derrickjknight

Tom

Since Tom has been on my mind since yesterday’s rugby story, I walked down to Hartfield Crescent (see 17th July). On Maycross Avenue, from the shelter of a fir tree above, some birds had produced an action painting. I wondered what would happen if I were to dig it up and put it on the art market. You never know, Mr. Saatchi may be tempted. More likely, I would face a criminal damage charge, so I thought better of it.

In Mostyn Road a tree surgeon proffered his card. I said I didn’t have a garden. As he looked rather disappointed, I said ‘Unless you want to come to Southampton where I tend my sister’s garden’. When he brightened at this, looked thoughful, and informed me he used to live in Portsmouth, I realised my quip had backfired. I told him she already had a tree surgeon and we went our separate ways.

I was unable to pass the secondhand bookshop next to the Mica cafe around the corner from my goal. Inside, on the top of a pile of books, I found a 1946 edition of Walter de la Mare’s Peacock Pie, illustrated by Edward Ardizzone. This could not be resisted. Into the shop came a young woman with two small boys. She wondered if they would like a donation of three black bin bags of books. Of course they would. One of her sons gleefully spotted a Harry Potter book. I told him he was like my son who hardly ever left the municipal dump with less than he brought there. I didn’t mention that Elizabeth was the same.

Firm friends at St. Mary’s, Russell Road primary school, Tom and I went up to Wimbledon College together and gradually drifted apart because our interests were so different. We spent many happy hours in each other’s homes, often swapping gruesome American horror comics. We made forbidden trips such as the one described on 10th. July. We swam in the public swimming baths mentioned in passing on 3rd. July. In many ways we were inseparable.

On my birthday last year a small party gathered for a meal at the home of Andy and Keith at Saint Aubin de Cadaleche, not far from Sigoules. I think they knew I could not manage 69 on my own. We had a spontaneous U tube game. Each, in turn would choose a song or piece of music. Keith would then bring it up on U tube and we would all listen or sing along. One of my selections was a Manfred Mann number. Up it came, and there he was, Tom in all his ’60s black and white glory, complete with Hank Marvin specs. This reminded me of my discovery that my old friend, so soon after leaving school, had become a pop star. Turning on the television one day in 1964, that very same number was playing. Tom McGuinness was a member of the group. His own website and that of The Blues Band can tell you far more about him than I can. I will confine myself to my own memories.

It was thirty year before we were, thanks to Jessica, to meet again. He was now playing in The Blues Band. This was a group got together by Paul Jones for a one-off blues gig. At least thirty years on, they are still going strong. On stage Paul and Tom look as youthful as they ever did. This group made an annual trip to the Newark Palace Theatre. Jessica got in touch with their agent, told him I lived in Newark, and Tom came up early and spent the day with us, providing tickets for the show. As Paul thought Tom rather skittish during the performance, he told the audience that they would have to excuse him because he had just met up with an old friend after many years. On another occasion, reminiscing on stage about his time at Wimbledon College, looking straight up at me in Malcolm Anderton’s box, Tom said: ‘Where else can you get an A level in guilt?’.

A talented guitarist, lyricist, and composer, Tom is also the author of a book, still regarded as essential reading for would-be popular musicians, entitled: ‘So You Want To Be A Rock & Roll Star’, a copy of which he gave me.

This evening Jackie and I dined with Becky and Ian at the Wimbledon Tandoori in Ridgway, Wimbledon Village. Although we had frequented this restaurant during the year we lived in Ridgway, before moving to Links Avenue in April last year, we had not been there since. This was why we were most impressed that they remembered us, where we lived, what I ate, and what we drank. None of the staff here today would, of course, have remembered our last period of visiting there. They were not even born when Jackie and I were first married, and she would save ten shillings (50p) from the housekeeping to take us out for a curry. If she had done really well we could have a bottle of wine for nine shillings. This vast sum took some time to amass, so our visits were special events. I really can’t remember enough to rate their meals in the old days, but they are top notch now.

The Hornby Train Set

Today I walked to Kingston to meet Geoff Austin (see 22nd. June post) at the Canbury Arms. Jackie had used Google Earth last night to find the route for me. She is very good at taking the walk through locations, and I was amazed at the pin-sharp pictures showing me the roads I needed to walk down, and picking out the landmarks like Wickes at the corner of London and Gordon Roads. Taking the Martin Way route, I crossed Bushy Road into Sidney Road, turning left at the end and on to Raynes Park Station; went under the bridge and along to Coombe Lane from which it is more or less straight through to Kingston; arriving at the pub with an hour to spare.

Almost opposite Raynes Park Station still lies, now undergoing refurbishment, the establishment where Bob Mitchell treated the young Jackie and me to fish and chips after cricket matches and drinks in the Raynes Park Tavern. Bob was a free spirit who enlivened matches more by his antics than by his cricketing skills. He was instrumental in my one and only loss of temper on a sportsfield. I once won the club single wicket competition. This is a knock out event where members play short individual matches against each other with their colleagues doing the fielding. In one of the earlier rounds I was up against Charlie Moulder (see 13th. July). Bob decided to even things up a bit. When I had scored just one run, as umpire, he gave me out caught by the wicket keeper. My bat had been nowhere near the ball. I’d like to say that I was a little upset. Unfortunately that would be dishonest. I was in a blinding rage, especially as Bob laughed when I walked past him. Normally I opted to bowl up the hill at Cottenham Park, because that would slow me down and give me more control. This time, I knew I would have to bowl as fast as, or even faster than, I could. So I chose to come down the hill. Still fuming, I scared the life out of a really very nice man, tearing down with my hair, at that time halfway down my back, streaming in the wind. The first ball knocked out two of Charlie’s stumps. Bob was quite unashamed in acknowledging what he had done. Jackie, on the other hand, was very ashamed of me. Mr. Cool had got too hot under the collar and behaved disgracefully. Now I’ve grown up a bit, I too, am ashamed of that performance. Bob was an incorrigible ladies’ man. When, in his nineties, a couple of years ago, he arrived at the club’s 60th. Anniversary Dinner with a very attractive young woman in attendance, the story was that she was his carer. But we all knew better. We knew that our Bob had not lost his touch.

Along Coombe Lane this morning I passed Wimbledon College Playing Fields. We always walked there from the school in Edge Hill to play rugby and cricket. It was here that Tom McGuinness, mentioned on 10th. July, scored what I believe to be his only try. Tom’s eyesight was so bad that he could never see what was going on. One afternoon he found the rugby ball in his hands. ‘What shall I do?’, he asked me. ‘Run for the line’, I replied. ‘Where is it?’ enquired Tom. ‘That way’, I indicated. Tom sped for the line, fell over, and touched down. No-one saw him. The fact that we were playing in dense fog had levelled this particular playing field.

I could tell a schoolboy cricketing story or two, but perhaps the one above is enough for Judith’s tolerance in any one post.

The grandeur of the houses along Coombe Lane West, and those on the private roads off it, contrasted with the more humble dwellings and shops in Norbiton, where now live a number of people from Korea. Among those catering for the incomers, there are still traditional shops near Norbiton Station, including a butcher’s with a novel way of announcing its presence. The trails of pigeon droppings crossing the road on either side of the railway bridge caught my eye. I decided they had been made by rows of birds perched on the top of the bridge, rather than one unfortunate with the runs. I thought it best not to look up.

Passing Warren Road, one of the private ones mentioned above, I reflected on ‘Shern’ children’s home which was once there. (On 25th. August I post a correction to this. ‘Shern’ was in fact in New Malden. It was the baby nursery in this location.) On the far side of Norbiton are council estates which housed many of the families who were clients of Kingston Children’s Department, as it was in the ’60s, before the Seebohm Report led to the creation of Social Services Departments. Whilst it would not be appropriate for me to publicise any of their stories, I have fond and clear memories of those who were my responsibility in my first employment as an Assistant Child Care Officer. With time out for training, I was there six years. During my first summer every one of the boys resident at ‘Shern’ was on my caseload. They thought it strange that on each visit I would only see one of them. Eventually they grasped that this was my way of emphasising the importance of each individual. This, of course, meant that I made rather more calls to this establishment than was the norm.

Whilst waiting for Geoff I spoke to Louisa on the telephone. Yesterday she had published on Facebook a photograph of Jessica and Imogen playing with a Hornby Train Set the girls had found in their garage. This antique toy, in full working order, was still in its original box. Winding it up and setting it going was giving hours of pleasure. Suddenly the parents of little boys were asking if they could come and play with my granddaughters. Louisa had asked me if the train set had been mine. Well, I suppose I am antique enough. I knew it was not mine, and that it had been a find of Grannie Jess’s. Yesterday I hadn’t been sure whether this had been in a car boot sale or on a skip. Overnight I had recollected that this treasure had been salvaged from a skip outside a house that was being cleared.

Geoff and I had an enjoyable time over lunch reminiscing about our days in Westminster; a couple of games I had played for his cricket club; and rugby at the Old Whitgiftians. He told me about his period in 2011 as Deputy Mayor of Kingston, during which he officiated at 202 events. I was shown a selection of some of the more interesting photographs in which he and his wife, Sheila, generally had smiles on their faces. As a Councillor, this long time resident of Kingston was required to research much of the town’s history. He was able to tell me that the residential development on the opposite corner of Elm and Canbury Park Roads to the pub lay on the site of the former Hawker factory. This was where all the First World War Sopwith Camel airplanes had been built. By the outbreak of the Second World War the old factory could not cope with the now larger planes that were required, so the enterprise was moved further down the road. But no-one told the Germans, which is why the area suffered heavy bombing. The propeller from a Sopwith Camel is mounted in the grounds belonging to the residences. Anyone wishing to seek more information on this should visit www.kingstonaviation.org/

Miraculously the Canbury Arms survived. It was therefore able to provide us with lunch of sweetcorn and tarragon soup followed by beef and mushroom pie, chips, and salad. We each made the same excellent choice, and drank a local brew called ‘Naked Ladies’. Neither of us could manage a sweet.

The K5 bus which took me back to Morden is a ‘Hail & Ride’ facility running once an hour. This means that, on certain sections of the route, you just hail it like a taxi, or, if on board, ring the bell and it stops for you. It is one of Geoff’s achievements as a Councillor that this threatened service has been retained.

‘A Really Lovely Old Boy’

The way the day began took me back to Leinster Mews. Kasia, who has just moved in downstairs, locked herself out when putting the bins outside at 6 a.m.. Not knowing what else to do, she rang our doorbell. After Jessica’s death in 2007, I returned to London and rented a mews house in that street in W2. I moved in on 23rd. December. After the removal men had gone I looked at all the stuff I had to unpack, and decided to go to the pub on the corner for a meal. As soon as I closed the door I realised I had left the keys inside. When my panic subsided I walked up to Harrow Road police station, which I had known well in my days as a Social Services Area Manager, to ask if they could recommend a locksmith. It was freezing cold. Fortunately I was wearing an overcoat. Given the proximity of the pub, I might well not have been.

Full of the Christmas spirit, the desk sergeant said he would contact locksmiths himself. This turned out to be a rather good idea, since it took him an hour and a half to get anyone to come out. From the waiting room I could hear his patter. This is what he told each person he called: ‘Got one of our elderly parishioners here. Poor old boy’s a bit confused and gone and locked himself out. It’s such a cold night I don’t want him standing outside too long.’ At some stage in the conversation he would interpolate: ‘He’s a really lovely old boy’, and when he finally got someone to agree to a visit, he added: ‘Do your best on price. He’s only a pensioner.’ Once he had been successful, he said to me: ‘I hope that wasn’t too patronising. I wanted to make sure they came out.’ I just found it hilarious.

Two men then met me at the house, got in with a card in about two minutes, and told me I’d done that, hadn’t I? They took the policeman seriously and were doing their best on price. In their report they claimed that by the time they arrived I had got back inside. This, they said, would mean I would not get a bill. Their management must have been wise to this, because I did get a bill, which I happily paid. The next day, I left the house as it was and took my myself off to Mat and Tess for Christmas.

A solitary sandal lying on the pavement in Links Avenue, as I set off this morning, reminded me of Ken. During my first years in employment with the Committee of Lloyd’s (see 6th. July post), Ken had run his own personalised taxi service to work. He collected a number of colleagues, of which I was one, and ferried us to and from South London and The City. He knew the side streets like the back of his hand. Whenever we were stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle he would say: ‘It’s either a woman or a white-haired man.’ I now know that he was both ageist and sexist. One morning he was full of himself. He had just answered what for him had been a conundrum. Having seen a shoe fall off the back of a rag and bone cart, he now knew why you only ever saw one shoe lying in the road. Never a pair. Why that should have troubled him I’ll never know, but then he was at peace with himself.

Using my normal route through Morden Park to London Road, I crossed over to investigate the avenues parallel to the mosque site. There is no vehicular access to Central Road from these. They are linked by a grid of back alleys, most of which contain garages. These paths have not been blocked off to prevent intruders, as have many in Morden. The house owners are, therefore, unable to extend their gardens as has our neighbour, who now has a fine crop of runner beans on his reclaimed territory. In Central Road I noticed another group of memorial homes, one of which carries a barely discernible plaque explaining that they were a post-war gift from a representative of the people of Denmark. Another plaque contains the same image that I photographed yesterday.

Crossing London Road from Central Road, I returned home via Morden Park. A vast flock of birds squawked their way across the sky. As they were against the light, I could not identify them. I speculated that they may have been parakeets who had been instructed to scat by the rooks which were there in abundance.

When I set out, the flytipping rubbish was being removed by Council workmen. They said that the problem had been that the rusting iron gates which are normally padlocked had been left open. This, of course was for Eid (see 15th. August). On my return those gates had been closed, and the concrete slabs placed in front of them.

Just before sunset, I ambled back into the park to contemplate the sky. A young Asian man was giving two small boys catching practice. They had to bowl to him and he would hit the ball, pretty hard, and pretty far, I thought, as they sometimes had to run after it.

This evening’s meal and liquid refreshment was the same as yesterday’s.

Pooh Sticks

On this rather dull morning I wandered along the Wandle bank in Morden Hall Park; came out onto Morden Hall Road; turned left, then right into St. Helier Avenue; right again along Bristol Road; left into Central Road; then crossed London Road into Morden Park, through which I made my way back to Links Avenue.

Building works which have been continuing for some months now, upon inspection turn out to be the first London example of an Archimedes Screw. This is a micro hydro-electric turbine, a modern waterwheel which will harness the power of the river Wandle to generate enough electricity to provide for the renovated stable yard. A working model is already installed there. The workmen were just finishing their break. Mothers and children were enjoying the rose garden, as was a gentleman reading. I admired Morden Cottage on my way to the bank.

Having been long intrigued by two statues situated on the far side of the bank, yet unable to get close enough to examine or to photograph them properly, I asked a man strimming some weeds if he knew a way across. He suggested swimming or paddling. Since this didn’t seem a very elegant method, I enquired at the Property Office. Unfortunately my informant was correct. Anyone carrying out general maintenance has to wade across. This is a deliberate attempt to protect these relics from vandalism, which they have already suffered. The shop does not carry postcards of these works of art. So I did my best.

On my way past the rose garden I had seen a woman showing a little girl the water flowing under a small bridge. I had suggested you could play Pooh Sticks here. Whilst the adult smiled at this and acknowledged that you could, it didn’t happen. En route to the Property Office, I met Ruby and her mother, with her little brother in a pushchair. I had heard Ruby’s Mum saying that when they had gathered enough sticks they could play a game. ‘You’re not going to play Pooh Sticks are you?’, I asked, hopefully. ‘Yes, we often play it’, was the reply. They were making their way to an ornate bridge across the fast-flowing stream. They were happy to be photographed in this activity.

Hello Ruby.

Another bridge, this time in Central road, across the railway, afforded an alternative view of the mosque, of which I had been given a tour on 18th. May. In Morden Park the marquees had been removed, and the hay from the meadow was being baled up. What has not been removed is the flytipping. (see yesterday’s post)

This evening Jackie and I enjoyed a varied salad. I drank some Carta Roja Gran Reserva 2005. Jackie’s tipple was Hoegaarden.

Continuing Themes

This morning I strolled into the footpath leading up to the mosque; skirted the London Road edge of Morden Park; crossed this road into Central Road; bore right into Green Lane; wandered through the Haig Homes estate; travelled back to London Road; and returned to Links Avenue via the park.

Cars were streaming down Links Avenue and into the path by the side of the railway. People were pouring into the mosque in their thousands. Jackie tells me that the view of this sea of people from the eleventh floor of the civic centre was amazing. At the entrance to the worshippers footpath, another young man was standing with a board announcing that the Eid (15th. August) car park was full. A very well organised and friendly group of young men, many using mobile phones, were directing the swarming traffic to the meadow I had seen being mown on Friday. The reason for the mowing was now clear. It was a vast overflow carpark. The marquee I had seen being erected was in fact three. These were filling up fast. As in the mosque itself (see post of 18th. May), there was separate accommodation for men and boys and for women and girls. I thought I’d best not photograph the women’s tent. This is a pity, because they were all wearing splendid attire. Until lunchtime I could hear singing and speeches from our flat.

I spoke to two Community Support officers who were counting the cars coming into the arena. Like me, they were disgusted at the flytipping which continued. The pile I had seen on Friday was still there, and had been supplemented by another huge heap which had been dumped in what seemed to be an attempt to block the route to the temporary additional parking area. We speculated that anyone caught tipping would probably save money by paying the fine incurred, rather than covering the expense of legitimate disposal. One of the officers pointed out that general rubbish was also strewn among the brambles which were providing one the ingredients, being collected by two women, for blackberry and apple pie.

Another two women, in Green Lane, asked me if I knew St. Anne’s school. I had to acknowledge that I didn’t. There are Haig Homes on either side of Green Lane. Haig Place lies alongside a very well kept estate provided by this organisation. These little houses all have beautifully tended gardens. I chatted with an elderly woman who lived in one. She identified a screeching coming from the trees as the call of squirrels. I had not knowingly heard a squirrel before. She said they are at their noisiest at night. She enjoyed the sound. More so than the cranking of magpies.

On 13th. August, I had confessed my own vagueness about Douglas Haig. I had therefore been amused at the response to a question I had put to a small boy on 17th. August. In fact the street sign ‘Haig Place’ was right outside his house. There was a terra cotta plaque on the wall between two semi-detatched houses, one presumably his own. Not even sure myself, I asked him if he knew who the man depicted was. He shrugged and silently indicated that he didn’t know. I’ve since used Google to confirm my supposition. There are Douglas Haig Memorial Homes throughout the UK.

Watch Me curries and Kingfisher completed the day. As usual, this excellent restaurant on Morden Road was also catering for several happy, celebrating, Sri Lankan families, the women in colourful clothing, and the children running about gleefully.

Park Culture

Today we continued with yesterday’s gardening projects. Jackie did a great deal more edging and weeding of beds, planting some flowers we had brought with us, and others from last week. I managed to get somewhere near halfway with the new bed project. So much for completing it this weekend.

Elizabeth has been suffering for two and a half weeks with sinusitis. For anyone who has not experienced it, this is an extremely painful inflammation of the sinuses, or cavities, in the face. Although I had a nasty bout of it during my first visit to Sigoules this year, keeping me in bed for the whole ten days I was there, it is otherwise something which I have not suffered for many years. It was, however, a frequent visitor to me during my teens and twenties. I was therefore pleased to see that my sister was clearly on the mend this evening. She even went out and weeded the ‘hot bed’. Since this was a very hot and humid day she had otherwise been on catering duties, especially the provision of drinks.

Each time we were given a drink, and, of course, at lunchtime, I took the opportunity to have a break. I encountered yet more small trees, almost all suckers from next door’s damson tree. My method of extracting them was described yesterday. There was also quite a bit of well-established ivy, with thick tendrils and roots, which had to be removed. Our friendly robin left his muddy footprints all over one of Elizabeth’s freshly painted tables. When I tired from pulling up small trees and self-rooted strands of honeysuckle, I wandered over to look at the ‘hot bed’ and remind myself that twelve months ago that had been a huge clump of bamboo which had taken three months of weekends to remove. I would not have been able to achieve that clearance with the tools I am using on what is to be the ‘scented bed’. I had borrowed a grubber axe from Geoff. Striking the root clusters with garden forks or spades was about as effective as digging into concrete. This particular implement made the task possible, although Elizabeth and I dug it over several times, always coming up with roots we had missed last time, before we deemed it ready for composting.

This afternoon Danni joined us. She spent most of the time in a recliner sunbathing and reading ‘Park Culture’, when she wasn’t being frustrated by being unable to access You tunes. But she had volunteered to cook for us this evening, and she works very hard at her sports massage practice so is certainly entitled to spend Sunday afternoon relaxing. ‘Park Culture’ is a most impressive new magazine produced by a couple of friends of Andy’s. His band, ‘Circle of Reason’ is, incidentally featured. Until now, there has, apparently been no magazine focussing on artistic events in the New Forest Area. The September issue of the journal was issued today. It is the first. There is coverage of literature, art, music, drama and other forms of artistic expression. This free publication has the quality of production one would normally be expected to pay for. There are interviews with artists and performers, illustrated in colour on good quality paper, with useful event information. The name comes from the fact that the New Forest is a National Park. Perhaps this is why it has such a rich artistic life. The website of this enterprise is www.culturapress.co.uk

Danni produced a very tasty beef stir-fry meal. We finished yesterday’s bottle of Roc Des Chevaliers, Bordeaux 2010. Jackie had a small French beer then drove me home after one last tour of the garden.

Bed-making

Jackie and I were up and out in the garden at The Firs before seven this morning. It was a beautiful day, and we were determined to enjoy the fruits of our work over the last year and a quarter. We shared the garden with early morning bees. Whilst I have been in France Elizabeth and Jackie have continued to plant, weed, prune, and generally maintain what has been done. Some of the wilder parts have been opened up a bit. Unfortunately, Elizabeth has decided she would like a scented bed. Nothing wrong with that in principle. In fact it is a very good idea. She and Jackie have decided where it should go, and have assembled a mail-order bench and chair which has been sited so that there is a wonderful view through the pergola. Elizabeth spent some time today painting a couple of occasional tables to complete the viewing area. So what is unfortunate about the idea? Well, whose task is it to dig new beds and compost them in preparation for planting? Exactly.

Surveying the bedroom area I could see that I would need to mark out the undulating line which we prefer; dig up some grass; take out a number of weeds; prune some shrubs; remove most of an overgrown honeysuckle from next door; dig it all over again; compost it all; dig that in; then put the tools away. ‘That’ll be my weekend’s task’, I said. Ah, well. Nice idea. But if I finish it tomorrow, I’ll eat the horse manure.

Marking out the line was comparatively straightforward. I actually have a good eye for a curvy shape. This garden has parts which are very stony. In fact we have made a virtue of this by planting Erigeron where there is not much else but stone. Jackie and I had seen it placed to grow through brick paths and steps at Hinton Ampner, a country house at West Meon. We thought it just the job for The Firs. It has thrived. The stones, however, made it a little difficult to cut a clean edge.

Naturally, the first part of the new bed, this morning consisting of mown couch grass millions of years old, lay on stones. Persuading the tufts of grass to leave their fakir-style resting place, was difficult enough. As much earth, a very rare commodity, as possible had to be shaken off. The turves were than transported by wheelbarrow to the compost heap. The fledgling robin that had sat on Jackie’s lap in June was quite interested. It was extremely humid, and the dry earth on my arms soon had the consistency of mud. A salad lunch was a welcome respite.

Raring to go, after a meal and a rest, I hit the first obstacle. There seemed to be a solid, immovable, square of concrete. ‘Ah’, said Elizabeth, ‘that will be the base for the brick pillar which was a continuation of the arbour’. ‘There’s another on the other side.’ Well, that can stay there. Most of the area I was then working was covered in rampant honeysuckle. As I cleared this, all sorts of other goodies emerged. Such as small trees which at some time had been cut down. Their roots had been left, and they were sprouting. There were suckers from the damson tree in the garden at the back. Some of the trees bore thorns. Some pricked me.

I had brought out quite a number of tools when I began, I hadn’t thought I might need an axe. I did. So I went and got one. For those who’ve never tried it, there follows an instruction in digging out small trees. First you must clear the area of brambles, couch grass, dog roses, and geraniums. The geraniums, of course, you must preserve most carefully. Wiping your brow occasionally, being careful not to get soil in your eye, you must apply a garden fork to loosen the earth. You then dig out as much as you can, stick it somewhere else on the bed, and have a go at moving the stump. Naturally it won’t move, so you have to dig a bit more. By this time you will have struck thick roots stretching across areas you haven’t dug and didn’t want to. Then you have the pleasure of wielding the axe. By this time, any thoughts of gentle care will have evaporated. Cut through the stubborn roots; pull up the tree; and try not to fall backwards into a pergola post as it suddenly becomes free.

After that, if you are lucky, someone brings you a beer and you have an excuse to sit down. Even though your back is aching you may claim that this is the only reason you have stopped. And if they weren’t having one too you would not have sat down whilst drinking it. Actually, Elizabeth did provide me with one respite during the above process. She asked me to sand one of the tables she was painting. I was only too ready. In fact the previously described mud on my arms, mixed with blood from the scratches, took on an even more interesting consistency when mixed with sawdust.

Jackie’s paprika pork went down well and Elizabeth produced a merangue mess which was eaten. I’ve had too much of the rather nice French red wine to remember what it was.

Council Housing

Along the footpath to the mosque this morning a heap of building waste demonstrated that the flytipping (2nd. July) warnings have been ignored. When I returned from my walk, it was still there, and a man was standing at the entrance holding up a board which announced that the Eid (15th. August) carpark was full. There was a queue of hopeful drivers in their cars stretching out into Hillcross Avenue. At the head was a vehicle full of Muslim women. I moved some of the rubble, hoping it wasn’t asbestos, so the driver could park there. A young Muslim man who had just parked alongside it declined to help. After that the other, male, drivers were on their own. Chivalry extends only so far.

Blackberries were ripening, to the delight of foragers. Bindweed was rampant. This menace was the curse of our tiny garden in Stanton Road. I spent many hours as a child chipping away at the sun-hardened soil with a small garden fork, endeavouring to remove the last vestiges of trailing white roots. The Forth bridge wasn’t in it.

Turning right onto London Road, I passed an old milestone. This is a relic of the days of horse-drawn coaches. I walked up to the crossroads and turned left, rounding into Green Lane which runs parallel to it. This wide thoroughfare, with a tree-lined path running down the centre of it, begins in the Upper Morden Conservation Area. It is part of the 1950s St. Helier Estate. This vast post-war housing project contains beautifully built and spaciously laid out properties. I think this was the last period of well-made council housing. Like many other local authority homes, some are now privately owned. It was Margaret Thatcher’s ‘Right to Buy’ policies that made this possible. Undoubtedly this did enable a great number of people who would be unable to do so to become owner-occupiers. It also reduced the amount of housing stock to accommodate those who could not afford to buy. I have mentioned before (28th. June) that I worked in Westminster during the Shirley Porter era. Looking out of my office window, or those of Beauchamp Lodge Settlement, I wondered at the fact that Council owned residential flats were being tarted up and otherwise embellished, for example, with sloping roofs. Some of these, no more than ugly boxes built in the ’60s, could certainly have done with it. Other Council Housing Department properties were being boarded up. Since there were numerous homeless families in the City of Westminster, this was another mystery. What I had not been aware of was the scandalous gerrymandering that was going on. My naive nature had imagined that money was being spent on improving the environment of Council tenants. It was nothing of the kind. Their homes were being prepared for sale to potential Tory voters. Fortunately the worst of this abuse was not implemented until after I had, in 1986, left the Authority’s employment. I would not have been able to stomach the enforced transportation of Westminster’s homeless families to hotel accommodation in other parts of London, to which the borough’s hapless people were being decanted.

Coming to the end of Green Lane, at the Rose Hill roundabout I turned right, eventually reaching Sutton Common Road, where I took another right turn which brought me to Epsom Road. Right again and I was soon able to enter Morden Park and make for home. Along the road from Rose Hill I came across another roadside memorial (see 12th. August) fixed to the common railings.

In Morden Park I discovered a fully equipped Cricket ground in a bucolic setting which I had not noticed before. There is more to this open space than I had imagined; and much to be discovered on one’s own doorstep.

Later, Jackie and I drove to The Firs. We had curries and beer at Eastern Nights.

Coping With Violence

Today was Mordred (see 12th. July) day No. 50, so I bought an Independent in Londis, on my way to my normal Colliers Wood route. I was having coffee with Carol in SW1 and lunch with Norman in Harlesden. Alongside the Wandle, brambles, nettles, bindweed, willowherb, and other foliage were ‘as high as an elephant’s eye’, to quote a wonderful Rodgers and Hammerstein song from Oklahoma! (1955), but the footpaths were clear. A blackbird with a damaged wing skipped awkwardly across one. Families were flocking to Deen City Farm (see 16th. May). Someone had wheeled a giant shuttlecock into the river. In fact it was ‘a beautiful morning’ when I set out.

After coffee I returned to Victoria to take the tube to Neasden, changing at Green Park. I had forgotten how jam-packed these stations can be during the tourist season.

On the Jubilee Line from Green Park I sat opposite two silent, expressionless, young men wearing dark glasses. This took me back 25 years. By the 1980s, violence on public servants was becoming quite a problem. I had myself been attacked by a disgruntled client wielding a coffee table. I was prevailed upon to re-enact the scene in an ITV programme on such violence. Deciding my staff needed training in the management of these situations, I approached the police for help. They were unable to provide any. There was nothing for it but to create my own course. With the help of my friend Brian Littlechild, one of the Social Workers at the time, a suitable event was planned and carried out. This was just for the Area team. My enduring memory of that day is the glee and accuracy with which the secretarial staff role-played their Social Work colleagues. It was hilarious, somewhat chastening, and informative. In the early years of my freelance consultancy practice, this course was very much in demand. Initially Brian continued to partner me, using days of his annual leave. Eventually we separated and went our individual ways, still remaining very good friends. Years later, when I sought a similar course for the staff of Stepping Stone Community (posted 10th. August), Brian recommended a trainer. The staff found the course stimulating and useful. They were particularly pleased with the handouts, which they showed me. Most of the material was what Brian and I had produced.

What we focussed on was scene setting, defusing of situations, and knowing when to get away, rather than self-defence. It was our belief that most Social Workers were not belligerant enough to carry through specialist holds or other fighting techniques, and therefore more likely to get into trouble attempting to apply them. There was, however, so much pressure for this element to be included that I approached Eden Braithwaite, a martial arts expert who I knew, to offer a sequence on the subject. He wouldn’t do it, for exactly the same reasons that I had refused to countenance it. ‘Then you are precisely the person that I need’, I replied. ‘You will have the authority to make them hear what they will not from me’. He agreed. The participants did accept what he said, some, I am sure, with a certain amount of relief.

During the morning of the day on which Eden was to present his piece, Brian and I, as usual, during our session on potentially threatening behaviour, had spoken about dark glasses. If you cannot see someone’s eyes, you cannot determine their mood. If you need to conceal your eyes, you are preventing the other person from knowing what to expect from you. The unknown is frightening and will elicit a fight or flight response. Strangely enough, we had some difficulty getting this concept across. This was quite a large group containing both men and women, perhaps twenty in all. When Brian and I returned after lunch, all the men were lined up together. They were all silent, with arms folded. All presented fixed features. We had no idea what they were thinking. One of them had been shopping and provided them all with dark glasses. Far from being threatening we found this, as we were meant to, laughter-provoking. This post-lunch session was much less somnolent than usual, and the group were nicely warmed up for Eden.

On leaving Carol’s flat just before mid-day, the pavements showed me I had escaped a shower. Emerging from Neasden station, I was not so fortunate. I walked straight into one. Seated on a wall around a ’70s Council block of flats whilst sheltering under some trees, I reflected on the difference between suburban Neasden and the opulence of Victoria Street which I had recently left to board the tube.

Norman fed me on melt-in-the-mouth lamb shank; cherry pie and custard; and a superb 2001 Gran Reserva Navarra.

On the way back I finished reading ‘The Land God Gave to Cain’ by Hammond Innes. This was a gripping mystery adventure which reminded me why Innes had been a favourite of mine in my teens.

Eid

On this dull and humid morning I had intended to follow Jackie’s suggestion that I take a bus somewhere and walk around there. As I reached Morden bus station, a few drops of rain suggested I should pay attention to the weather forecast, and stay closer to home. I therefore backtracked and made a tour of the derelict school sportsground and Morden Park. I had received an e-mail from Mike Kindred telling me it was even hotter in the village I had just left.

As often, before 10 a.m. when they open, there was a queue outside Merton Citizen’s Advice Bureau. These offices, now found all over London, are charities where people in need may obtain information, and at certain dedicated times, free legal advice. Relying on various sources of funding, their opening hours are restricted. This put me in mind of Charles and Betty Wegg-Prosser. By the time I joined the Beauchamp Lodge Settlement Committee in 1974, Charles was no longer actively involved, although Betty was in the chair, where she remained for some years until I took over the position. She was still a lively and influential member. Settlements are charitable community organisations which either run or house activities, such as Adult Literacy schemes and various projects for young, disabled, or elderly people. There are also facilities for minority groups, often accommodating them until they are established enough to obtain their own premises. As a leading Labour Lawyer, Charles had founded the Paddington Citizen’s Advice Bureau. This was a couple who gave a great deal to the poor and underpriveleged of Paddington.

Passing the concrete slabs, on which I sometimes sit and read in the sunshine, at the opening to the former ILEA sportsground, I noticed three vans parked on the grass. A gang of men were laying something out beside them. Naturally I wandered over to investigate. They were in the process of erecting a marquee which was to house the expected overflow from the mosque which would be celebrating Eid at the weekend. Eid celebrates the end of Ramadin. It is an end to fasting. Although the mosque itself, a tour of which I described on 18th. May, has a great deal of accommodation, it was not expected to cope with the many thousands of people who would be converging on this small suburb at the weekend. Perhaps in preparation for this, the meadows were being mown by two enormous vehicles. This was much more sophisticated machinery than the scythe with which I had romantically cut down our orchard meadow in Lindum House every autumn, taking care not to slaughter that year’s young frogs which frantically leapt out of my way. For a different reason, I also carefully avoided disturbing bees’ nests when I applied the mower to it.

The windows and doors to the derelict building, posted on 29th. June, have now been cemented over, but someone has determinedly broken into two of them and placed an access board against one. The inside is still a complete shambles. The unofficial car parking area has had Flytipping (see 2nd. July) notices attached.

Graffiti artists had remembered the Queen’s Jubilee earlier in the year. The Olympic torch also puts in an appearance.

On a wooded footpath I came across a squirrel burying his nuts. When he had no trouble scampering away, I was reminded of the hoary old jocular definition of a macho man, being one who runs home from his vasectomy. The owner of an interested Alsatian made his dog sit down and watch me walk by. I thanked him. When I arrived back at Links Avenue, the rain was falling in earnest. Probably on Ernest as well, since he was going shopping.

Our repast this evening was a varied salad accompaned by Wickham Celebration rose, 2010