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Three Score Years And Ten

Well, I’ve made this milestone. I believe the psalms, from which this title is taken, suggest it’s all downhill from now. I shall regard every day as a bonus.

Thanks to Chris and Frances for this optimistic card. Quentin Blake, the illustrator, has provided the artwork for at least one Folio Society (post of 5th. July) publication.

Steady rain was the order of the day. Gardening, early on, was out. We stayed in. Eventually the rain stopped and I decided to go for a walk, giving the wind time to blow away the clouds. I thought I’d best take my umbrella from the hall stand. It was not there. Ah well, I thought, I’ll risk going without it. I don’t keep a raincoat at the Firs, which is where we were. Walking along Beacon Road I reflected on the coincidence that Lindum House in Newark, which was our home for nineteen years, is in Beacon Hill Road. The eponymous beacons are a reminder of times gone by. They were set as a warning against invasion. They were lined up on high ground so that each one was visible to the next. One would be lit at the first sign of enemy ships; the rest would follow in turn, and within a short space of time there would be a chain of flaming fire stretching right across the land. I believe they were used to alert the nation to the arrival of the ill-fated Spanish Armada in 1588.

This, however, is the summer of 2012, so I imagine that no beacon would have stayed alight very long. I hadn’t any particular direction in mind, but whilst still in Beacon Road I received guidance from above. The rain. Diving down Southern Road, into Western, and through to Telegraph, I decided I’d go into West End and buy an umbrella. Realising, by the time I got to the bottom of Telegraph Road, that I’d overshot West End, and I’d probably not find an umbrella there, I decided to go for broke and walk to the Hedge End Superstores along Botley Road. By the time I arrived at M & S I was so wet there was really hardly any point. Nevertheless, I did buy a raincoat. I ask you, a midsummer birthday and I go in search of something to keep me dry. Never mind, there is always a silver lining; on the way the battery on the camera had gone flat and I had not brought a charger with me. I therefore visited the nearby Curry’s and bought one to keep at the Firs.

Passing the Ageas Bowl, Hampshire’s County Cricket ground, until quite recently named the Rose Bowl, I felt fairly certain there would be no play today. Marshall Drive is named after two great West Indians.

On my return to The Firs I was informed that my umbrella was in the boot of Elizabeth’s car. Elizabeth had prepared another birthday morning for me, with lots of carefully chosen, delightful presents. One was a cheese knife wrapped in a paper napkin. We considered this might be useful on any future trip to The Raj (see 26th. June).

Having decided to give up gardening for the day, this afternoon we drove to a couple of garden centres the other side of Wickham. The rain by now was quite spectacular. The skies were darkened so that most cars had their headlights on. The windscreen wipers were going like the clappers, and could not cope with the showers of spray rising from the rear wheels of the cars in front. From the sides of the cars great waves were flying up from the lakes forming at the sides of the road. On our return, in some parts only the central white lines were not covered with rainwater. Some drains were gushing the water back up, forming unsavoury looking brown fountains. In the first of the garden centres, appropriately named Mud Island, the woman on the till told us she could count on two hands the number of customers she had had that day. And we were three of them. Rain clattered on the roof and poured down from the straining gutters. The sky had become a grey pink which would have looked good on the petals of some of the unusual fuchsias we were seeking. On our way through Wickham we had seen a damper thrown on a ruined wedding. Large umbrellas were taking refuge. The photographers had no chance.

We dropped off at another garden centre on the way back, seeking agricultural sand which had not been available at the others. About ten or a dozen staff were seated at the garden tables and loungers in the showroom. They were only too pleased to serve their only customers. We hoped that tomorrow the weather would be kind enough to allow us to plant what we’d bought.

This evening the three of us, along with Mum, Danni, Joseph and Angela drove to The Lone Barn at Hungerford Bottom for a pub meal. Joseph and Angela had been unable to attend last week. They brought me a magnificent hand-made Chinese silk embroidered tie and scarf set in exactly my style and colours. Danni gave me an excellent bottle of wine and book of Hampshire place-names from her and Andy. Coincidentally the publishers were Amberley Press, who published ‘The Magnificent Seven’ a book of the seven Victorian landscapes cemeteries, for which I had produced the photographs.

An even more amazing coincidence was one of the carts hanging from the ceiling of this great old barn. These were all wooden vehicles. One, ‘for daily deliveries’, bore the address 181 Haydons Rd., Wimbledon, SW19. Mum, 90 in October, told us how, when Chris and I were babies, during the war, she had lived in the very same Haydon’s Road. And here we were, in deepest Hampshire. One day a bomb had struck the house across the road and Mum had instinctively dived across my body leaving Chris sitting beside us. Fortunately all was well. Mum said that her biggest problem during that time had been to decide which was the worst prospect; risking the bombs, or facing the mice in the cupboard under the stairs. I find it amazing that we, in 2012, can listen to a lucid woman, who happens to be my mother, who lived through those times.

We then went on to talk about the 7/7 London bombing of 2005. Whilst that was going on I had walked from Little Venice in N.W. London to North Road just north of Kings Cross Station. Completely oblivious of the event, two minutes after the Edgware Road bomb had exploded in the underground, I had walked past that station. I continued my walk, wondering why everyone was being disgorged from the underground stations, and why diversions were preventing me from taking my normal route. Marylebone Road was full of bewildered passengers on mobile phones which could not access networks. None of the tube staff had any idea why people were being sent out of the stations. The redevelopment of Kings Cross was going on at that time, and the sight of vast numbers of men in hard yellow hats, having been evacuated from the site, filling the streets was astounding. I was receiving text messages from anxious friends and relatives to whom I could not reply. Why, I wondered, was everyone asking whether I was all right. It was not until I reached the foster home that I was visiting and saw the news on television that I realised what had happened. The foster carer had been one of those anxiously trying to make contact. I had not received her message.

The Drain

Setting off in the steady rain that passes for summer 2012, for Wimbledon Station en route to Waterloo to meet my friend Tony, I realised I had left my camera behind. Ever the optimist, I went back for it. The owners of the agapanthus in Maycross Avenue had no fear of a hosepipe ban, but I was slightly anxious for my Canon’s electronics. This time I had no doubt; my persistence with sandals was definitely sheer stubbornness. The soles are now worn quite flat and becoming somewhat slippery on the wet pavements.

EDF’s claim on the Waterloo concourse would so far seem to be in vain

Yesterday I mentioned my first annual salary. This was earned in the old Lloyd’s (insurance) Building. It had contained the original ‘Room’ where all the underwriters carried out their business. By 1960, when I began, a second Lloyd’s building, which has itself been superceded, had been built, and my building was occupied by the back room boys, such as me. I dealt with marine insurance claims under the management of Mr. Goodinge, who once gave me a collection of his excellent shirts; and alongside people like Ray Denier who took seven wickets on his first turn-out for my cricket club, and Ian Frederick Stevens, otherwise known as IFS, who was a soulmate for a while. More importantly, my secretarial work was done by Vivien, who was to become my first wife. When the time comes I will write a post about Vivien. This building, known as ‘The Dome’, had no natural light. You could never tell what time of the day or year it was, or what the weather was like. It was here that I knuckled down to what I was assured was a secure pensionable job. This, then, was more important than strange concepts like job satisfaction. By correspondence course I set about qualifying for the Chartered Insurance Institute and thought that would be my job for life. It wasn’t until I became a twenty three year old widower with a baby son that I knew I could do this no more.

The insurance world held me for the first six years of my working life. I commuted daily on the very route, but on very different trains, that I used today; first from Raynes Park, then after marriage and the purchase of a first house, from Wimbledon itself. The trains in those days had carriages with which viewers of period dramas will be familiar. During the rush hour those carrying commuters from Waterloo into Surrey would become packed. One evening two of my classmates who made such a journey were the first to occupy one of the compartments. Each stationed at one of the windows, they pulled grotesque faces and leeringly beckoned to other would-be passengers to enter. In that way they kept the seats to themselves. One evening, travelling back to Raynes Park, the train became fogbound. We remained stationary right outside my home for an hour and a half.

The first three of my years of employment were spent in Leadenhall Street. From Waterloo mainline station it was necessary to travel on ‘The Drain’. This was the name given to the Underground journey to Bank station. I can’t quite remember how it worked, but, at one end or the other of this daily grind there was a long tunnel through which thousands just like me tramped to their destination. You had to go at the pace of the slowest. It felt like a scene from a film about zombies or prisoners of war. Looking back this seems an awful mole-like existence. But security was all, and we made our own fun, pulling each other’s legs and taking some amusement from misprints in memos and the joys of the German language. The Westmonster Insurance Company caused some glee and we became hopelessly incontinent whenever we came across the shipping company whose name sounded like ‘dampsheepfarts’. There were side streets off Leadenhall Street with provisions stores, probably long since demolished to make way for the huge temples now erected in further homage to Mammon. I remember a butcher’s which, at Christmastime had turkeys hanging up like a film set for ‘A Christmas Carol’. (In fact what I remember is probably the still extant Leadenhall Market entered from Gracechurch Street – added 22.12.2020)

On the train today I began reading John Le Carre’s ‘Single & Single’.

This evening we drove down to The Firs. Traffic was very slow on the A3 until we had passed Guidford, because of intermittent heavy rain. Before arriving at Elizabeth’s we stopped off at Eastern Nights in Thornhill for an excellent curry meal

No-one Forgets A Good Teacher

Although it had rained all night the day was a bit brighter and the drizzle lighter. Setting off for Wimbledon again, in Martin Way I met the reformed pipe smoker (see 29th. June post) walking his two Alsatians. Scaffolding was going up and a hedge being trimmed in Mostyn Road.

Walking along Wilton Crescent I remembered the excitement engendered by Angela Davies, the first girl who set my teenage pulses racing. We had met at the school dance, the only occasion on which we were officially allowed contact with the pupils of the Ursuline Convent. I had spent a very uncomfortable few days attempting to learn the waltz, at which Angela considered I still wasn’t much good. Nevertheless she didn’t seem to mind the last one, and we were to share a delightful nine months in 1959. Today, on my return up this road my paths crossed with a robin scampering into one of the established gardens in this beautiful preservation area.

Near Dundonald recreation ground a driving instructor was speaking into his mobile phone as his tutee executed a perfect reverse around the corner I was crossing.

As often when rounding Elys Corner, I thought of Richard Milward.

Throughout my childhood the bus conductors (London buses in those days were staffed by two people) had cried: ‘Elys Corner’ when reaching the original building. It is to Richard Milward’s history of Wimbledon that I owe the information that the founder of the department store that bears his name had offered inducements to the conductors to advertise his emporium in such a manner. Among the stories featured in that book is the one of Jack (posted on 13th. May).

Knowing they would have a display of Richard’s book, I popped into Fielder’s, stockists of excellent art materials and bookshop near the bottom of Wimbledon Hill. The display corner had been given over to tennis for the moment, but the manager of the book section happily created the pictured group for me.

A most inspirational teacher, Mr. Milward dedicated his life to teaching history at Wimbledon College. He was one of those pupils who never really left the school, returning after university to take up his life’s work. Learning about the Tudors and Stuarts we would eagerly await ‘Sid’ striding into the classroom with a rolled up chart under his arm. This would be hung on the wall to illustrate the day’s lesson. These were beautifully produced maps and diagrams which brought the subject alive. He had made each and every one. He was, like me, a cricket fanatic. I still have the history of cricket he inspired me to write and illustrate as a homework exercise. His nickname, ‘Sid’, was taken from a lesser known bandleader who once performed at Wimbledon Theatre. The title of this piece is taken from a one-time advertising slogan for recruitment into his profession. It was so true.

Quite different was ‘Moses’, whose remit was European History, so named because he was an ancient priest. His teaching aid was a small dog-eared, equally antique, exercise book from which, seated in his pulpit, never taking his eyes off the page, he would churn out notes he must have made much earlier, as if he were reciting an oft-repeated sermon. For some reason, Moses always picked on me. Until one miraculous Monday morning, he didn’t actually know my name. He had decided to climb down from his perch and wander round the classroom. Passing my desk and glancing at my exercise book, reading the name, he asked: ‘Knight? Are you the famous bowler?’. ‘That’ll be my brother Chris’, I replied. ‘But didn’t you get eight wickets on Saturday?’, he continued. Well, I had. (I also got seven on the Sunday, but as that was in a club match I thought it best not to mention it). From then on the sun shone out of my backside.

Another priest who also used me as a butt was Fr. Bermingham. He did it so often that one of the boys ran a book on how many times this would happen in any particular lesson. Quite a bit of pocket money changed hands. Now, as I sat in the same place for both periods, in the centre of the front row, because I was just beginning to realise I should have my eyes tested, I thought it might be politic to move. I therefore took up residence right at the back, to the left of his area of vision. As if on cue, quite early on in the proceedings, he opened his mouth to speak, looked in what he thought was my direction, closed his mouth, and scanned the rows of grinning boys. Eventually lighting on my similarly smiling face, he said: ‘Ah, there you are Knight, like a great moon over the horizon’. At least he knew my name. However, he had just given me another one. For the rest of my schooldays I was known as ‘Moon’.

Please don’t get the impression I was a victim. Most of the masters, like Bryan Snalune, who may get a mention when something appropriate crops up, actually liked me. In fact, Frs. Moses and Bermingham probably did as well. Their observations were generally meant to be humorous.

Our garden fox was well camouflaged today.

This evening The Raj in Mitcham was revisited. In order fully to appreciate the flavour of the Raj it is essential to read the post of 26th. June. So attracted by the description of our previous visit was Ian that he insisted on savouring the experience himself. Alda joined us with some ambivalence. Now we were six. I must say we were initially disappointed. The tables, albeit with paper tablecloths, were actually laid. Only one of the papers on the the two tables which were pushed together to accommodate us bore the evidence of previous use. A mound of excellent poppadoms was served on time. The drinks quickly followed. Given that they had probably come from the shop next door, we were fortunate to find them, this time, cold. The bottles of Kingfisher still bore their price labels, and the charming cook/waiter/whatever who served us had, after all, said he would go and buy Becky’s orange juice. The second round was more successful as Flo was presented with a large Kingfisher instead of an orange juice. Things got better as we had to wait an hour and a half for the main meal, having previously each received a really good onion bhaji starter. We could forgive our server for not realising we had wanted these with the main meal, and, in any case, we needed something to soak up the Kingfishers while we waited. Eventually the chef asked us if we were ready for the main meal. Ready? We were desperate for it. This time the paper napkins arrived with the food. Once again we were treated to magnificent food all round. It truly is a miracle that these two men can produce such a wonderful meal.

It was Ian who became the first to sample the loo. Unfortunately there was no toilet paper. He decided to pass.

No other customers graced the establishment. Mitcham does not know what it is missing.

The final disappointment was that the Dallas Chicken customers had let us down. There was no chicken leg to step over as we left the restaurant.

And so to car, to Links Avenue, and to bed.

Auntie Gwen

As I set off in the drizzle to take a walk down the memory lane that is Wimbledon Broadway I thought that my insistence on wearing my summer sandals in this washout of a June was sheer stubbornnes. (On re-reading this I realise it’s not June, it’s July. But then you’d never know the difference). Nevertheless I soon got very warm in my protective clothing and was sweating as I had done in the old YMCA in my thirties when I first took up weight training. Along the Broadway I was to pass the modern replacement building.

The owner of the tortoise ( see Brendan, 26th. June) discovered in Maycross Avenue was still being sought. Outside the Bowls and Croquet Club in Mostyn Road the clash of mallet on ball alerted me to the fact that a game of croquet was in progress.

We had played croquet on the lawn at Lindum House where, under Jessica’s tuition, I had learned what a vicious game this gentle-seeming English tradition can be. This green wasn’t surrounded by the shrubbery into which she had delighted in sending her opponent’s ball.

On the pavement in Hartfield Road an African woman was standing calmly filing her nails.

Throughout my youth, Sir Cyril Black was Conservative MP for Wimbledon (in the days before it was subsumed into the London Borough of Merton. The bus station is now situated in the street which bears his name, as is Morrisons supermarket which did not exist then, and once was a purely Northern chain. The sign looked as if a bus had run into it.

Walking along the Broadway I could still hear the glide of the trams (see post of 17th. May) which were the last of the early ones to run in London. I could smell the coffee roasting in the specialist shop, long since gone. I passed Russel Road, with Wimbledon Theatre on one corner, where I had attended St. Mary’s primary school (see The Bees, 29th. May).

Hawes Estate agent, I think, is on the site of De Marco’s ice cream parlour and MoneyGram was once a shop selling holy pictures and other mementos. A sign of changing priorities, no doubt. Eventually I reached my goal, 9 Latimer Road, the upper floors of which, my godmother, Auntie Gwen shared with her friend Mary Jeffries for many years.

Apart from my parents, it is Auntie Gwen I have to thank for surviving my infancy. One evening when she was babysitting Chris and me, I am told, we decided to play in an upright roll of lino. Somehow or other I managed to get my head stuck in the top of it. There was I, hanging by my chin, my body dangling in the tied up tube. There was Chris, screaming his head off (he must have feared I was about to be decapitated). Enter Gwen to the rescue. She heaved the roll onto the floor and extracted the gasping child. Apparently I had actually stopped breathing and gone all blue.

When we were very small she would cycle every Saturday to our home in Raynes Park bearing goodies. I remember eagerly awaiting sets of transfers which could be applied to paper or skin. They were very flimsy and had to be oh so carefully soaked off in water. An example was a set of butterflies.

As we became old enough to travel alone we would visit her every Sunday morning for breakfast after Mass (see Miss Downs, 25th. May). Maybe that’s where I get my penchant for fry-ups from. After a full English we dunked so many digestive biscuits into our coffee that you could stand a spoon up in it. When Gwen could no longer do the entertaining I visited her for a weekly chat well into my adulthood. She kept every present I ever gave her.

Next door to the house in the right of the picture stands Wimbledon Public Baths which is now a leisure centre. It was there in 1952 that I taught myself to swim. I needed to do this in order to pass the scholarship. This was a name applied to the eleven plus exam which would take us to grammar school. I had no idea what it was, but I wondered how I would be able to pass it if I couldn’t swim. With that daft conception in my head it is a wonder I did pass it. Without getting wet.

On my route back, up Morden Road, I passed the industrial estate. This took me back to my fifteenth summer, when, at the beginning of the school holidays I had tramped the burning streets between there and Raynes Park in search of a holiday job. I landed one in a printing works where my task was to produce glossy brochures. It was there that a beautiful girl told me that I looked like Tony Curtis. Not sure whether that was a compliment or not, the gauche teenager I then was had no inkling of the opportunity I’d obviously missed out on. Ah, well. I’ve made up for it since.

Leaving the main road I went along Dorset Road and through Kendor Gardens. As I entered this park, a man clearing up the grass said: ‘You ain’t from the Council are ya.’ ‘Not likely’, said I, ‘Not when I’m bursting for a pee and the Gents is like that.’

In the circumstances I considered that the word weed was rather unfortunate. Sadly, most of these amenities are similarly boarded up. Further into the park, as a little terrier cocked his leg, I reflected ‘It’s allright for them’.

The scent of privet on the footpath leading to the Civic Centre was stronger than the smell of urine.

This afternoon I completed the clueing of an Independent cryptic crossword and sent it off. It will appear on 12th. July.

Becky sent me a picture of the repast she was to have this evening which would be Cow & Gate’s Grandpa’s Sunday Lunch, no doubt accompanied by flat Diet Coke. We had roast duck (the first time I’ve done it) accompanied, in my case, by the rest of last night’s rioja, in Jackie’s, the rest of her bottle of Hoegaarden (I do believe I’ve got the spelling right this time).

Flytipping

The ‘flash of yellow flying’ in the garden Jackie saw this morning turned out to be a greenfinch. No-one uses this small communal garden in Morden to which we don’t have access, and which is no more than a patch of grass and ground elder occasionally strimmed by the owners’ staff. It abuts an overgrown railway embankment on one side and a blocked off path on the other. Small ash trees and brambles grow in abundance on the embankment. To the side of the flats is a railway bridge. Walking under the bridge and turning left brings you onto the path up to London Road alongside which is the disused schools sports ground. All this is why we think we have such a variety of birds and the foxes.

Unpacking the presents I was given on Saturday, I was reminded of Matthew’s performance towards the end of the party (posted yesterday).

He had given me a CD of Adam Faith’s songs, and gave us a perfect rendering of ‘What do you want?’. Of course, only the older people present recognised it, but this they certainly did. He explained that he had never heard the singer, but had learned it from listening to his Dad. But then I think every man of my generation can do it.

On leaving the flat this morning the drumming I heard was caused by a plastic Lucozade bottle bowling along the road. This was definitely a raincoat day (see 21st. June’s post). Walking under the railway bridge it was clear that the resident pigeons were doing their best to undo the work of a team of men who had spent a day last week clearing up their droppings. An emergency vehicle’s siren wailed in the distance. I would need a four year old to identify the service involved. Except for rooks cawing in Morden Park the birds were silent. The only other sound which penetrated the whistling of the wind I was leaning into was the rustling of the leaves in its wake, and, further into the park, the clattering of cars on the metal tracking on the approach to the temporary overflow carpark for Wimbledon tennis. I wished the wouldbe spectators luck.

Not many people braved the park this morning. Two Asian boys were walking an American bulldog. I was quite pleased it was on a lead and not free to frolic with me. A jogger was leading another wolf-like dog which seemed to have trouble keeping up with her. But then, if you take a dog for a run, by the time it has double tracked and sniffed at everything, it probably does five miles to your one.

Almost hidden in the undergrowth, like a fallen stone in a deserted graveyard, beside a barely passable track was an old ILEA (Inner London Education Authority) notice. This was the education arm of the GLC (see post of 29th. June).

On my return I took the overgrown passage (see post of 26th. June) between the park and Hillcroft Avenue, hoping that the fallen branch which had caused me such trepidation last time had been removed. No such luck. And even when younger I was no limbo dancer.

The wider opening to the path to London Road mentioned earlier is used as an unofficial car park, commonly used by visitors to the mosque (see 18th. May post). It is also used as a dumping ground for all sorts of rubbish. The picture which begins this piece is what it looked like as I began my walk. A cyclist speeding out of the derelict sports ground to the left of the area photographed almost cannoned into the pile of old broken furniture. ‘Bastard!’, he cried, ‘Should go to jail for that.’ On my return this had all been cleared. Full marks to the Council. This flytipping warning is further over on the park proper. The penalties threatened would not have satisfied the cyclist.

Briefly going shopping this afternoon, I risked leaving my raincoat behind. I got wet.

A couple of glasses of Campo Viejo riocha 2010, accompanying one of my sausage casseroles retrieved from the freezer, set the evening up nicely. Jackie had her customary Hoegaarden.

Surprise

This continues the story of yesterday.

We arrived at The Village Shop in Upper Dicker. The main street was full of vehicles, as was the small carpark attached to the shop by the village green. Matthew was standing in the doorway with a beer. Jackie seemed unusually impatient for me to get out of the car. Actually Mat had phoned us ten minutes before we arrived, wondering how long we would be. This in itself was most unusual. However he wanted to go on a bike ride and Tess had only just told him we were coming. He obviously didn’t have time now so he’d have a beer instead.

Actually Jackie had been hankering for us to leave Morden at 2.00 and was wanting to have lunch early and tear me away from posting my morning walk. We left at about 2.10 and this seemed to be important. Since she had said earlier in the week that it was Tess’s day off and she may or may not be cooking us a meal, and given that we would probably be eating later, it seemed immaterial whether we got there at 3.30 or not.

Apparently I took an age to get out of the car. Jackie was round to the passenger door in a flash. I stood and asked Mat what he was doing in the shop on Tess’s day off. Jackie, being unable to contain herself any more, grabbed my hand and dragged me into the shop. I didn’t think I’d been any slower than usual, just as I don’t think I’m taking forever to get to the point of this story. I never spin things out unnecessarily (my Dad always used to get me to spell that word, followed by ‘Can you spell it?’) do I Michael?

Where was I? Oh, yes, being dragged into the shop.

It was pretty dark in there, coming out of the now bright sunshine. There were some streamers on a beam, and a greeting message chalked on the menu board. The message was ‘Happy Birthday’. Then it hit me. Almost. What actually hit me was Malachi who led the charge of the younger grandchildren. He tackled me just like a rugby forward, quickly followed by Jessica and Imogen. Today’s commentators would call it ‘an awesome hit’. (Sorry, Judith). There was a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ and then I saw my rather large extended family; mother; siblings (except Joe); five children; nephews; nieces; grandchildren; and perhaps even more surprisingly my old friends Wolf, who had recently had a stroke, and Luci; Don; and Steve who had come to Sussex from as far away as Nottingham, Lincolnshire, Norfolk, Somerset and London. It was particularly gratifying to see all of Jacqueline’s brood (although Illari was missed), made possible I understand by Charlie staying behind to look after the animals. They were all lurking in one side of the shop with wide grins on their faces, perhaps the most dazzling being Wolf’s. What hadn’t immediately struck me was just how many people were there. Some people, like Adam and Thea and Sam and Holly made huge efforts to get away from work. And some were unable to come yet sent their good wishes. I thought Ali’s excuse of being in Morocco a bit weak.

Becky tells me that the original intention had been for them all to be seated at the restaurant tables ignoring me, and see how long it took me to twig. (Yes, this Village Shop serves magnificent food – it is one like no other). In the event they had been unable to contain the little ones who launched prematurely into the birthday song, wriggled out of restraining grasps, and dashed across the room.

I’m filling up with tears as I write this, almost as much as I did when Michael made his loving speech. Before that those who could had filed over for hugs and kisses. I then went round and greeted the less mobile.

Louisa and Jackie had, I remember, had one or two private phone conversations in recent months. These two and Michael had arranged the guest lists, with Louisa doing the bulk of the photographic coordination. It had been difficult to track down my friends because my address book is out of date, details now being stored in my Blackberry. Jessica’s book had helped. An inspirational false trail had been laid by Jackie planning for us to be at The Firs on my actual 70th. birthday on 7th. of 7th. I had suspected something was in the wind and therefore thought it would be then, not just because, as she had said ‘you don’t want to be just us here in the flat on that day, do you?’, but because Elizabeth has the necessary accommodation.

Elizabeth played her part in the organisation, joining Louisa and Jackie in the collection of photos through the ages, starting at about six months. They were gathered from various family members, computerised, and put on a slideshow which played throughout the party. Elizabeth sat up half the night producing this. Some of the pictures I had never seen before. As was noted by more than one person, I am usually the one behind the camera. Whilst that has hitherto been the case, with the advent of digital cameras and the number of photographs everyone now takes I think my traditional role is now redundant.

Sarah, one of the staff members who helped with the catering, took the group photographs with Alex’s camera so that we could all be in them. It was Alex, incidentally, who marked my last fortuitous set of sevens with a rosette (she makes and markets them) when I reached retirement age in 2007. “Birthday Boy 7.7.7” appeared in the centre and the middle ribbon read ‘Official Old Git’. I wore it proudly all day. It now adorns our bedroom wall in The Firs.

Now, the catering. I have mentioned above the quality of The Village Shop’s food (see post of 12th. May). Today it was superlative. There was a range of salads, French bread, cheeses and biscuits, perhaps for those who didn’t like curry. Because Tess knew absolutely that for my day to be complete there had to be curry. There was. Two. Delicious. And poppadoms. And chapatis. And rice. And chutneys. And drumsticks. And wine. And beer. And cake. Not only did Tess produce all this wonderful food, but she managed the organisation of the day and the rapid clearing up afterwards.

The cake came later. Suddenly the lights went out. ‘Happy Birthday’ started up again. Three small grandchildren rushed expectantly to the table at which I was sitting. Then a huge platter bearing the glow of candles with Tess’s feet and legs underneath it advanced towards me. The minute Tess put the plate down three little sets of cheeks puffed up and the candles were out in an instant. In the same minute the sweet decorations surrounding the edges of the perfectly formed 7 0 cake began to disappear down tiny throats. It looked as if it had been ravaged by locusts. Becky photographed the locusts.

Earlier, we had all got outside for the obligatory group photo. It was at this moment that Frances chose to present me with the headdresses. These were apparently a present from Mum who had delegated the shopping to my sister-in-law who had had quite a job finding them. Well done Frances. The story of the headdresses has appeared in an earlier post, but, since I can’t remember which one, I am going to have to repeat it. I am told I have been banging on about it for years. I am sure that’s not true, but, just in case, I hereby undertake never to mention it again. When Chris and I were small I woke up one Christmas morning to find him scoffing all the chocolate out of my stocking. I had also been given two Red Indian (as we called Native Americans then) headdresses. As I had two and Chris had none, I then had to give him one. This seemed to me like adding injury to injury. We had been recounting this story a while back and Mum said she’d get me some for my birthday. I’m sure it hadn’t been me who raised the subject. She didn’t let it rest there, for among the pile of generous presents was a huge bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. It took me quite a while to get around to opening the numerous gifts, for which I thank everyone.

Many more stories were told during this event, especially as the cousins and their children extended the event into the pub. Some, like the cricket ball in the eye, may find their way into further posts. Perhaps I’ll just mention Father Christmas’s Reindeer which was, as often, wheeled out for the occasion. On one of our first Christmas mornings in Newark when Sam and Louisa were small, Jessica and I were awakened by excited cries from these two rushing up the stairs. ‘Mummy, Mummy’, they shrieked, ‘Father Christmas has left a reindeer behind’. For some reason their mother was convinced that I’d had something to do with it. As they rushed into our bedroom she turned to them and said: ‘Your father’s an idiot’. The reindeer is a large wooden carving from Bali. Father Christmas told me that.

In yesterday’s post I recorded that I had disturbed a group of three magpies. This, according to the rhyme signifies a girl. Today Holly informed me that the baby she is expecting is a sister for Malachi.

Eventually I was persuaded to make a short speech. I pleaded that I’d had no time to prepare anything because I’d been deliberately misled into thinking there might be an event next week; because I’d thought that would only be small; and because I’d had too much to drink and could never drink before making a speech. No excuses were accepted and I remember finishing by telling everyone to log onto the blog site today. Anyone who didn’t know how to do it should ask Jessica (5), Malachi (3), or Imogen (3) to teach them.

I cannot name you all individually, but you all know who you are and that you will remain in my heart forever.

And so to car, to Links Avenue, and to bed.

Piper

As I watched a group of brave people setting up St. James’ Church fete in Martin Way, en route to Cannon Hill Common, I reflected on the fact that most such events have been washed out this year. Jackie read this morning that the Godiva festival in Coventry, an event which takes a year in the planning, has had to be cancelled because of the torrential rain which has been flooding the Midlands for months. London has not suffered as much as the rest of the country, and today was bright, although very windy and cloudy. I wished this parochial effort well.

Along the lake in the common people were fishing. These included a man with two children and a group of boys. The man had a fishing licence but was not a club member and knew nothing of the lease to the Wandle Piscators (see post of 31st. May). The boys were more interested in making fun of one of their group who, in attempting to retrieve something from the water, already with one saturated trouser-leg, was in danger of falling in, than in conversing with me.

Mallards and coots were basking in the occasional shafts of sunlight. Another duck was shepherding her chicks. A cormorant on the far side of the lake was poised for the kill (of fish, not chicks). Three magpies I disturbed on the path fled to the safety of a solitary tree.

Having emerged from the Joseph Hood recreation ground, alongside the common, a woman was training her Labrador puppy to cross the road. This prompted me to tell her the story of Piper. Piper was the dog who helped Michael upstage me in the launderette television scene (see post of 22nd. June). Some thirty odd years ago, when my son was still a teenager, we lived in Soho where Michael did a paper round. One morning he came back with a mongrel dog of uncertain age. Naturally he wished to keep him. Now, we lived in a tiny first floor flat in the middle of Chinatown. It seemed to me that it was unreasonable to keep a dog there. I was, however, outnumbered by two to one. Here was I, doing my best to have a quiet, uninterrupted, bath and I had both Jessica and Michael in tears pleading with me for my agreement. Feeling a heel (not one of those in the bath), I stuck to my guns for a while, but eventually reached the following compromise. Michael was instructed to take the dog back where he found him and put a note on his collar, and if an owner couldn’t be traced we would keep him. Silly me, I didn’t tell the boy what the note should say. The note, which Jessica kept for the rest of her life, read: ‘If you know this dog, please return him to his owner.’ This was followed by our telephone number. Michael much later confessed that he had not left Piper at all, but simply brought him back home saying he wouldn’t stop following him. The dog was well cared for and had clearly been loved. I often wondered whether something had happened to his original owner, and, if not, what the loss meant to him or her.

Where did he get his name from? Well, he had been found on a paper round, so what better than the Cockney version of paper? Piper he was.

Why did the woman training her dog in the art of crossing the road remind me of all this? Piper was a wanderer, well used to negotiating West End traffic. He always used zebra crossings. Off he would go walkabout, on his solitary expeditions, safely trotting across the striped paths at which all the cars had to stop. One day we had a telephone call (yes, a telephone on a landline, as was usual in those days) from the police. He had turned up in Hyde Park. Would we come and collect him? We explained that he knew his own way home and could safely negotiate the traffic.

My listener was treated to a truncated version of this story and found it very endearing. Not so endearing, which saddened her, was Piper’s demise. After we moved to Gracedale Road in Furzedown Piper continued his wanderings, although at this time only when he could escape. He was by now very old, deaf and blind. One night we received a call from someone who told us that he had been run over on a zebra crossing. Michael and I collected the body and buried him in the garden. A sad end, indeed, but Piper had enjoyed a long and heathly life and perhaps would have chosen this way to go.

In the afternoon we drove to Mat and Tess’s home in Upper Dicker in East Sussex. Alongside the A23 the limbs of a shattered oak sprawled in homage to the severe winds that have been blowing for weeks now. Cricket matches were in progress.

For some reason best known to Jackie we went straight to their village shop. I was puzzled by this because I thought it was Tess’s day off. What happened next is too important to share a post. It will therefore receive its own tomorrow. A clue is that I have not rounded this one off with details of our evening meal.

Derelict

My attention today was turned to Morden Park. Although it brightened up later, the morning was a good ten degrees colder than yesterday, blowing a gale, overcast, and occasionally drizzling.

Instead of circumperambulating (I just coined that) the park, I decided to ramble across it. This proved beneficial, although on what I thought was my return journey a discarded sweatshirt I had seen earlier alerted me to the fact that I was going in quite the wrong direction. I did an about turn and soon had the mosque (see post of 18th. May) in my sight, telling me I was on the right track.

I was to have a series of meetings. The first was with a scantily clad couple sitting on the grass attempting to have a picnic. Especially as the woman was wearing a strapless sundress I told them they were stalwarts. They were already regretting their decision and said they wouldn’t be staying long. Although the young lady declined to be photographed she did say I was welcome to write that I had ‘seen the mad couple’. On the far side of the park, at Morden Park House, a beautiful building which is now the Registry Office, a wedding had just taken place. The bride, also in a strapless dress, was, despite the danger of goosepimples, looking very happy and very lovely. The photographer, much more suitably clad in a warm coat, periodically dived into her bag to change lenses, advising her subject not to get cold. Some chance, I thought. I didn’t ask if I could take a picture.

Abutting the park itself is a now derelict former GLC (Greater London Council, an earlier governing body) sports ground containing disused tennis courts and cricket nets which are still used by young Asian men. Apparently there had been a long-running battle between the Council, who wanted to sell the land for a golf driving range, and the residents of Hillcross Avenue who opposed the plan. I was therefore amused to see a man with a golf club with which he was driving a tennis ball for his dog to chase. As I caught up with him and began to chat we realised we had met back in the real winter in Morden Hall Park. Then he had been smoking a pipe which he has recently given up after 40 years. His moustache was still nicotine stained. Further on I discovered that there is a Council-maintained nine-hole golfing range in the park. The man practising his putting whom I engaged in conversation told me that the masses of parked cars on a roped off section of the grass were occupying a supplementary carpark for Wimbledon tennis.

Seated on a wooded path cuddling her pet dog was an elderly woman I had met before. I asked her where were the treats she was usually feeding to Woody. She had forgotten them. This tiny animal is a Chihuahua/Jack Russell cross. (My attempts at spelling Chihuahua were so abysmal that I had to resort to Googling dog breeds beginning with C.) She had had 5 rescue dogs before, but was not allowed to adopt another because of her age. Given that she is in her eighties, this was clearly reasonable. However, this elderly person manages a fairly brisk daily walk with a rather fortunate little companion, the only substitute she would tolerate for her late husband of 60 years. As I shook hands with her on departing, I realised she was quite arthritic. Answering a private advertisement she had had to travel to Wales to obtain Woody. It wasn’t only Woody who was to be disappointed this morning. The woman’s grandson attended Hatfeild Primary school which lies alongside the path. At playtime he likes her to wait by the wire fence so he can see the dog. On this day she was late. (My spelling of Hatfeild is correct. It is the name of a landowning family who once occupied the area. I am grateful to Jackie for this information as she often has to tell her work colleagues that a number of streets have not been similarly named in error.)

Enclosed within an overgrown copse at the entrance to the former schools sportsground is a derelict house. This once attractive building, for as long as we have been in Morden has been seemingly securely boarded up and covered in graffiti. I have often wondered what it looked like inside; whether it was GLC staff accommodation; and whether it might be for sale. Today the thick plywood coverings had been removed from the ground floor windows and doors. It is now full of rubble, some of which someone has used to smash their way in.

As I left the area a cheerfully optimistic young Asian came through the broken down fence, through which I always gain access, wielding a much-used cricket bat. Other, traditionally attired couples were quietly making their way along the path for their regular trips to the mosque.

For ‘us tea’ I made a sausage and gammon casserole. It went down well with an excellent Cotes du Rhone – Terres de Galets 2011. The wine was from Sainsbury’s; the meat from Lidl, equally as good as anyone else’s finest.

As a footnote I might add that when it became defunct the GLC handed over its property to local Councils. The burden of maintenance then fell on the recipients. In that manner Beauchamp Lodge Settlement, the charity mentioned in yesterday’s post, received it’s eighteenth century building from Westminster City Council at a peppercorn rent of £1.00 per annum. Eventually, being unable to afford the considerable maintenance, the Committee, through the intervention of Anne Mallinson, was able to purchase the building, sell it on, and move elsewhere. This did prevent the building from becoming like the house in the former sportsground.

P.S. On 17th March 2015 the derelict building was to feature in the T.V. programme ‘Homes Under the Hammer’

Dinner with the Mayor

Setting off early this morning for coffee with my friend Carol, I took my usual route through Morden Hall Park and along the Wandle Trail to catch the tube at Colliers Wood. This was a dull, humid and rather unpleasant walk. Some of the fallen trees were being sliced up into large Swiss rolls.

By the time I left Carol’s, just before midday, the sun was out and we had a very fine day. The whole of London seemed to be basking and sweating in the heat . I decided to wander around the area of Victoria, which I know very well. I thought I might stop and read in Grosvenor Gardens, alongside Buckingham Palace Road, and did indeed settle on a bench there. I didn’t read, however. It seemed too much to struggle against the glare of the sun on the paper, and I was much more interested in what was going on around me. There were many other readers squinting away. It was then I noticed a young woman, shielding her eyes, lying reading from her Blackberry. She managed, despite being in the full sun, to look remarkably fresh. Seeing the potential for this day’s header, I photographed her. Now, of course, no way could I publish this picture without her permission. With trepidation I then approached her and sought her blessing, offering to delete the picture if she wasn’t happy. She was happy, and took the details of my blog. So, anonymous young lady with a Blackberry, I thank you.

Further along the side of Victoria Station I noticed another far less fortunate young woman. She lay in a doorway surrounded by her bedding and her bags; her head lolling; her eyes shut; her mouth open; motionless, with a soggy, unlit and unsmoked roll-up adhering to her bottom lip. Feeling rather guilty I moved on. Unhappily this is not an unusual sight in central London and most of us prefer to leave such situations to those in authority.

As often when I visit Carol, I had taken the route past City Hall, which holds many memories of my time in the 70s and 80s as a Westminster Social Services Area Manager. Some of this period was during the infamous Shirley Porter era. Those memories are best kept to myself.

I can, however, take this opportunity to tell another footwear story. For some 15 years or so I was Chairman of Beauchamp Lodge Settlement, a charity situated in Westminster. Sometime in the 1980s Anne Mallinson, who served on this Committee, and was at one time or another Chair or Vice-Chair, was the Mayor of Westminster. Anne was kind enough to invite Jessica and me to one of her mayoral dinners at City Hall. In those days, as part of my marathon training, I ran everywhere, carrying my working clothes in a backpack and diving into any suitable public toilet to clean up and change. Since there are very suitable facilities at City Hall, that was the plan on the evening of the function. Now, my attire for the event was to be formal dress wear which would not have been appropriate for my working day. Jessica was therefore delegated to drive to the City Council headquarters bringing my evening wear for me to change into and I was to meet her there. I arrived in as hot and sticky a condition as almost everyone was in today, grabbed my box of clothes, and entered the gents in City Hall.

Having had a good wash I then began to dress. Ah! No shoes. They must be in the car. No such luck. Jessica had forgotten them. All I had were my best New Balance running shoes. I wanted to go home.

Nevertheless I decided to brazen it out. During the pre-dinner drinks, when circulating among the guests, I vainly hoped no-one would notice. I found myself in a group with the rather important guest of honour. When his eyes, having strayed to the floor, rapidly looked up and swiftly focussed elsewhere, I said: ‘Congratulations. You’ve spotted the deliberate mistake.’ Of course I then had to tell the story, which turned out to be a most convenient ice-breaker.

Not to be outdone, Jessica managed to cap this. She was placed between two eminent elderly gentlemen. One of them, politely drew her chair back to help her into her place. With her back to this courtesy, therefore being unaware that her seat was no longer where she thought it was, she promptly sat on the floor.

This evening we visited Becky and Flo and partook of a Deshi Spice takeaway accompanied by Cobra Beer. Becky continues on good form and is wondering why she had been warned that this would be the worst week. Hopefully she will continue to wonder.

Self-seeded Poppies

Although it brightened up a bit later, this morning was dull, heavy and overcast; almost as if it hadn’t slept well. I took a turn round Morden Hall Park then decided to go in search of a tortoise around the Hillcross Avenue area. (see yesterday’s post), and reward myself with a Martin Cafe fry-up. I didn’t find Brendan, but the breakfast was as good as ever.

On the way to the park I saw a man pick up a fallen branch from the street and stick it in the shrubbery in the garden of a woman who, although working on her beds, had not seen this happening. I extracted the branch and, as she was looking at me rather strangely, thought I’d better explain what was going on. We then got talking about gardening. She was an elderly woman suffering from asthma and was unable to get out into her small plot as much as she’d like. Her children kept trying to persuade her to get a gardener, but she was determined to do it herself. She was interested to learn about our activities in The Firs. Pointing out her California poppies, of which she was clearly proud, she said they were all self-seeded. When I asked her if I could photograph them she looked at me with an even more puzzled expression but had no objection. The Icelandic poppies in the picture above were growing on a path between two houses in Hillcross Avenue.

The park itself was quite quiet this morning, although the meadows were peppered with junior schoolchildren on a field trip.

This afternoon was spent writing clues for The Independent Crossword.

A liver casserole Jackie made earlier (some months earlier) provided our evening sustenance. Hardy’s of Australia produced the 2011 Shiraz/Cabernet to accompany mine, whilst Jackie drank her customary Hoegaarden Blanche.