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Brendan

On this fine summer’s day I set off for Cannon Hill Common, with the vague idea that I might be able to take some nature photographs with which to illustrate this post. In Maycross Avenue I spotted an RSPCA notice fixed to a post announcing that a tortoise had been found. Without anything particular in mind I photographed it. I then began to wander aimlessly, hoping I might find a new route to the common, but sensing I was moving away from it. There now seemed no purpose to my walk. I was covering streets I’d never traversed before, and, as these roads between Hillcross Avenue and Grand Drive seem to go all over the place I hadn’t much idea where I was until a bus stop signed in the direction of West Sutton suggested I might be heading for Grand Drive. This was indeed the case and I walked up to the end of Hillcross and along it for a while until diverging onto the path between the gardens of that street and Morden Park. This was almost a bad mistake, for the path was very overgrown and at one point I had to crouch low to wriggle under a fallen branch spanning the fences on each side of the path. At one time I would have happily crawled through what was effectively a tunnel, but now it’s far too much effort to get on my hands and knees unless there’s something else I can do whilst down there.

Ah, but there was a purpose to my meanderings. I was clearly being guided by whoever or whatever is above. Some distance along Shaldon Drive, which I couldn’t find now without a map, there was another notice pinned to tree. Have you guessed it? Yes, it was a notice offering a reward for the return of a lost tortoise. Naturally I rang the number on this sign. When I explained that I may be able to help the woman who answered to find her tortoise she and I both became rather excited. She asked me whether I’d remembered the number on the first poster, and, of course I was able to say that I had photographed it and arrange to call her back when I had summoned the image to my camera screen. I explained what I was doing with my walks and why I had taken the picture. When I called back I was also able to give the date when the animal had been found and this seemed to fit. As she was currently at work she would let me know later whether it was her tortoise or not. I asked her his name, saying that, of course the story would be blogged. Now this allegedly slow-moving creature had travelled quite a distance, so perhaps I should not have been surprised to find that his name was Brendan, after Brendan Foster the 70s Olympic champion runner. By coincidence, I had known Brendan’s wife’s sister who was married to my friend Tony, and Brendan had undertaken to look out for me and give me a mention when commentating my first London marathon. Unfortunately he had been unable to pick me out in the crowd, which was actually just as well, because I was running in someone else’s place.

Jackie came home early this evening so we could visit Becky. We decided on a takeaway from Deshi Spice. Four people perusing the menu, making choices, then changing their minds; with one person, Jackie, writing down the orders took the usual age to organise. Jackie rang to place the order. No reply. Becky had a look at the menu brochure. Closed on Tuesdays. Just like Paris where everything is ferme Mardi. Not good for Jackie’s nerves. As Becky felt up to it we decided to go out for a meal at The Raj in Mitcham. We had been there before, but it had changed hands since our last visit. It was empty but for one sole middle aged woman seated with a meal and one gentleman waiting for a takeaway. None of the tables were set. We were shown to a table, spread, like the others, with a paper tablecloth. The adjacent table was similarly covered, except that the paper looked as if someone had eaten their meal straight off that, having dispensed with plates. We certainly didn’t have any. Nor cutlery. Nor napkins. One of what we realised was the only two staff took our order. Then we sat. And we sat. And watched Mitcham passing by or waiting at the bus stop across the road.

Whilst nothing was happening I received a call from Sue, Brendan’s owner. Unfortunately the found tortoise was not Brendan. Brendan was 70 years old and the foundling was a baby. Great disappointment all round. In fact this was the second other tortoise found since Brendan’s disappearance. So, if any of my readers come across a tortoise, exactly contemporary with me, answering to the name of Brendan, please telephone Sue on 07809095005. She would love to hear from you.

Getting a little impatient after half an hour or so, I wandered into the kitchen and asked if we could have our drinks. The man who had taken our order, now on kitchen duty, said he was making them. Given that they all came out of bottles I returned to our table hoping that something had been lost in translation.

Eventually the popadoms appeared. Now, it is my firm belief that popadoms are a clear indicator of the quality of Indian food. These were excellent. Maybe, just maybe, our patience could be rewarded. Still no drinks, however, nor any napkins or cutlery. Actually there was an item on the menu labelled Aloo Cutlery. We were wondering whether we should have ordered that. I went over to the cutlery rack and brought a container over to our table where we all helped ourselves. Jackie and Becky had serviceable napkins in their handbags, and I helped myself to the half one under the popadoms. We could see a secondhand one left by the woman at the table opposite but Flo, ever resourceful, tore off the corner of the tablecloth for hers.

Finally the drinks arrived. My Cobra was lukewarm, but no-one else complained about theirs, and it might have caused untold delay had I mentioned it. Then came the surprise of the evening. We were all served together with a perfectly presented and deliciously prepared array of excellent food. When we’d almost finished our meals the napkins arrived. If you are not seeking sophisticated ambience, don’t mind helping yourselves to cutlery, bring your own napkins, and can live with rather grubby surroundings, but want first class Bangladeshi food, then Mitcham’s The Raj is the place for you.

As we left we all stepped over the half-eaten fried chicken leg deposited in the doorway, presumably by a customer of Dallas Chicken on the opposite corner of the street.

And so to Links Avenue and bed.

Graham Road

Having spent an hour this morning ‘getting my head round my new camera’, in the process being surrounded by various connecting leads; a CD Rom; a lead with a plug on it; a ‘getting started’ booklet; a charger; oh, and a camera, and not really having got very far except for a couple of out of focus pictures of a sofa and cushions, it was fairly obvious where my feet were going to have to take me. This was a round trip to Jessops in Wimbledon. Actually the two pictures featured today were taken en route to Jessops, so it wasn’t all bad.

I fell at the very first hurdle. The camera is so small that you are enjoined to fix its strap so that you can wrap it around your wrist in order not to drop it. This initial instruction I was unable to perform. Anyone who read yesterday’s post will know that my camera was a display model. This meant that it probably contained an already charged battery. I felt fairly confident in skipping the battery charging section. There were other setting up procedures which to my uneducated eye staring at the various icons, numbers, and letters on the screen may or may not have been carried out. One of these, said to be essential, was the setting of time and date. I didn’t want these printed on my pictures, so why were they essential? Pass. Panic. Perambulate.

Off I trotted to the experts. An elderly couple in Mostyn Road were amused to see me photographing all sorts of stuff, like (out of focus) convulvulus. I explained it was my new toy, and the woman said that after five years she hadn’t really got her head round hers. ‘I’ve got lots of pictures of my feet, fridge door, mantelpiece…..you name it, because I keep pressing the wrong bits’. ‘I’ve just done that,’ said I. We had a laugh and I moved on just in time to see that I was being approached by swarms of boys from Rutlish school presumably freed by the bell.

I had hoped by now to have completed the cyclists theme begun on 19th. June. However, despite the danger of seeming to have a bee in my bonnet about them, I have to report that two of the boys in the leading phalanx were coming straight at me on the pavement doing slow motion wheelies abreast of each other. The boys alongside them had to make way for me. By the time the next lad on a bike approached me I had had enough of stepping out into the road and held my ground. He bruised my knuckle as he swerved across my path. At least he was trying to avoid me, and did apologise. I decided to walk into the school and have a word. I was seen by a gentleman in authority who may or may not have been the headmaster. He was neither owning up to being the boss nor offering his name. If I could identify the boys by picking them out after having waited at the school entrance the next afternoon something may possibly be done; otherwise it was all rather difficult because if the boys were told to cycle in the road the school would be in trouble if one of them ‘got whopped’. I politely stated that of course I couldn’t identify the boys and wasn’t looking for retribution, rather some sort of ruling or guidance from the school. Perhaps I would like to come back later and speak to the police officers attached to the school. No, I wouldn’t. I was thanked for bringing the matter to his attention. C’est la vie moderne. I was reminded of a walk along the Ridgway in Wimbledon village just over a year ago. A 200 bus was being marshalled by two police officers ensuring that the melee of schoolboys from Wimbledon College were keeping some semblance of order. Some lads were being turfed off the bus. I told the representatives of law and order that had I behaved as the boys were doing when I was at the school 50 years ago I would have been before the headmaster in the morning. I was in fact no angel, but when I did anything out of order outside school, like getting my rugby boots stuck in an apple tree which I was trying to scrump, and consequently being unable to play a match, or wittily (I don’t think now) changing a street name with whatever was the then equivalent of a marker pen, I was inevitably shopped and for the high jump. Am I showing my age? Am I being an old git? I don’t care. Maybe I was a bit out of sorts because I was struggling with my camera. I don’t think so.

As always when I use the Graham Road route I experienced a glow of pride when I walked past number 130A. This extremely tasteful new-build was created by my sons Michael and Matthew and Michael’s small and friendly workforce. Michael’s firm, Able Assignments, had done some structural work for the woman who owned the house next door. She had wanted for some time to sell part of her garden for development but wanted craftsmen she could trust. Having been pleased with his work, his manner, and his reliability, she invited my son to buy the plot and build a house. No. 130A is the result. I believe this property is an exciting hybrid of old and new ideas. Many of the features, such as high ceilings; ceiling roses; deep skirting boards; and solid wooden panelled doors, were inspired by the Victorian architecture of Lindum House in Newark. These are combined with top quality modern kitchen, bathrooms and entry system, with more than adequate storage space. I wouldn’t mind living in it if I could afford it.

The man at Jessop’s put me right on various issues, sorted the settings, and explained that the out of focus pictures were so because the flash was turned off and therefore not operating when there was insufficient light, resulting in camera shake. He immediately reassured me by telling me that most people couldn’t attach the strap, and showing me why. I hadn’t gone ten yards out of the shop when I had forgotten how to zoom in on a picture I had taken. Back in I went for a repeat lesson.

Whilst cooking this evening’s Methi Gosht I managed to slice the skin off a broken knuckle with the lid of a ghee tin. The knuckle is one of two I broke playing Rugby many years ago, so it sticks out a bit more than it should. I am not going to seek sympathy from my friend Judith Munns, because she’d probably think it served me right (the break, not the cut).

My Methi Gosht was accompanied by Cobra beer, Jackie’s with Hoegarten.

Choosing A Camera

Having been promised rain all day today the weather was kind to us and turned out much brighter than yesterday. We therefore had a good morning’s planting. This was a welcome change for me, having spent a year preparing soil by digging, weeding, and composting. This seemed much the lighter option.

Jackie, Elizabeth and I went to buy Mum’s shopping and take it round to her, after which we paid a visit to Jessop’s. It is so different now than in the days of my youth when no shops and very little else were open on Sundays. As a child I could never go down the road for a loaf of bread. We had to plan ahead and there was no room for impulse purchases let alone cameras. Yesterday we had discussed the purchase of a camera but had not wanted to stop the gardening as we had expected rain today. ‘No problem. Jessops will be open tomorrow,’ was the solution.

I have been a keen photographer all my life, but have stubbornly insisted on using film. I have a very good Canon and an even better Leica and will continue to choose colour slides and negative film for my main work, unless of course the experience I have sought today convinces me otherwise. Over the last few years I have been working my way through thousands of slides and negatives from as far back as 1963; scanning them with an Epson; giving them the Photoshop treatment; and printing them on my Canon printer. I’d never really need to take another photograph. Rather like I’d never need to buy another book.

Unbeknown to him it is my friend Dominic who is the reason for the Jessop’s trip. Having read a number of my posts he was complimentary but said he thought they could be enhanced by photographs. Because of their purpose these pictures should be as instant as possible, making a move to a digital camera inevitable. Yesterday I asked Elizabeth to photograph the rose arch mentioned in that day’s post, so that I could start the requisite illustrations. Jackie then offered to buy me a digital camera for my birthday. I snapped up the chance. I am adding two pictures to yesterday’s publication.

Let us return to the trip to purchase the camera, which we had thought would only take a matter of minutes. First we had to choose. I’d gone in with two recommendations which narrowed the field somewhat. I thought I’d best tell the assistant something about me, primarily that I’d never used digital equipment, but also what I did do. He was somewhat surprised. Then there was the consideration of all the different features, most of which I didn’t understand. Then there were all Elizabeth’s more experienced and informed questions, most of which I didn’t understand. Eventually I told the young man he obviously knew what he was doing and I would therefore like to know which he would choose. He acknowledged a bias, and, indeed Elizabeth pointed out that he was sporting a Canon logo on his t-shirt, yet chose an updated version of the very same camera I had helped Elizabeth choose two years ago. That was good enough for me.

Unfortunately the business of paying was even more prolonged. Firstly, the only example of the specific camera that they had in the shop was the display model. I asked for a discount on that. The manager said it was not possible, but I could have some free printing. As I’d already explained that I only wanted the camera to illustrate my blog I said this would not be of any use to me. After a lengthy discussion involving the assistant toing and froing between me and the manager we were awarded a reasonable discount. By this time, Jackie, whose patience had worn thin during the choosing process, was pacing the store like a caged tigress. The first indication we had had of this was when she rushed around the shop pointing in turn to each camera in a row saying: ‘Would you like a black one, a red one, a pink one, a blue one……’ I was then asked for my e-mail address ‘in order to activate the discount’. I was just about to give it when I thought I’d better mention that Jackie was paying for it so perhaps it would be her address they’d like. This was indeed the case so we had to interrupt her march for a time. Three or four trips were made by our friend in the Canon T-shirt to other parts of the store through a private door, it seems to collect bits that went with the camera. Jackie continued her pacing. The display camera had to be unscrewed from it’s stand, which set off the alarm. Jackie was unperturbed.

Finally we arrived at the till. Unfortunately the till’s computer was not speaking to the salesman’s computer so the discount had not been applied. By this time our friend had gone off to advise someone else what they should buy. Jackie went off for a pace whilst I called our original salesperson back. He had to involve the manager who managed to unlock the problem and asked us if we’d like to purchase a second memory card at half price. Even if I thought 1000 pictures on the one card I had would be enough he wondered had we thought what a good Christmas present it might make someone. By this point Jackie was waving her card around with a wild expression in her eyes. I do believe she would have said yes to anything. I’m sure I caught the word ‘Whatever’.

Having taken the least line of resistance we agreed to the additional purchase. The manager went away happily totting up his commission. The check-out girl amended the entry in the computer and Jackie almost relaxed. The bill was presented. Unfortunately it was £20 more than it should have been. This just happened to be half the price of an additional card. I asked the young woman if this could be the problem. She looked at her screen and denied the possibility. The manager was sent for. Jackie almost wilted. The manager took his time. I walked round and looked over the young lady’s shoulder. I was right, the second card had not been reduced by 50%. By this time even I slapped the desk as I said: ‘OK. Take off the second card. We don’t want it.’ Our friend Shannon (by now we knew her name), looking very relieved, took the card out of the equation just as her boss arrived. He looked somewhat disappointed. Perhaps he was just mentally reducing his commission.

Thank you Dominic.

Back at Elizabeth’s, after a later than expected salad lunch, Jackie was let off the leash to get back to her planting. My contribution was a very little more ground preparation.

Before Elizabeth’s chili con carne meal with red wine, I helped Danni go over a teaching session she was planning for a course in which she is participating. I’m proud of her already, but this, in my view, simply confirmed her abilities.

And so to Links Avenue and bed.

A Conundrum

Today was warmer and drier, but very cloudy as we set off in the car to The Firs. So prolific were the daisies on the verges of the A31 that I mistook swathes of them on the embankments bordering the Bentley by-pass for chalk outcrops. On one stretch of narrower country roads there was a cycle race taking place in the opposite direction to ours. The periodic clusters of cyclists combined with the frustration of drivers forced to follow them in slow convoys caused some of the cars to cross the double white lines in order to overtake the aspirants of the yellow jersey; in turn requiring Jackie to hit the brakes. This was on and near the road between West Meon and its crossroads near the bikers’ cafe. All along this stretch are permanent signs saying THINK BIKE. These were not the bikes we were meant to think about, but, serendipity or not, the route taken for the tour we were witnessing was appropriately labelled. Later on, for the last mile or two of our journey we experienced a similar need to approach our goal at a considerably reduced pace as we were stuck behind a horse drawn carriage, the second we had seen. As there was a fete in West End village we assumed this smartly decorated transport of a bygone age was destined for Elizabeth’s village centre. Other vehicles of a not quite so early age were two seater open topped sports cars bearing very old number plates. They always come out when the sun is shining, and at least it was making an effort today.

Now I have a conundrum. The narrower country roads sometimes present the appearance of straight-sided tunnels. Trees and shrubs at the roadsides seem to be vertical examples of the topiarist’s art, until at a certain height branches are free to stretch across the road, often interlacing in the middle. My question is, what brings about the straight edges? I have seen only two possible explanations at quite different places and times. The first was a hedge-cutting vehicle in operation with a very high set of blades; the second a high-sided van possibly obliviously knocking off lower branches in its path. Is it either of these; a combination of the two; or something entirely different? Presumably it cannot be hot ashes from steam engines.

Having more or less arrived at our destination we visited Haskins Garden centre for a plentiful and varied salad in their excellent restaurant. This of course is fatal. Jackie has about as much chance of leaving a garden centre empty-handed as I have a bookshop. Although the car was already full of plants that she had gathered over the last fortnight, we just had to buy what she euphemistically called ‘a few’ more.

When we arrived at Elizabeth’s we were delighted to see the rose we had rescued and trained up an arch in the middle of the concrete ring that is all that remains of Mrs. Barbe-Baker’s summerhouse (post of 26th. May) was in full bloom. It had been blown down a second time two weeks ago when I was in France, and Jackie and Elizabeth had staked it up even more firmly.

Whilst digging in a new bed I was being stalked by a robin. They are of course territorial creatures who will fight fiercely for their plot. This one wouldn’t even wait for me to finish before staking its claim.

Our evening meal was taken at Eastern Nights in Thornhill. This, we have decided, is the best of the many curry houses in the area. Tonight there was the bonus of a very entertaining conversation taking place in the next cubicle. The comment which both had us in stitches and was printable was: ‘I’ve been coming her thirty years and it hasn’t improved.’ Jackie opined that it might therefore be time for the speaker to give the place a miss.

Geoff Austin’s Shoes

This was a typical March day. Yes, I know it’s not March, it’s June. Struggling into the blustery wind, feeling the cold, and scanning the threatening skies, you would never know. In fact the only week we’ve had so far this year deserving of June’s epithet, ‘flaming’, was in March.

Battling along, clutching her fascinator in a desperate attempt to keep it on her head, a possibly decorative, well dressed, young woman looked somewhat out of place among Mitcham’s less than elegant shops in London Road. Obviously on her way to an event, her headgear matched her dress, so she wouldn’t have wanted to see it rolling down the road like tumbleweed. She reminded me of my neighbour in Gracedale Road during the great storm (post of 2nd. June), clinging desperately to his home’s tarpaulin covering.

As I passed the police station I narrowly, nimbly, avoided being entangled in the leads of two sheepdogs on the end of a flustered woman they had just dragged over the zebra crossing. Later, along the East side of the common, I was surrounded by no less than nine unleashed, excited dogs in the company of a solitary walker. Had they been leashed I would probably have been well entangled.

Tacked to a tree by the lake on the common was a warning: DANGER THIN ICE. I wondered if there was more severe weather on the way. A heron stood on watch in the shallow water.

Setting off to Becky’s in jacket and buttoned up raincoat, yet stubbornly continuing to wear sandals instead of more sensible shoes and socks, I thought of the extremely hot summers of 1976/7 when I had walked everywhere with no footwear at all. A very witty newsagent, whose shop, on the corner of the junction between Harrow Road and Ladbroke Grove, was next door to my workplace, once asked me what I did about dogshit. I said: ‘I look out for it’. Quick as a flash, he replied: ‘I try and avoid it myself’.

On one occasion, having forgotten my emergency brogues, I was called upon to chair an unexpected conference. As I deemed it unseemly to attend, let alone chair, a formal meeting barefoot, I borrowed Geoff Austin’s shoes. For saving my embarrassment, thank you Geoff. Some years before, I had attempted to borrow something else from Geoff. I had been called upon to drive the then manager, the delightful Muriel Trapp, to another meeting. Muriel was only a couple of inches shorter than me, so she had almost as much difficulty getting into the passenger seat of Geoff’s two-seater MG Midget as I did the driving seat. Having got in I could neither move my legs to operate the control pedals nor get out of the car. My knees were in such close proximity to the steering wheel that I couldn’t turn it. Having dragged me out Geoff did the driving. For extracting me from that embarrassing situation, thank you Geoff.

When I arrived at Westmorland Way, Becky, who has been avidly following my posts, produced a fascinating album of creative writing she had kept from a course she had attended one summer some years ago. This was very impressive and I think it a shame she hasn’t continued with it.

Late in the afternoon the heavy, prolonged, shower that exploded over Jackie and me when we took Becky’s heavy sofabed cover to the launderette was more like an April phenomenon than a June one. We managed not to get the cover clean and to compound the problem by melting the fabric by putting it in a hot dryer. It looked like a snake in the process of sloughing. There was nothing for it but to cut the label off to identify a replacement only available in IKEA and make the trip to that emporium, which was the worst penalty I could have incurred. It seemed to be rubbing it in when I received an e-mail on my Blackberry offering a 20% discount from Homebase.

Back in the abovementioned 1970s I had been sitting in my local Soho launderette watching my washing circulating when a film crew came in, ushered everyone else out, and asked me to remain to stay in shot for a scene featuring in a television drama the title of which I have forgotten. On transmission evening we all sat in front of the telly eagerly awaiting my star performance. In the launderette scene it was momentarily possible, unless you blinked, to see an elbow which could just possibly have been mine. Shortly afterwards, filling the screen, was my son Michael, with his dog Piper, striding down Dean Street with a huge grin on his face. I think you’d say I had been upstaged.

A Sainsbury’s deli counter curry meal completed the day. Becky’s minute portion was liquidised.

Raincoat Or Umbrella?

It seems we had our one summer day yesterday. Today’s forecast was for widespread rain over the next few days, becoming colder each day. Consequently I set off in warm and humid weather for lunch with Norman. This involved the usual walk to Colliers Wood to board the tube for Neasden from where it is ten minutes on foot.

On such a day with such a forecast I always have two dilemmas. The first is do I pay attention to the weatherpeople? Mostly I don’t, but this time I decided to do so. In fact, although there were signs of rain wherever I went, I only experienced one flurry of light rain. The skies were, however, so threatening that it made sense to go prepared.

My second decision is whether to take an umbrella or wear a raincoat.

A light salad was followed by a drive home.

I settled for no jacket and my Daniel Hechter raincoat purchased in Bergerac a couple of years ago. This had been a gorgeous sunny day in August until, as is not unusual, we were hit by a spectacular thunderstorm whilst I was showing Chris and Frances the sights of Bergerac Old Town and I was totally unprepared. We happened to be standing outside a men’s outfitters. I dived inside. They only had one on the racks. Miraculously it fitted me. Sorted.

Once I had a Burberry but I left it on a train. This is one of the reasons I have trouble with umbrellas. I generally keep an umbrella for two trips and two years. The first trip is when I’ve just bought it in similar circumstances to the Bergerac raincoat. The second is usually about two years later when the brolly gets left on a train or at a bus stop; in a cafe or restaurant; in fact anywhere it’s not raining. I can live with losing one through such carelessness, but the one I lost in Soho seemed a bit out of order. I had left the soaking wet umbrella at the foot of the stairs to our flat in Horse and Dolphin Yard, a mews between Shaftsbury Avenue and Gerard Street. Another family member had left the door open. My weather protection vanished.

The thief ventured no further into the flat. An intruder on another occasion did come up the stairs and I found him rooting around the bedroom. Someone was a bit careless about that door. This young man claimed to be looking for a woman. As I didn’t think he was likely to find one in the drawers he was ferreting amongst, I politely indicated that I didn’t believe him and it would be in his best interests to depart. He did so rather rapidly. Not so another unwelcome visitor. This time a couple of soldiers on leave actually rang the bell, again looking for a woman. This was late at night and one of them was rather threatening, so my response wasn’t very friendly. His mate looked somewhat uncomfortable and warned me that the other man was likely to kill me. Sizing him up and considering my chances, I decided upon discretion and quickly closed the door.

After lunch which consisted of stuffed pork steaks rolled in bacon, roast potatoes, and veg., all courtesy of Mrs. Waitrose; accompanied by an excellent Turkish red wine (Trio on the label), I travelled by tube to Victoria where I caught a train to Mitcham Eastfields from where I walked to Becky’s. Our daughter had taken herself off in her car to visit her friends at her workplace – just six days after her operation. You can tell she’s my daughter. Thirty eight years ago I discharged myself from Westminster Hospital 5 days after an appendicectomy and drove myself home. It seems inconceivable that in those days I could have parked my car outside a Central London hospital, left it for that period, and found it awaiting my collection.

At Victoria a pair of policemen bearing what to my uneducated eye looked like automatic rifles were strolling among the crowds on the main concourse. Although not by any means a daily occurrence it is common enough for no-one to be taking any notice.

A Professional Clean

Last night I began reading ‘Moonfleet’ by J. Meade Falkner.

On this fine June day I took the same walk, with amendments, as yesterday. Following on from one of that day’s themes, I was only a few yards into Crown Lane when a cyclist rushed past me on the pavement, spurning the allocated cycle lane alongside her in the road.

This time I went through Morden Hall Park, turning right at Phipps Bridge tram stop and coming out onto Morden Road. As I passed through the garden centre I saw a couple of notices proclaiming A RIVER RUNS THROUGH THIS SITE PLEASE SUPERVISE YOUR CHILDREN. I gave some thought to little Kate Brown who is remembered in the eponymous post of 23rd. May. Mowing was in progress in the park, creating that sweet smell which had originally alerted me to the presence of the water meadow at Colliers Wood on that same day.

Walking down Mitcham Park, in the Cricket Green preservation area, I stopped and spoke to a couple working in their garden. The woman was fiercely protective of her home town’s reputation, whilst her husband expressed the view that it deserved its current negative one. He referred me to Google where I would find a site describing Mitcham’s chavs. She said his glass was always half empty.

Having been guided by Becky, much more of the final stretch was through Mitcham Common. On passing the lake I encountered a man, having discarded his bicycle, sitting on a wonderfully naturally smoothly moulded tree trunk. I quipped: ‘If that were in a West End shop it would be very expensive.’ ‘I know,’ he replied, ‘that’s why I’m enjoying every minute of it.’ It is perhaps a measure of how bucolic a journey it is possible to make across 5 miles of S.W. London that I was carrying a letter to post and did not pass one pillar box en route.

Our daughter continues to do remarkably well. Despite having just endured a major operation she expresses some embarrassment at the cleaning of the flat we have undertaken. By ‘we’ I mean Jackie with some minor assistance from me, the sous-cleaner. She does not know that her flat’s needs are nothing compared to the one we rented on The Ridgway in Wimbledon Village.

As a child, I had always dreamed of living in Wimbledon Village, so when Jackie and I sought a second time around home together it was natural that I should seek a flat there. The estate agent had insisted on a professional clean of this furnished property. The owner kept delaying occupation, saying she would clean it herself. I once visited and found our landlady standing with a limp rag in her hand indicating black discolouration on the ceiling which she said had been caused by a previous tenant’s joss sticks. On the morning of the moving day she phoned me saying that the professional cleaners had delayed and asking me yet again to defer taking up residence. I refused. That meant we (the same ‘we’ as mentioned above) had to knuckle down and fumigate the place.

The curtains were filthy and hanging unevenly from crooked curtain rails. When Jackie washed these the colours were revealed. The fridge contained mould in abundance, the ice cubes being full of indescribable matter including hair; the cooker was rusty, greasy, and rancid. It took all Jackie’s considerable skills to make it usable. At one point I dropped something down behind the cooker and had to move that to extract whatever it was. I regretted it immediately, because there was a long-standing oily mass underneath, including a number of cigarette filters. The elderly kitchen cabinet doors didn’t fit and were streaked with unpleasant looking matter. The washing machine didn’t work but a new one was on order. When the new one was delivered one of the men moaned all the way about having to cart it up three flights of stairs. He did not get a tip, despite my having once been a furniture remover and knowing how important are these earnings supplements.

The dining table had a glass top laid into a groove glued tight by decaying food. The unmatched chairs had cigarette burns in the seats. All the carpets in the flat bore similar tell-tale round holes. An ashtray contained a couple of stubs, and underneath the sofa there were piles of rubbish, mostly cigarette filters. The sofa covers had suffered at the claws of cats.

A reproduction chest of drawers in the bedroom did not close properly. This was because, although each drawer was numbered, they had not been fitted in the correct order. The antique brass bed had two missing corner post knobs. The owner had assured me that they would be replaced. They weren’t, so Jackie used tennis balls to fill the vacuum. Stains on both sides of the mattress caused very unsavoury speculation. The wardrobes were full of the owner’s own clothes which stank of cats, with whose hairs they were liberally threaded. The doors would not close and the free-standing one threatened to fall apart. Most of the apartment’s windows were insecure, but you’d have to be a very determined rock climber to scale the walls of this large Victorian building. They were also caked in grime and no way was either of us going to sit on the crumbling cills at such a scary height to attempt to scrape that off.

We did manage to get our landlady to remove her clothing (from the wardrobes, not herself), but she left some of her belongings in the loft and in a well on the approach to the flat. This meant that she would want to visit to collect stuff. She would make appointments and not turn up, or arrive unannounced. After a while the lavatory seat split and provision of a replacement was delayed because the owner wanted to inspect the break before authorising the purchase of a new one. She failed three appointments to do that before the agent advised us to buy own own and submit the bill to him for reimbursement. On a cold winter’s day we duly went off to buy an undamaged loo seat. Returning with our purchase who did we find sitting, wrapped in furs and wearing a scarf and boots, surrounded by shopping bags and cigarette ends, smoking a fag on the broad steps up to the front door, but our landlady. Having made and not kept an appointment to collect them from the loft, she had come for her ski boots. I asked her where she was going skiing. She told me that she wasn’t, implying that the question was rather stupid. She hadn’t been able to get into the loft because she hadn’t got a ladder. When I offered to help she said she didn’t want them now. I think you’d say she was somewhat eccentric.

Who cares? I had arrived in Wimbledon Village.

After one of Jackie’s tender lamb casseroles we drove home and disturbed the peace of Mother Fox in the front garden.

Cyclists, Geese, Ducks, And Tourists

This morning I walked to Becky’s home, meeting Jackie who had driven there. The route took me via the Mitcham cricket green and across the common. Walking along Cricket Green on one side of the eponymous conservation area, with the flamboyant clubhouse alongside Mary Tate’s almshouses across the road, one is reminded of how beautiful Mitcham was in days gone by.

Along one stretch of Morden Hall Road half the pavement has been designated for cyclists. I have never seen a cyclist using it. London has many such stretches of pavement reducing the width of pedestrian footpaths. The only one I have ever seen used is actually the first one I experienced. That is on a stretch of road between Balderton and Newark in Nottinghamshire. Cyclists may have availed themselves of this, but the ratepayers were less than happy about the expense. Bicycles ridden on the undesignated pavement can, however, be a menace on the busier inner London roads. They often speed along, weaving in and out among pedestrians, and steaming around corners with frightening disregard for their or other people’s safety. I was once clipped on the arm by one on the pavement in The Strand. As this was in my running days I set off after him and caught him up at traffic lights. He was rather surprised. Perhaps not only because I didn’t hit him. I just had a quiet word.

The roads, of course are unsafe for cyclists, choked as they are with drivers of varying ability. I don’t really know what the answer is, but surely it can’t be Boris’s Bikes which add more riders to already densely occupied streets. Interestingly, the only pavement- encroaching cyclist I’ve ever seen challenged by a policeman was a man mounting the kerb to replace a Boris Bike in a rack alongside Westminster Cathedral.

Having rounded the cricket green and on approaching the A236 roundabout on the wide pavement I was overtaken by a cyclist who wobbled past me on the inside and teetered across my path into and across this major road weaving his way through the cars approaching the junction before continuing his journey along the opposite footpath. I swear I had my earlier thoughts before this happened.

Much of my continuing journey involved crossing Mitcham Common. Only ever having driven and, I admit it, albeit 45 years ago, cycled along the major roads through the common, I had not realised what a pleasant amenity this is. The path I took between Commonside West and Windmill Road has at some time in the not too distant past been planted with an avenue of oaks. A lake in the middle of the common was home to large number of Canada Geese including a mother shepherding her troop of goslings and hissing at me. These large birds which are now rife in our public parks and canalsides were introduced into this country as long ago as the end of the 17th. century. It was about the middle of the 19th. century that fortunes were made in Peruvian guano, that is sea-bird droppings, which was highly valued as a fertiliser. Maybe there is an opportunity for an entrepeneurial individual prepared to collect the masses of Canada Geese excretia, just as Mr. Figg, one of my childhood neighbours, collected horse droppings left by the rag-and-bone man’s steed to spread on his garden.

My path across the common was twice crossed by a skein of what I took to be tourists under the direction of a guide. They would occasionally stop for a lecture or explanation. As I watched them file after their leader I was reminded of the duck that had once taken over the pond in our garden at Lindum House. She came in off the road and trotted down the drive followed by a string of her babies; inspected all the walls and fences bordering the garden, the ducklings following in single file; and when satisfied finally settled her family on the small pond which I had dug myself. Perhaps the goslings also influenced this memory.

I met a postman when nearing Becky’s flat, and we had a laugh about the chaotic street layout and house numbering in the area, Westmorland Way being the most confusing.

After a day with Becky Jackie fed us all on an excellent chicken casserole after which she and I returned to Morden, both by car.

‘Leave It!’

Yesterday morning I finished W. Somerset Maugham’s novel ‘Catalina’. Maugham is an excellent story-teller and this literally miraculous tale involving the machinations of a scheming prioress made very good light reading, perhaps especially because the characterisation lacked complexity. There was a cameo appearance by Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

This morning I walked through Morden Hall Park, along the Wandle Trail, and across Colliers Wood High Street to the Wandle Bank Water Meadow which I explored before retracing my steps. On the outward journey there was a familiar after the storm sense all around. Slugs and snails were in evidence. This had me reflecting that thrushes are a seriously endangered species. I am told that slug pellets have killed off these birds because their source of food is poisoned. In Newark we enjoyed an acre of pellet-free garden. So did the thrushes. We had no slugs or snails, except those whose shells we could hear the thrushes bashing on the stone paths. I saw no snails on the way back, perhaps because the sun had given up its unequal struggle with the clouds lowering overhead, or maybe because thrushes are alive and well in Morden.

Brambles and nettles were burgeoning and often difficult to avoid along the Wandle Trail, especially when slaloming around the puddles on the footpath. Along the Merton Abbey Mills stretch I had plenty of cause to be grateful for the work of Payback (see post of 24th. May). I noticed a few fallen trees, at least two of which now made primitive bridges across the river. Fishermen were stationed at intervals, particularly where the water was fast-flowing, as at Abbey Mills.

The Water Meadow had of course not been mown since the sweet smell which had alerted me to its presence as described in my post of 23rd. May. The Wandle itself runs alongside the small park which contains a serpentine stream, perhaps a tributary, currently choked with fallen cow parsley. As I was passing a group of dog walkers exchanging the usual tales of their pets, whilst the said pets were play-fighting, one of the animals which looked just like a wolf detatched itself from the others and, wet-nosing my hand attempted to frolic with me. ‘Leave it’ said it’s seemingly Korean woman owner. ‘Leave it!’. With what I hoped was a humorous expression, pointing at myself, I said: ‘I like the it in leave it.’ I’m not completely sure she got the joke.

In the late afternoon we collected Becky from hospital and drove her home. She is very well. As you approach the estate on which she lives there are frequent ‘sleeping policemen’, being humps in the road designed to force speed reduction. Jackie seemed to be leading a convoy of extremely patient cars who had to follow her driving very slowly out of consideration for Becky’s comfort. I don’t know about Becky but I certainly appreciated riding over the bumps more gently than usual.

After a takeaway curry from Deshi Spice in Mitcham Road and a bit of tidying up we left Becky and Flo to their own devices. Becky’s repast was tinned tomato soup.

Six Leg Byes

A much calmer day met us this morning and Jackie and I had a relaxed time before lunch and driving to Becky’s flat to give it a good clean in anticipation of her return home tomorrow. Hopefully our daughter will be pleased with the result.

We then took Flo to the hospital where we were all delighted with her mother’s progress. Flo had not visited yesterday because she had been taken to see ‘War Horse’, an arrangement which had been made months ago. She therefore noticed a huge difference from the post-operative state Becky had been in on her first visit. Becky was up and about and even led us to the ward day room where we could all sit comfortably. She looked remarkably well.

On the way from the flat in Mitcham Jackie was overtaken on the inside by a small motorbike bearing an L sign and a pizza parlour’s name. Beware the pizza deliverer. They all carry L plates and obviously acquire the bike with the job. What lessons do they have, I wonder?

Passing Mitcham cricket green, as we always do going to and fro Becky’s, Jackie asked me if I was aware what an historic ground this was. I responded with the tale of Len Heddy and Ethan Swaby which took place sometime in the 1960s. I explained that I had never played for a team good enough to compete with the then very strong Mitcham Cricket Club, but that I had played once or twice against one of their stars. Most clubs at that time introduced guest players for mid-week games. This is how Len got to play for my club, Trinity (Battersea – now Oxley) and Ethan was loaned by Mitcham to our opponents.

I only ever faced one bowler faster than Ethan Swaby. That was Keith Boyce who, whilst playing for the West Indies was turning out for Essex County second eleven as he was earning his residential qualification to be able to represent the county fully. He delivered three balls in my direction. I didn’t see any of them and the third one bowled me. To me, Ethan was much more frightening, because he employed a lethal bouncer. A bouncer is a ball which after hitting the ground climbs high and is generally aimed at the batsman’s body, throat, or head. There is no point in bowling a bouncer unless you are really fast, otherwise it comes through quite gently and should be easy to hit. Consequently, at the level I usually played in, you didn’t experience too many bouncers. I therefore never learned the sensible art of getting out of the way. As will be seen, neither did Len. On the day in question I received one of Ethan’s fearsome specials. I saw it come out of his hand; I saw it hit the pitch; I watched it come straight at my nose; somehow I brought the bat across, made contact, and watched it rocket to the boundary. I can still feel the draft of air created by my bat coming across my face; I can still hear the smack of bat on ball; I can still feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck when I realised what a near miss I’d had. This was of course in the era before everyone wore protective helmets.

A bit later on Len came out to bat. Miraculously I was still there at the other end. I need at this point to explain a couple of cricketing terms for the uninitiated. A leg bye is a run made after some part of the batsman’s anatomy has been struck by the ball and ricocheted off into the field. Usually it comes off the batsman’s pads, or leg guards. A six is scored when the ball is hit over the boundary ropes without bouncing first. Now, the boundary is quite a long way, and for the ball to clear it without bouncing it needs to be helped on its way by a hefty clout, invariably involving a cricket bat.

So now we have Len, a new batsman quaking at the crease, and Ethan, having had a rest, a refreshed bowler straining at the leash. Ethan tears in and releases the ball. From the safety of the other end I try unsuccessfully to watch it through the air. I see it rear up from the pitch; I see it strike Len on his unprotected head; I see it fly off into the distance; I see Len drop like a stone; amazingly, I see Len stagger to his feet, apparently uninjured. We all rush to his assistance, but he is, indeed, fit to carry on.

We then thought about the ball which was being thrown back from the boundary by a spectator. Incredibly, the umpire was signalling six leg byes. The ball, which had bounced off the so aptly named Mr. Heddy’s head, had cleared the boundary without bouncing. I have never known any other instance of six leg byes in all the years I have been playing and watching cricket. Had I not witnessed it I would never have believed it.

After the hospital visit we brought Flo back to Links Avenue for one of Jackie’s tasty penne pasta meals and eventually returned her to her own home.