo since I got back from my sisters. Perhaps its people with children that have an obsession with poo - frequency, consistency and related body functions such as flatulance (mostly about their children though, it has to be said).

But then I remembered my friend Georgia who always had a propensity to discuss her motions. She and her friend Ollie once had a mine-are-bigger-than-yours battle over the size of their logs. I hate to say why Georgia won. They weren't good together - Ollie's girlfriend almost chucked him after Georgia and him had been mooning out the back of her vw beetle - ah, the old days, heh?

Embarrassment

I had one of those excruciating moments this morning. Meeting at the train station entrance a man who I thought was letting me go first instead started up a conversation with me, "Hello! Do you live round here?" To which I first must have looked exceedingly blank and then replied, "yes on the ladder". I wracked my brains. This man was a total stranger, his girlfriend/wife was looking at me blankly. We walked down to the platform together, I was going to carry on talking (gradually it often dawns on you who they are after you get chatting), but first I went to check the train times and they darted up the platform. Like total out-of-context blockage. No idea. Just can't place him...

Sitting on the train it slowly crept into my mind that perhaps he was in my MA class. Not a lightbulb bolt. Just a sneaking suspician. And he will think I'm both rude and forgetful. Nightmare. Its playing on my mind. A lot. Sigh.

Online Dating

I've never used the internet for this and was a little put off by a programme that I saw of an aussie girl who met all her sexual partners over the net. However yesterday both Bails and HS independently said they were contemplating joining one after reading that article in the evening standard.

I'm seriously considering starting a blind date game to find dates for my singleton friends. Wonder if anyone would want to play?

Obsessions

At first glance it looked like the geezer with the grey jacket was chucking up down the back ot he pub seats, hand against the window holding himself up. On second look he was studying the Racing Post. When he stands back up he'll get dizzy from his head being lower than his heart for so long.

Two men who work for a railway company talk about their model railway sets. One had just been to Hamburg and visited one of his favourite haunts there - a huge model railway that takes over the whole floor of a warehouse. The other has a set from his childhood which has hardly been touched. Hamburg-visitor only has a model of one of the trains they run. I hadn't ever thought that railway enthusiasts also liked to work on the railways.

The Funeral Director's Convention

Popping into a pub for an after work beverage we thought we had walked into a funeral director's convention - not working we thought (too much jollity for that) but definitely stern looking (all black trousers and ties and white shirts). The barman reliably informed us however, that they were free masons. And very conventional they were too.

January Malaise

I think Christmas should be cancelled.

1. Its always a disappointment.
2. Despite the disappointment its overindulgences always lead to this sort of January blues (no money, no treats, nothing to look forward to, cold dark weather).
3. Even though it cuts the winter in half it makes the second half seem really long

See - I've gone a week without posting without even realising it!

I think I was going to post about my most horrible train journey back to London. Imagine a train, arriving at its 3rd stop (Dundee) on its way to London, already packed, with no seat bookings (broken ticket bookings machine), carrying all the passengers from a cancelled Virgin train as well as its own passengers. I snuck into first class to get a weekend first upgrade. By the time we arrived in Edinburgh the train was so full that hardly any of the passengers getting on there could find a seat. Having started checking the tickets the inspectors were so harranged by irate passengers that they went back to their hiding places and never returned. Passengers stood (or sat in the aisles, corridors and entrance ways) from Edinburgh to Peterborough at which point seats started to free up.

Then I developed a cold (again) when I got home and went back to hermitsville. On a brighter note January always brings back TV favourites like ER and the Desperate Housefraus. So far this year I've spent most time outside work sitting in bed watching TV and knitting (!! - a passtime we took up in Scotland, we are making scarfs to felt and I'm winning hands down - partly because I'm the only one hibernating).

Cinderella's Hogmonay

Cinderella (nee Amy) doesn't often get to go out on New Years Eve, following the birth of two children and the fact her husband works shifts which require him to work unsocialable hours. But this year, New Years celebrations were promised to include a trip to a local pub where the mother of one of her pupils was singing with her band. So on the return of husband at the stroke of 10.30pm Cinderella and her not-so-ugly sisters (one real, one honorary) jumped into the Fiat Punto and hit the bridge on the way to Cupar. Despite rolling over an already dead fox in the road and it being pitch dark they made it to the Imperial in 30 minutes only to be stopped at the door by a bouncer brought in from Dundee (stricter if he doesn't know the regulars - no bribery problems) who wouldn't let anyone pass without a ticket. Cinderella made a mental note that the janni (janitor at school told Cinderella about the gig, being as it was his local) owed her big time since she had expressly asked him if tickets would be necessary and he had said no.

Standing forlornly on the side of the road in Cupar, the three put heads together and came up with an alternative plan - to watch the fireworks in Dundee City Centre (and possibly bump into Cinderella's friend Asha who had been talking about attending). Jumping back in the Fiat Punto bombing back along the dark roads and across the bridge, throwing the car into the nearest parking place, the three set off towards the funfair and the town square. On getting nearer Cinderella was confused as to why nobody was congregating yet - since there was little over 20 minutes to go before the countdown. The only people in the town square were 5 policemen, who upon being asked said there were no fireworks.

Now Cinderella was feeling a little bit desperate as the time ticked gradually closer. But by luck the doors of the Social were open and the bouncer allowed the three to pass through. Inside, the bar was 5 minutes from closing for the countdown but Cinderella and her sisters managed to buy a drink just in time. As the first sips passed their lips the countdown began. 6..5..4..3..2..1.... and it was 2006.

Cinderella, always hard to tear from a party, danced until 1.00 with her sisters, ignoring the drunken revellry, going on around her. Strange mating rituals were taking place - men in casual clothes danced drunkenly whilst girls in pencil skirts and 6 inch heels looked on with distain written on their 50s-esque red pouts.

Then after just enough, the three walked home leaving the trusty Fiat to be collected in the morning.

Happy New Year!

All I Got for Christmas

So Christmas, holiday of great overindulgence, greed and gluttony, overspending and generosity.

The present thing was fun and then cooking up a storm went with a breeze. It was only later when that heavy stomach feeling started to set in. Not from badly cooked turkey (being a vegetarian, while I cooked it I didn't eat any), but from something else, something indeterminate (perhaps alcohol soaked currents and raisins in a variety of forms) but I have been sick as a dog since Christmas day.

On Boxing Day I had a temperature of 100.5. My eyesockets felt hot. I've been lying pathetically around my sisters house, taking up more bathroom space than is strictly fair, groaning, sipping water.

Its passed now. I'm testing out food and staying away from all things christmassy - mince pies (currenty/raisin/alcoholy), christmas cake (currenty/raisin/alcoholy), christmas pudding (currenty/raisin/alcoholy), alcohol generally, chocolate (and you know how bad that must be for me). Sigh.

Roll on the happy new year (possibly teetotal which will put a great dampner on our idea of first-footing to all my sisters friends in Cupar - I so wanted to be able to be the embarrassing sister tripping drunkenly through people's thresholds with a slurry HAPpy New Year brandishing lumps of coal and first foot gifts (tradition in this part of the world).

We've had a white post-christmas which is nice for a change. Enough for snowball fights (feeble stomach making me a poor shot and an easy target as it turned out), but not quite the right consistency for a whole snowman. And in town I'm pleased to say the young Dundonians are still running around in their shirt sleeves, bare midriffs and inappropriate footware (don't appear to own a coat between them) - glad they're not letting the side down by getting all sensible!

Merry Christmas

Wishing merry christmas to one and all, I would have posted a very nice picture of downtown Dundee with Christmas lights and everything but I unfortunately brought the USB connector for the wrong digital camera so I can't. Sorry!

Trouser Mishaps

Bails, Amy (my sister) and I were rushing into Tescos to get the makings of Christmas dinner. Suddenly Amy let out a feeble, "I'm stuck...no really I'm stuck" and Bails and I turned to find her with her flared trouser leg caught in the shopping trolley's wheel. Unfortunately we both collapsed into hysterics, unable to assist in any way until the tears subsided, by which point Amy was more than a little cross with us for just standing there but her plight had been seen by the trolley-man who came rushing to her rescue, "there's nothin' fur it, you'll have to tek your troosers off". Her face went pale for a moment until she realised he was joking. She is persistently telling us off for just standing there, we are mercilessly teasing her about flappy trouser legs and trolley wheels.

Christmas Travel Chaos

Travelling at anytime is stressful but at Christmas there's the added pressure that everyone else is doing the same. GNER to Dundee. Too many bags to carry easily (Christmas presents can take up a lot of extra space).

My seat booking was printed off a fast ticket machine that was in need of a new ribbon and it was impossible to quite make out the number accurately but I thought it said 34A in coach B. When I got there the seat was actually booked from Peterborough to Dundee. I sat there anyway. All around people couldn't find unreserved seats, couldn't fit their luggage into the meagre racks, or crush their plastic bags, rucksacks and coats into the overhead storage.

Arriving into Peterborough the family withe the actual booking for my seat arrived. Since there were four of them and one of me, I was left seatless. Throwing myself on the mercy of the conductor he had me sit in another empty seat. Until the person arrived who's seat it was (the crush from Peterborough had a hard job getting themselves seated), so he told me to sit in the last empty seat on the carriage. As I sat down the seat owner arrived.

Throwing up his arms he took my baggage and said, "you're coming with me". Gathering up all my gubbins, wishing everyone a merry christmas we set off. Through all the carriages, past disapproving eyes and baggage stacked to bursting, at the doors, in the aisles (much to the conductor's disapproval - health & safety), past the snowboarders standing for the duration, past the man smoking out the open window (on a no-smoking train). Past the restuarant car currently serving first class customers (blue blazers and ladies in red lipstick with maggie thatcher handbags). And finally desposited me in first class.

He put my large suitcase into the ample luggage rack, and left me, refusing a tip but showered with thanks, to sit with the rich folks and the business people (a first class ticket somewhere in the region of £300 for the same journey as I took for £95). Quiet. Far removed from the throng, chaos and cattle herdiness of the economy journey. Here people were reading their complimentary Times newspapers, doing work on their laptops with their complementary cups of tea.

Rich men wear flat fronted navy chords for casuals, or neat jeans with blue sweaters over shirts. No tracksuits. No baggies. No teeshirts.

The stewards bring sandwiches from the buffet car and are endlessly attentive. Free water, tea, biscuits. Waiter chat.

Rather than being crushed in the seat I was free to contemplate the scenery in peace. I found myself contemplating how to never have to travel coach again.

In Contemplation of Young Love (sort of)

She's tall and lanky standing at the bar playing provocatively with her hair. He's managing to be both laid back and attentive - nonchalantly draped across the bar but leaning in. They smoke the same cigarette. He reaches around her and draws her close.

A jazz band takes over from the DJ - slightly more mellow than what he was playing, less edge. Bails says she's liking it better - she can pretend she's in a film, set in a dark (true) smoky (not terribly) drinking hole (true).

The young couple go off, home presumably, no need to continue this courtship pretence - being as how both parties are clearly very into one another.

Bails remarks she has an awful feeling she might start going through a less fussy phase if she doesn't get some action soon (its been a while).

As the jazz gets more frantic the table behind move on from their obsessive fawning (two girls, 4 chaps - the girls competitively fawning over each guy and then settle on one in particular who has to withstand wandering hands from all directions, not that he was complaining, it just didn't look like he was enjoying it that much) to amateur pornography taking camera phone pictures down the shirts of the girls. When one of the girls goes to the ladies the other reels in the catch - dragging him over to sit in the same chair as her, arms all over him, head on his shoulder. On her return the other girl knows she's lost.

Fright Night

What started as a cheeky drink after work at the George in Borough - after-work suits crowd, gradually petering out to the desperados (single, or hard drinkers, or works-xmas do's) - ended like a scene out of From Dusk til Dawn in Belushi's. Very occassionally good for an after-everywhere-else-has-shut drink together with a cheesy 80's soundtrack. We found ourselves crushed into a corner with the place overtaken by a faux bling monstrous crowd who I was half expecting to morph into vampires any minute. After one of our party accidentally stepped on the toe of man wearing white shoes and was met with an eye stare that said if you don't apologise now I'll club you with my bottle of beer we decided it was time we slipped away and found our beds. Only then did we find we had missed our transports home by minutes and had to do that horrible thing of travelling into town in order to come back out again in the freezing cold (always forget how cold it feels at night, in winter, when you've drunk a little too much but no enough too much to obliterate all senses and the buses are on their night schedules).

Drawn Woman

• Drawn lips, exaggeratedly eccentuated bow, outlined fuller than the reality, filled in with heavy colour.
• Drawn eyebrows, sharp thin brown liquid line, arched angle in the middle. Defining a line that doesn't exist in the natural invisible blond eyebrow. No shading to soften the line.
• Drawn line over the eyelid.

Outlined face.

Buncefield Explosion

I woke up this morning and looked out at the strangest light. Winter trees bathed in sunlight against a black sky. I took pictures (the difference in colours is from two different cameras - the first two pictures are digital camera the third one is from my phone's camera.



It wasn't until I set off to town and the boyfiend called me saying had I heard about the blast in Hemel Hempsted. I hadn't. But across the sky where I thought it had been black rainclouds it turns out that it was smoke billowing from a massive fuel explosion.

On my way home the sunset was amazing - light catching the low hanging smoky clouds. I bet after the apocalypse the sunsets would be marvellous.




On the news the scenes were truely frightening - flames still shooting up into the sky 12 hours after the blaze had started, firefighters not able to fight the blaze due to its feriocity.

Link to image of smoke plume from space

Christmas Tree

So I'd popped into Budgens in Crouch End because it just happened to be there at the point where I was changing buses and saved me from having to come out again to food shop after getting home. As I was packing up my bags I overheard a very irate man trying to get across to the shop assistant that he was very unhappy with the christmas tree he had purchased from them earlier. He had gotten it home and started putting it up and it was leaning. It has to be straight, it must be straight, its no good. The shop assistant mumbled something in retort. Irate man went on, it must be straight, I want another one, get me the manager. I felt sorry for the tree, lying in its trolley, still tied up with the nylon netting, being returned for its imperfections.

Martin Millar

Oh my god. I've just found the website of Martin Millar via Leopard Spagetti (having engaged in an exchange about Eccles cakes at Big n Juicy's). [See me name dropping!]

I absolutely loved his books Lux the Poet and Milk, Sulphate and Alby Starvation, back when I was reading novels for pleasure rather than academic texts for homework [note to self: must go on holiday soon so that I have time to read for fun again]. Great books starring punks and London, if I remember correctly. Pacy. Books I had to just keep reading until I got to the end, and then hit by the disappointment that they were finished.

What chance clicking!

Good Bye Routemasters

There wasn't even a model routemaster in Hamley's this evening.

Tube All the Way for a Change

Misty. Damp cold air. Breath streams visibly from the nostrils. Yellow leaves cling to the lower branches, brightness on a dull day. Over the grass in the park the mist is dense enough to be fog. Silhouettes drift out of it every once in a while as someone walks past.

A rare trip to Manor House to start my journey. Walking down into the station you can smell the renovations - drying grout from the new tiles.

Piccadilly Line people sleep while standing up. And bust in through the doors as they are closing. Different to the Northern Line people I normally travel with - far more jeans-to-work types and far fewer suits (I ride the Northern Line between Moorgate and London Bridge - the home of the City folks). Nobody is reading the Metro (in my direct line of vision anyway) - Piccadilly Line people are more bookish (and not Dan Brown either).

Changing between the Piccadilly and Northern Lines at Kings Cross I thought it could just be dress down Friday that accounts for the difference in dress. But then as I joined the Northern Line there were immediately more suits, and women in smart black trousers and high heels, or, in skirt suits, tan tights and trainers (for comfort on the way in to work). And the appearence of the camel coat. Anyone who was slightly alternative alighted at Old Street (media industries).

The Christmas Decorations

Its that time of year when the office musters some seasonal good will and drags the decade-old decorations box out of storage. Our students all leave tomorrow. They decided today was the day to get festive. The box sat in reception, squashed tinsel hanging over the edge. Someone put together the fake tree and started hanging baubles on it - they managed about 7 before they got bored and wandered off.

I came down to put some letters in the post and was overcome by the sorry state of it all. If you're gonna do it, you have to do it right (and I have to put my horror about fake trees to one side).

Firstly, the person who took the decorations off the tree last year seemed to have grabbed everything that was stringy (bead ropes, lights, tinsel) in one go and slung it in the box all knotted up. Can't believe it. Spent probably an hour un-doing the knots and untangling the almighty mess (even had to resort to cutting the tinsel out).

Secondly, I couldn't believe people didn't know that you have to put the lights on first. Have to admit to saying so quite loudly several times. It was only after someone else randomly came by and commented that the lights should go on first that anyone paid any attention to me (I was getting quite bossy by this point).

Thirdly, I couldn't quite manage to overcome my aversion to fake trees. Really this tree must now have been missing some limbs, or something. And it doesn't have that smell. Thats really part of the joy of it. It wasn't one of those really fake ones either - made of blue something or other with fibre optic lights in the ends which flicker rhythmically - it was pretending to be a real green tree - made of bent wire and something similar to green-grocer's turfy stuff (sorry, the brain is shot to pieces with being ill and its taken me 10 minutes to remember the word for fibre optics!)

So, anyway, eventually I started to get enough on it to satisfy my own personal christmas tree decorating criteria - no "tasteful" colour theming, no leaving decorations in the box, no minimalism - and managed to cover it so much that you can hardly see the crappy fake tree underneath.

Tomorrow we start on those shiny ceiling cut-out decorations (can't stand them really but we've started so we have to finish). The building manager will have to get his ladder out.

Bathroom Train

Look one way - consealer on spots, rubbed in, white loose powder brushed across chin cheeks forehead, mirror examination of nose, pale pink blusher high on cheeks, one sweep across forehead, brown eyebrow pencil darkened brows.

Look the other way - yellowy eyeshadow across lids, white eyelash extender, black mascara, mirror examination of nose.

Then a girl across from me was feeling left out and had to apply shiny shiny lip gloss.

West End Cinema

Having a sudden rush of blood to the head we decided to watch a film up West (wallet screams in agony). £12 whole pounds it cost. At this kind of cost you want to know that the screen will be big enough and the seats will be comfortable. And I have to report that we tried the Apollo on Lower Regent Street for the first time since it was renovated. It had everything you could hope for in a cinema - neon lighting and a floor with ingrained sparkles, 50s decor and a bar which changed colours over time. Not crowded. Not smelling of reheated popcorn. No obnoxious youths, no obnoxious anybody in fact. Fabulous toilet facilities. And big red velvet seats with headresting room and rocking motion. New screen, good sound. Not too upset about the cost in the end.

Pissed Politics

Some pisshead with a can of super and blue plastic bags hanging out of his coat pockets stands swaying slightly on the bus having a debate into his mobile phone, "99% of British, no English, people want hanging back. They want hanging back."

Outside Starbucks

A schlep of young boys splayed across the pavement, sloping along in converse hi-tops and baggy jeans. Laughing, drinking bottled coke - young teenagers excited to be out of school but trying to play it cool.

A sightseeing bus is empty apart from a lone woman with a video camera making one of those long jerky films of a foreign city's streets which is unlikely to be watched by anyone.

My face reflected against the street outside. Unused to my own reflection. I don't feel I look like myself. Glasses throw dark shadows across my cheeks and under my nose. My mouth turns down, which I don't remember.

Inside, a coffee cup is lifted and for a moment its reflection looks like it belongs to the cab driver sitting in traffic on the street outside.

December the First

Can't believe we are here again so soon. Have been enjoying the weather - it reminds me of the dark, kind of dreary and yet smouldering of Bleak House. Huddling inside with woolly jumpers and the radiator. Getting into root vegetables. Drinking hot tea, well hot anything really.

Wind and rain. Falling leaves. Wet pavements. Always improves London I think. Less of the stifling, sticky, dustiness of a hot summer. Less stink.

We spent a Christmas in Paris once - it was so cold and we were walking everywhere - we'd walk from coffee shop to coffee shop (sometimes not terribly far between) drinking that liquid chocolate that they serve for hot chocolate. Thats the kind of weather I like after a warm summer. Until you start to find yourself waiting at bus stops in the middle of the night with your fingers going blue and your nose dropping off.