derrickjknight

Leaving London

Being fortunate enough to start walking before rain set in for the day, I took my usual route to Wimbledon station and boarded a train to Waterloo to meet my friend Tony. A British Gas van in Maycross Avenue reminded us that 2012 was London’s Olympics year. There was another in Wilton Crescent. This was the third time we have hosted these games, and 2012 was a resounding success.

Morden Civic Centre, which Jackie will be leaving on 6th November, in preparation for our move to the mediaeval vllage of Minstead in the heart of the New Forest, towers over Mostyn Gardens. We will finally be departing from London, a journey celebrated in song by Tom Paxton in the 1960s. I once heard him sing ‘Leaving London’ in The Troubador, a Coffee Bar somewhere near Earls Court. As I struggled to remember the name of this establishment I ran the lyrics through in my head, and there it was: ‘Last night The Troubador was so full they barred the door.’ After Jackie and I split up in 1972 I was never able to listen to our favourite singer again, but his words remain fixed in my memory. One of the reasons I have chosen ‘Ramblings’ as the overall title of my blog is in homage to the first time I heard Paxton, having discovered ‘Rambling Boy’ in a record shop in the early ’60s. It is a treasure I have passed on to Holly, who enjoys playing vinyl albums on a turntable. Like ‘Under the Boardwalk’, mentioned yesterday, these gems can be found on youtube.

A plaque in the John Innes garden and recreation ground further down Mostyn Road explains the history of the beautiful eponymous preservation area in which it lies. Whilst seated in this garden writing my notes, I received the following text from Elizabeth:

‘Just sitting in the conservatory being entertained by the activity at bay tree bird station! Magpie and dove out there together for ages not sure if they are playing a game or if the dove smaller of the two birds is just telling the magpie to shove off! The little birds in and out of bird feeders are keeping them both busy with sprinklings. It’s warm and cosy in here………’ (This is presented as I received it. Had Elizabeth known this was going to be published she would most certainly have added the requisite punctuation). The conservatory is decribed as the garden room in the post of 5th October.

On the footpath between Dundonald Road and the railway a small child, at a snail’s pace, was trailing her fingers along the mesh fence which stretched far ahead. When I quipped that this was going to take some time, her mother, slowly pushing a buggy, readily agreed and added: ‘I’ve come prepared for this’.

After my meeting with Tony at The Archduke I returned by train to Wimbledon and, dodging umbrellas, walked back to Links Avenue from there, dripping over the threshold.

I dined alone this evening on Sainsbury’s chicken and ham pie with salad that really needs eating up. That doesn’t sound too appetising, but I enjoyed it. Jackie is out with a friend.

The Listener Setters’ Dinner

This morning, tramping around Morden Hall Park, I came across two young men examining the construction of a bridge, in preparation for a boardwalk through the wetlands. As I said, this should save our shoes and trouser bottoms. This meant I just had to investigate that waterlogged area. I should have tried out my new wellies, but they are in the car and Jackie had the keys. I was, however, rewarded by meeting two surveyors who were measuring the terrain.

This reminded me of ‘Under the boardwalk’ from The Drifters’ marvellous 1963 album ‘Up on the roof’. You can hear it on youtube.

Volunteers were tending the rose garden.

The small adventure playground contained much activity. Those playing in there were wearing wellies.

This afternoon I made a lamb rogan josh. All my balti meals are based on a wonderful little book, Mridula Baljekar’s Real Balti Cook Book. Jessica bought this for me in a remainder bookshop in Edinburgh on the only occasion she accompanied me to the Listener Setters’ Dinner. It wasn’t her scene but she tried it out once.

I had discovered the Listener crossword puzzle when The Times took it over in the early nineties. Solvers who successfully completed each of the 52 puzzles in a year were rewarded with an invitation to attend. After Mike Kindred and I realised we were never going to earn our admission that way, we began to set puzzles ourselves. Mike never did attend, but I enjoyed several of the annual gatherings which take place in different cities throughout the UK.

John Green, who, as a labour of love, checks all submitted solutions, sends all received comments to the setters. There are many comments. One of my proudest moments was opening a most complimentary letter of approval from Vikram Seth. On one occasion one of my clues was inadvertently omitted from the published puzzle. I received a plain postcard from Georgie Johnson. It read, simply, ‘was Mordred (my pseudonym), poor bastard, really one clue short of a crossword?’. There began a correspondence friendship. In those early ’90s, we didn’t have computers, so we communicated by post. Jessica suggested I should invite this delightfully witty penfriend to a dinner. Georgie came to York. Since we had never met, we arranged to convene in the hotel bar. I sat waiting with a pint of beer until in walked a most elegant woman who had the poise and looks to have been photographed by Patrick Litchfield in her youth. ‘That can’t be her’, I thought. She looked across the room, turned and walked out. ‘Ah, well,’ I thought. Then she came back in and I noticed she was clutching a copy of ‘Chambers Cryptic Crosswords’ (see 12th July), which had been our identification signal. After she joined me she confessed that she had thought ‘that can’t be him. He must be an actor or something’. We enjoyed a most pleasant evening which lasted well into the small hours. In the twenty first century we continue our correspondence by e-mail.

I have resolved my PayPal problem. Pictures can continue.

To celebrate, with our rogan josh Jackie drank a bit more of the Wickham medium white 2010, and I dipped further into the Era Costana rioja 2009.

Meandering Through Soho

Today I travelled by tube to Victoria for a trip around my ’70s home in Soho. As I neared Morden station two community support police officers rushed past me towards the crowded forecourt. I thought we were in for some excitement, but they simply wanted to board the 93 bus.

Leaving the underground at Victoria I walked along Buckingham Palace Road, passing the palace which was, as usual, surrounded by tourists hoping to get a glimpse of Her Majesty. Crossing Pall Mall, I walked up Marlborovgh Road. (There is no typo here, for the street sign is very old.) Turning up St.James’s Street, I took a right into Jermyn Street, passing Floris, where I had entered a discussion about single mothers posted on 17th July. It was near this establishment that once stood Astleys, pipe makers and tobacconists, where I used to shop. My favourite ever Meerschaum was bought there. The proprietor found it in a box in the basement where it had lain for twenty five years. He sold it to me for the price on the original ticket. Sadly, this was stolen long ago. It had been made from a solid block, traditionally and beautifully carved. The shop itself was one of the early victims of rising rents in this salubrious thoroughfare.

I walked around St. James’s church and bought a birthday present in Piccadilly Market in the grounds. Brass-rubbing was a feature of this church in the 1970s. I once took Matthew and Beccy there for the afternoon. At £5, which was still quite a lot of money in those days, I thought this quite a reasonable outlay for an afternoon’s activity. The two excited children rampaged around the crypt, gathering reams of large paper with a rub rub here, a rub rub there, everywhere a rub rub. Eventually I got the bill. It was £5 for each rubbing. After a lengthy debate with the staff we came to a compromise.

From the church I continued along Piccadilly to one of the most famous landmarks in the world, which had been our local concourse. In the mid 1960s I had run out of petrol bang opposite Eros. This disaster was a little more manageable then than it would be now.

Along Shaftesbury Avenue I passed Queens Theatre, still showing ‘Les Miserables’ which had opened when we lived in Horse and Dolphin Yard. The little waif who has adorned the facade all these years was taken from a marvellous Gustave Brion etching. One of our neighbours in Newark had, when we first arrived in 1987, seen this production six times. She went off with another man, so I don’t know if she is going there still.

On the corner of Macclesfield Street I contemplated the shop that had been the subject of my little white lie posted on 29th August. Next door is De Hems which was our local pub where Michael was Space Invaders champion. I would take a stein down from our flat opposite and have it filled with draft beer which I drank at home. The circular window in the wall of No. 2 was to our wardrobe cupboard alongside our bedroom.

Horse and Dolphin Yard is entered beneath an extension of the corner building. In the room above, Chinese men played Mah Jong whilst Michael and his friend Eddie played football in the yard. The window to the room where the men played was usually open, and the clattering of the tiles went on all night. We were quite used to it so it wasn’t a problem. One day one of the boys kicked the ball through the window. It came back slashed. This rather upset me, so I marched round into Gerrard Street, steaming. These buildings are veritable rabbit warrens, so I had to find the room. I did this by entering an open door and wending my way up stairs and through dingy corridors full of rooms containing individual yale locks. The clattering of tiles led me to my goal. Football in hand I strode in. The room was bare, with a few chairs against an unpapered wall. In the centre was the games table which contained what seemed a great deal of currency notes piled up by the tiles. It was surrounded by Chinese men who met my question ‘who did this?’ with determined silence. After several repetitions and no alteration in the stony faces, I hurled the ball into the centre of the table scattering both money and tiles. As I turned round and marched away, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I realised I had probably been asking for trouble. ‘Don’t turn round. Don’t turn round’, I said to myself. Miraculously I was unmolested, and Matthew and I have been able to dine out on the story ever since.

One of the buildings backing on to our yard is the New Loon Moon Supermarket, outside which we collected our Chinese boxes (see 14th September), and whose produce is now delivered in stout cardboard.

The Tokyo Diner at the corner of Newport Street now occupies the site of the laundrette featuring in the film in which I was upstaged by Michael and Piper (see post of 22nd. June). From there I entered Charing Cross Road, made famous by Helene Hanff’s book, ’84 Charing Cross Road’. Crossing Shaftsbury Avenue I turned left into Old Compton Street, right into Greek Street, and on to Soho Square Gardens where, seated on a bench, I spent a pleasant hour talking to Sammy, a very personable and amusing tall crane driver who was on one of the two two hour breaks he is allowed in his twelve hour shift. It’s the cranes that are tall, not Sammy.

This man would sit for hours perched above the tallest buildings. He pointed out the location on which he was working. It was truly scary. Previously he had worked on ‘The Shard’ which is clearly visible from Morden Civic Centre. Every so often during our conversation, he would check his mobile device for the wind force, since he felt sure that it was blustery enough now for him to be ‘winded off’. For safety reasons when the figure is above 50%, of what, I don’t know, he cannot work up there. When it rose to 68% he got up to ‘show [his] face’, when he would be sent home, but still be paid. He described his roost in the skies as ‘very peaceful’, and was most eloquent telling about having his head in blue sky looking down on a smooth layer of cloud like a river of milk in which he felt he could run his fingers. I’ve seen this from a plane, but from a crane the mind boggles. My newfound friend insisted on photographing me so I could show the world where I’d been.

As in many other parts of London a permanently fixed table tennis table has been installed. This was directly opposite, and near enough to, our seat so that we were continually fielding missed balls. In fact, Sammy, caught one in his. The games seemed to be open to all challengers on the basis of ‘winner stays on’. There were some very good players, the last one being quite exceptional. He was rather pleased when I quipped, as I rose to leave, that he would be there all day. I made my way back to Leicester Square station and took the tube back to Morden.

I had planned to cook a rogan josh this evening, marinated the meat, and done all the preparation, but PayPal did my head in. I spent an hour and a half trying to get them to allow me into my account. I have not used this for some years, since when they have introduced a new security system. I had to display the name of my primary school and the colour and make of my first car. They kept telling me my information was incorrect. Well, I should know shouldn’t I? And they’d never asked me that before. Eventually I was timed out, but I could access them by telephone. I took this option. The number they gave me turned out to be an O2 number. I gave up and we went to the China Garden in Morden. The reason I wanted to use PayPal is because the free download space I am using to put photographs on my blog is running out. If I don’t get this sorted you will see no more photographs.

An excellent Chinese meal helped me relax, as did the Chateau du Souzy beaujolais 2010 I drank with it. Jackie drank Tsingtao beer.

Cricket In The Street

This morning I walked to our landlords’ offices in Raynes Park to discuss our moving date. There was no-one in, so the conversation took place on mobile phones, which had not even been dreamt of when I was growing up in 29a Stanton Road, which has featured in a number of posts. Not wanting a wasted journey I continued along Kingston Road, walked under the railway arch and along Wyke Road to my childhood street.

It was dahlia time in Maycross Avenue, and magpies were feasting on rich pickings found in roof guttering.

The meerkats featuring in Compare the market.com’s television advertisements must be one of the most successful marketing ideas ever. They have spawned numerous offspring which can be found in outlets all over the country. Garden centres love them. Even the Metropolitan Police have used them to signal Neighbourhood Watch, several posters of which line my route. Neighbours in the Watch areas undertake to keep an eye on other properties in the street and raise the alarm if necessary. Net curtains must be quite useful there. These signs contain representations of the real thing, not the many different clothed characters which advertise the comparison site.

On such a blustery day as this, empty recycle bins are apt to be blown all over the place. One lay in the middle of Kingston Road, requiring drivers to avoid it. I picked it up and placed it against a wall. I had just passed the Emma Hamilton public house which is now home to a car wash enterprise. Pubs are closing at an alarming weekly rate throughout the UK. Many become Asian restaurants, some of which survive. These characterful old buildings often frequently change hands, presumably depending on whether or not their new owners have made a success of the alternative uses.

One of the few businesses which has thrived since my childhood in the ’40s and ’50s is the undertakers, the need for which will probably never die out. I will forever know this establishment, wherever I see its branches, as Frederick Window Pane. We children thought that in naming it we had been very witty.

And so to 29a Stanton Road. In those early years all the children played in the street. The presence of a car in this right-angled road was a very rare occurence. It was therefore perfectly safe, even to play ball games, which are now banned in London’s Council estates. Naturally we played cricket. The fence surrounding the large house across the road was a perfect surface on which to chalk the stumps. Jacqueline tells Jackie she always had to do the fielding, never being allowed to bat. My recollection is that she was always out first ball and we were too cruel to allow her the few lives we should have given her. If you hit the ball into a neighbour’s garden that was ‘six and out’, which means six runs were added to your score but you were out. We used an old tennis racquet and tennis balls, so it was rather difficult to keep the ball down, as I once learned to my cost. I broke an upstairs window of a house at the Worple Road end. The residents were on holiday, so we left a note. Despite this quite amazing display of honesty, the woman was extremely angry, telling me that at my age I should have known better. I was only nine, but she thought such a tall boy must be a teenager. My parents paid for the window repair. The fence which bore our stumps has long since been replaced, and the number of parked cars demonstrates that our games would not be possible now.

Michael has a wonderful old sepia- coloured photograph of boys playing cricket down the centre of a street of back-to-back houses somewhere in the North of England. These ragamuffins were making their own fun, just as we did.

I wandered down the alley by the side of our old home which now gives directly onto the railway path that was fenced off in our day, requiring us to scale the obstacle in order to play there. I was able to clamber over rubble and bramble to peer over the garden fence and photograph the spot where I did battle with convulvulus and plum suckers (see 27th August), and Chris broke his leg. When my toddling younger brother had this mishap I went dashing upstairs to give Mum the news. ‘Don’t be so silly, he can’t have broken it’, she said, attempting to yank him to his feet. Indeed he had.

I continued along the railway path (see 11th May), intending to walk to Wimbledon. A beautiful long-haired dog of a breed I didn’t recognise sped towards me barking excitedly. As a train passed I realised it was not I who had stimulated him. He stopped when the train had gone. I spoke to his elderly owner who said that his one pleasure in life was to chase the trains.

With half a mile to go the footpath was closed due to maintenance. I crossed the railway bridge into Merton Hall Road, thence left into Kingston Road and right into Mostyn where a mother was doing battle with a little girl who had just picked up a branched stick. Phrases like ‘it’s not ours’; ‘it’s got points on it’, and ‘it’s not a good toy’, were met with stubborn resistance in the form of shrieks and pulling away. I was momentarily relieved that that is all over for me. I returned to Links Avenue by my customary route.

This evening, after a big Lidl shop, we dined in Morden’s Superfish, an excellent traditional establishment where, with our crispy cod, chips and mushy peas, we quaffed Malandrino Pino Grigio 2010. A nice touch here is that a few prawns and crusty bread are served complimentarily.

Kersall Telephone Box

This morning I let my feet do the directing. They took me into Morden Park and along the wooded paths, having approached them along the cleared route between the backs of Hillcross Avenue gardens and the park itself. An untended fenced section peters out into pleasant woodland in which I was confronted by a Rottweiler which was more surprised than me and turned tail to join its owner and spaniel companion. The gentleman walking these pets greeted me with ‘no dog?’, and there followed an entertaining conversation about our mutual need for exercise. While this was going on the elderly larger dog stood panting whilst the spaniel sat patiently. I had first met a Rottweiler on one of my training runs around Newark in the 1990s. I regularly ran twenty miles on a Sunday morning, often passing fairly isolated houses, animals belonging to the residents of which tended to get rather excited at my trotting past. They were not always fenced in, so I would slow to a walk and hope for the best. A snapping at the heels was the usual treatment. One day an agile representative of the breed cleared the gate in its boundary wall, leapt to my side, frolicked around, and nipped my wrist. Fortunately it seemed to be a playful puppy. I’m sure that had it had evil intent I would have lost my arm. I went into the yard, rang a bell, and politely informed the owner that her pet was a highjumper. She was rather surprised.

Whilst still on the first path today I stopped to look at a red phone box in someone’s garden. (Click here for a large collection in the garden of Oak Tree Farm) A man called out to me, wondering if I wanted anything. He, too, had a vociferous dog. Perhaps the sight of a white head peering over their high fence had somewhat purturbed them. I explained what I was doing and I think the gentleman was satisfied his security was not about to be breached. It was only after I had moved on that I remembered Kersall and the woman who had hosted a bed and breakfast holiday Jessica, Sam, Louisa, and I had enjoyed in 1987 in that village outside Newark. We had decided to stay up there for a fortnight and search for a house. My discovery, with my friend Giles Darvill, of Lindum House advertised by Gascoigne’s estate agency in Southwell, was the result.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember our hostess’s name, which is a pity because she ran an excellent establishment, and was instrumental in a campaign to save her hamlet’s famous red telephone box from extinction. She carpeted the box, and kept fresh flowers, a visitors book, pencil, and various telephone books inside it. It was regularly cleaned and sweet-scented, and received many visitors. Unfortunately it wasn’t profitable and whichever of our enlightened telephone operators was responsible for this treasure wished to close it. The battle to keep it functional continued into 2008, later residents having kept up the continuing care. I do not know the outcome.

Across the other side of the park today I met the man with the two dogs again. We greeted each other warmly. A very fit female runner also crossed my path several times. With us both still on the move, I suggested that she might one day run a marathon. She wasn’t convinced.

This evening Jackie and I dined on a sausage and pork casserole I had made some months earlier. In case anyone is worried that it might have been off, it came out of the freezer. I finished off the Maipo Merlot 2010 and began a rather fine Era Constana 2009 Rioja. Jackie preferred a Wickham Limited reserve white of 2010. She’d probably have drunk Hoegaarden had we any in, but we hadn’t.

It’s A Small World

As we had experienced a slight frost last night, it was time to bring in the last of the potted geraniums, fuschias, and other less hardy plants for overwintering in the garden room and garage. I had fondly imagined this would be a simple matter of transporting pots across the garden, even if some were heavy enough to require a wheelbarrow. Not a bit of it. Under instruction from the head gardener all plants required dead-heading and the removal of wasted leaves; and in one case mass slug infanticide was necessary.

This activity took place after my morning walk for which Jackie drove me to the Royal Victoria Country Park near Netley. Only the central tower section of the vast building which was Britain’s first purpose built military hospital, opened in 1863, now remains. Jackie found herself a coffee, made herself comfortable, and settled down to her book whilst she awaited my return. I walked halfway round the park, then took a muddy track which ran roughly parallel with Southampton Water. One part of the route, which merged with the shingle, was signed Solent Way. Despite warning notices there was evidence of a number of fires on the beach. The path ran out on the approach to a jetty at Hamble, and I retraced my steps, continuing further round the park to discover various woodland paths, the most populated of which was wide, tarmaced, and led to a sunlit hillside cemetery which contains the graves of those patients of the hospital who did not survive.

On my journey out to Hamble I had passed two women running on the shingle. Having myself carried out training runs on sand, I recognised that this was a seriously strenuous effort which reminded me of the wonderful beach running scene in that exhilarating film, ‘Chariots of Fire’. Our paths were to cross twice again during a ninety minute walk. By the third time they looked a bit hot.

Before I came down from the track to join the shingle for the approach to the jetty, I had noticed two figures collecting something on the beach. On my return I continued along the pebbled strand a little longer and consequently met what turned out to be two women from Leicester who were gathering shells to take back home when they returned from staying in Hamble with the parents of one of them. When they asked me where I was from I mentioned that I had been born in Leicester. This rather delighted them and one said; ‘it’s a small world’. I also mentioned my uncle Roy Hunter who has lived in one of the first homes on Leicester’s New Parks Estate from its very inception a lifetime ago. I didn’t mention that I had three times run the Leicester marathon; or the details of my birth. I was born in Leicester General Hospital on 7th July 1942 seven weeks premature, which in those days was probably a rather dicey haste. I weighed a mere 5lb. 6oz.; was of somewhat Simian appearance; and was covered in dark hair. Sam, in describing Malachi’s first emergence, mentioned that his son still bore some of the body hair which is a normal covering in the womb. I hadn’t realised this. Given my premature arrival it is therefore probably not surprising that I was a little more hirsute than usual.

Mum and I stayed in the hospital for seven weeks and consequently developed a relationship with the nurses who comforted Mum with the words: ‘Bring him back when he’s 21. He’ll be six foot and handsome’. Well, I grew to be 6′ 3”. The rest is in the eye of the beholder.

Danni, ably assisted by Andy, spent the whole afternoon preparing a marvellous roast chicken meal for Jackie and me, Elizabeth, and Lynne and Paul, and of course, themselves. It was greatly appreciated by us all. Jam sponge and trifle followed. Two red wines, Budweiser, and Stella were imbibed. Afterwards, I didn’t even have the courtesy to stay awake as Jackie drove us back to Morden.

Blonds Burn More Easily

From the garden room whilst having our morning coffee. Jackie and I watched a pigeon in the process of landing and take-off in the bay tree beside us. Apparently being a poor judge of available space and the weight-bearing capacity of a slender twig, this large, ungainly, bird flopped onto its chosen perch which was neither long nor strong enough. The result was a lot of flailing about, such as one might expect from a tightrope walker about to fall off. The twig broke, the bird fell and dropped as if it had no parachute, suddenly remembered its wings, stopped in mid descent like a cartoon character, steadied itself, and flapped off, probably looking a bit sheepish.

Jackie drove me to Cotswold in Hedge End where I at last bought some Wellington boots. Still reluctant to encounter much mud again I decided to follow a road. We travelled to Blackwater car park on the Rhinefield ornamental drive where Jackie left me and went off to the deer sanctuary car park at Bolderwood in order to meet me after I had walked there. I walked roughly parallel to the road, sometimes on dryish gravel paths, sometimes on more soggy terrain. It was a beautiful, crisp day.

At one point I heard a rhythmic clatter approaching from round a bend. As I looked up, four ponies came careering round the corner headed straight for me on the path. Their leader was a splendid white beast, bearing down on me with nostrils flaring. It had got quite close before I realised it was not likely to lead its companions to one side of me, whereupon I deftly stepped aside, feeling like an ace matador, and watched the animals canter off into the forest. Pondering on discretion being the better part of valour, especially when faced with stampeding ungulates, I heard a further clattering approaching from the same direction, this time on the opposite side of the road. I watched four more ponies rush by from a safe distance. In truth, far more frightening were the two groups of racing cyclists who followed soon after, possibly breaking the speed limit of 40 mph. I suspect they had spooked the horses.

As I neared my goal I watched a small boy repeatedly throwing his Woody (the character from Toy Story) into a tree. There were no conkers or nuts which could serve as a target, so I was rather puzzled as to the nature of his game. When Woody eventually stayed in the tree, the answer became clear. The boy’s mother had to lift him up so he could shake the branches vigorously until his toy descended. Naturally this had me thinking of socks and rugby boots (see post of 10th October), the story of which I told the boy’s Mum.

The ground dappled with the woodland sunlight took me back to July 1967. It was in a wood in Sussex that Michael and I had stopped off for a play en route to Brighton where, the summer after Vivien died, I planned a bed-and -breakfast tour of the south coast with our son. The photograph I took of that scene could well have been captioned ‘Where’s Michael?’. After our break we travelled on to Brighton to find a bed and breakfast establishment. Of course we had to spend some time on the beach first. Although the weather was hot and humid the sky was completely overcast, so I thought a short time would be safe enough. Not so. After 50 minutes Michael was covered in blisters which required dressing in a hospital casualty department. The nurse there was very understanding and gentle in her explanation to this rather daft Dad that the sun can penetrate cloud cover and blonds burn more easily than people with dark hair. That was the end of our holiday. Michael was safer whilst I was able to receive the benefit of advice from Veronica Rivett, my future mother-in-law, with whom we then stayed.

This evening’s meal consisted of Jackie’s flavoursome Cottage pie followed by Sainsbury’s berry fruits trifle with Fitou for Eizabeth and me and Hoegaarden for the cook.

Another Lost Opportunity

Resplendent leaves were turning on the trees in Hillcross Avenue as I set off for this morning’s walk. Taking the footpath alongside the Merton and Sutton cemetery in Lower Morden Lane, I turned left at the end, trekked along Green Lane to Worcester Park High Street, carried on up this steep hill and continued along Cheam Common Road to North Cheam. At the end of Hillcross Avenue I had congratulated the driver of a scaffolders’ lorry on the skill with which he had backed out into the road artfully avoiding a parked coach. He was rather chuffed and, as I waited to cross by the roundabout at the end of Grand Drive, paused to enable me to do so. Mat might have found this rather surprising.

I had once sped down Worcester Park High Street, unhelmeted, on the back of a motor bike belonging to a member of the St. Matthias church youth club. This was a hairy exploit I have never again, even on the flat, with or without a hat, been tempted to repeat. My classmates had introduced me to the club in the late 1950s, as a venue where we could play table tennis, drink coffee, and eye the girls. I was very naive and shy in those days, and only reluctantly found myself one evening with a group of friends in the home of one of the girls, who we all fancied. I do not remember the young lady’s name, but I learned too late that she was quite keen. It was Pete Sullivan who kindly informed me some time afterwards that she had cut my picture out of a group photograph someone had taken at the gathering, and stuck it on her bedroom wall. My face, not the rest of the group. Yet another teenage lost opportunity. Ah, well. C’est la vie. I still have my copy of the photograph though.

At two different places in Cheam Common Road a very small child had discarded its shoes. Had I not been getting a bit tired by then I might have backtracked to pick up the first and place it beside its partner. The child may not have wanted its trainers, but I expect its Mum would.

Crossing London Road in North Cheam I enjoyed a hearty fry-up and knocked off The Sun’s puzzles in the Feedwell Cafe before walking back down the A27, into Morden Park, and so to home in Links Avenue.

This evening Jackie and I dined in Eastern Nights in Thornhill, imbibing respectively Bangla and Cobra. We then joined Elizabeth in The Firs.

Yes, We Do Have Toys

This dull and gloomy morning I travelled by my usual route to Carol’s in SW1. Yesterday I described a bizarre passenger on the tube, and on 26th September an extraordinary coincidence. Today I will focus on a typical sample of travellers on London’s underground. In common with the overground railways London Underground Ltd. no longer term their clientele ‘passengers’. Now we are all ‘customers’; such is the consequence of our nation’s all-consuming business ethic. The snapshots which follow are representative of an everyday journey. On the Northern Line from Colliers Wood to Stockwell, a number of races and both sexes were present. An Asian man was studying a hefty tome, his document holder, until removed to make way for a paying customer, lying on the seat beside him; another probably originating from a different part of that vast continent, was either working or playing on a mobile device; a Caucasian woman was reading a novel, and various others were reading Metro. All were silent except a couple drinking takeaway coffee; the man of oriental appearance with a Scots accent. I do not wish to indicate that they were slurping their coffee, simply that they were talking to each other. As the carriage filled up newcomers had to stand.

Metro is a free newspaper widely distributed, and is, I believe, available in other editions in different cities. Most are found discarded later in the day. This despite notices in the trains asking people to take them home or place them in receptacles positioned outside stations for the purpose. In terminal stations like Morden, staff traverse the carriages collecting the unwanted newspapers and dropping them into large transparent plastic bags.

From Stockwell to Victoria the crowd had thinned out. Metro was still being read; one man’s choice was The Times; and another, plugged into earphones, was attempting The Telegraph crossword. A young woman wrote in her diary. A small baby, nestling in a buggy, was crying as his parents vainly tried to comfort him.

The platform and escalators at Victoria were swarming with hazardous wheelie bags.

Boris Bikes 10.12 Boris Bikes (see August 29th) awaiting takers were lined up alongside Westminster Cathedral, facing a young man whose smart racing cycle rested against a wall as he consulted a map. Mansion flats nearby were undergoing splendid maintenance; railings surrounding one block in Carlisle Place receiving a facelift; and brass fittings in the many entrances to Ashley Gardens glistening gold in the gloom.

As I left Carol’s the rain began and lethal umbrellas were brandished in their multitudes.

Knowing that Sam was planning a visit with Malachi this afternoon, when I returned to Morden I popped into Lidl to see if they had any toys on offer. You never quite know what you will find in the central aisles bazaar. As I didn’t think a drum kit would be appreciated by the parents of a new baby, or, for that matter, my neighbours, I left there disappointed; which is just as well because at one point later Malachi said he wanted to play with his drum. I did, however, have a result in the Poundshop which stocked enough cars and farm animals to satisfy this lad who had asked for toys when visiting The Firs. Danni had set an example when she bought some to produce at Mum’s party. Taking a leaf out of Bill Burdett’s book (see 4th October), I hid them conspicuously around the flat.

When my grandson arrived he dragged me to a chair, got out his Leappad, which is a junior type of i-pad, and proceeded to show me how to play games on it. ‘Oh, dear’, I thought, ‘I have been superceded by technology’. I needn’t have worried, however, because he soon asked me why I hadn’t got any toys and I was able to send him on his treasure hunt.

This evening we raided the freezer for a medley meal consisting of Jackie’ bolognese sauce with freshly cooked pasta; and my chicken jalfrezi with Watch Me pilau rice, chapatis, and egg godamba roti. Racking our brains we decided the Watch me contributions must have come from a doggie bag gleaned from an outing we had there with Jacqueline and Elizabeth. Jackie finished the Wickham white wine and I began a bottle of Maipo Merlot 2010

Oiling The Lion

A pair of socks hanging in a tree on this bright, crisp, morning along the Wandle Trail en route to Colliers Wood reminded me of my rugby boots. On 25th June I mentioned my ingenious scrumping in Cottenham Park sometime in the 1950s. Remembering throwing sticks into conker trees when younger, I had decided to chuck my boots into an apple tree intending to knock off some fruit. Unfortunately it didn’t occur to me to untie the laces that bound them together. Soon they were suspended like the socks. More ingenuity was required to get them down. This involved the park keeper who was a bit put out. It made me late for the match. I couldn’t even invent a story which would present me in a better light. The news had been spread all round the changing rooms. Bill Edney, Geography master and rugby coach, was also a bit put out.

On another occasion, when playing for the Wimbledon College Old Boys, I lost a boot on the field. Rather than stop and put it on, choosing to wait for the next natural stoppage, I continued wearing one sole boot. I must be the only player ever to score a try with ‘one shoe off and one shoe on’. (My second name is John). I was probably lent wings to avoid anyone stamping on my stockinged foot.

A lace once came in very handy. When Alan Warren broke my finger (posted 23rd July), I obtained a spare, lace, not finger, from the referee and strapped the damaged digit to its neighbour in order to carry on playing.

It will now be apparent that nothing short of instant death would have got me off the field before the final whistle. When I damaged a shoulder which has given me constant pain for more than fifty years, I couldn’t raise my left arm, but I could rest it across the shoulders of my partner in the second row of the scrum. How daft can you get?

Sam knew. When I was about sixty and hadn’t taken the field for fifteen years, he played for a Newark side against a pub team. Reckoning I must be as fit as most members of the probably inebriated opposition, I sneaked my aged kit along when I went to watch. Just in case. Sam was not one to carry on regardless when injured, so I was puzzled at his continuing the game with a twisted ankle. Afterwards, I asked him why. ‘Because you would have come on’, he replied. And I didn’t think he knew I had come prepared.

During Sam’s stag weekend in the Margaret River area of South West Australia the young men arranged a game of touch rugby. In this form of the game there is no tackling. You just touch your opponent who must then release the ball. This was at the end of a day sampling the wineries. Naturally I joined in. After all, touch rugby is safe enough. Sam’s friend, Deutch, 6′ 5” and about 18 stone, forgot the rules and tackled me hard. Once I got to my feet I took the first opportunity to retaliate. I couldn’t get my arms around his hips. It was then that Mick O’Neil, about to become Sam’s father-in-law, sensibly called a halt to the proceedings, because, he said ‘someone will get hurt’. I think he meant me.

As usual, this morning, I continued my journey to Norman’s by tube. On the Jubilee line between Green Park and Baker Street, a young woman with extremely shapely limbs revealed by the briefest of running shorts; a ring through one nostril; a diamond stud in the other; and acne on her face cheeks spent her time oiling a lion’s head tattoo which was all that covered her right thigh. Perhaps she was applying hair care to the animal’s plentiful mane. Since she was seated directly opposite me, I was somewhat distracted from my book.

Church Road market, in the glory of the sunshine, was a colourful as ever.

Despite having a bad cold, Norman was able to serve up a succulent roast partridge meal followed by apfel strudel. Sadly he was unable to drink all of his half of the 2009 Dao, so I had to imbibe more than mine.