Big Ben – derrickjknight

Paddling Along The Thames Part One

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Norman 6.4.02

Given his abiding interest in Paddle Steamers, it was only to be expected that my friend Norman should celebrate his 70th birthday,

by hiring the Viscount to give all his friends a boat trip to remember. In the second of these images, Norman greets the guests as they embark. Today I scanned this batch of colour negatives from 6th April 2002.

We were offered a waterborne view of The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. The last of these images contains the queue of people walking along Westminster Bridge to visit the coffin of Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, whose body was lying in state. Here is what Wikipedia has to say about

‘Elizabeth Angela Marguerite Bowes-Lyon (4 August 1900 – 30 March 2002) was the wife of King George VI and the mother of Queen Elizabeth II and Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon. She was Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from her husband’s accession in 1936 until his death in 1952, after which she was known as Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother,^[2] to avoid confusion with her daughter. She was the last Empress of India.

Born into a family of British nobility, she came to prominence in 1923 when she married the Duke of York, the second son of King George V and Queen Mary. The couple and their daughters embodied traditional ideas of family and public service.^[3] She undertook a variety of public engagements and became known for her consistently cheerful countenance.^[4]

In 1936, her husband unexpectedly became king when his brother, Edward VIII, abdicated in order to marry the American divorcée Wallis Simpson. Elizabeth then became queen. She accompanied her husband on diplomatic tours to France and North America before the start of the Second World War. During the war, her seemingly indomitable spirit provided moral support to the British public. In recognition of her role as an asset to British interests, Adolf Hitler described her as “the most dangerous woman in Europe”.^[5] After the war, her husband’s health deteriorated and she was widowed at the age of 51. Her elder daughter, aged 25, became the new queen.

From the death of Queen Mary in 1953 Elizabeth was viewed as the matriarch of the British royal family. In her later years, she was a consistently popular member of the family, even when other members were suffering from low levels of public approval.^[6] She continued an active public life until just a few months before her death at the age of 101, seven weeks after the death of her younger daughter, Princess Margaret.’

As we steamed under that bridge guests were already happily mingling.

St Paul’s Cathedral stood proud along the embankment. It was in this place of worship that Norman had been ordained some years before.

Blackfriar's Railway Bridge

Soon we arrived at Blackfriar’s Railway Bridge,

beyond which we reached the recently reopened Millennium Bridge, known by Londoners as the Wobbly Bridge, and beyond this Southwark Bridge.

This extract from Wikepedia’s entry on the Millennium Bridge explains how it acquired its epithet:

‘The Millennium Bridge, officially known as the London Millennium Footbridge, is a steel suspension bridge for pedestrians crossing the River Thames in London, linking Bankside with the City of London. It is located between Southwark Bridge and Blackfriars Railway Bridge. It is owned and maintained by Bridge House Estates, a charitable trust overseen by the City of London Corporation. Construction began in 1998, and it initially opened in June 2000.

Londoners nicknamed the bridge the “Wobbly Bridge” after pedestrians felt unexpected swaying motion. The bridge was closed later on opening day, and after two days of limited access, it was closed for almost two years while modifications were made to eliminate the motion. It reopened in 2002.’

Beyond Southwark Bridge lies the famous Tower Bridge, near which is moored H.M.S. Belfast.

Wikipedia tells us this about the museum ship:

‘HMS Belfast is a Town-class light cruiser that was built for the Royal Navy, currently permanently moored as a museum ship on the River Thames in London, England, operated by the Imperial War Museum.

Construction of Belfast, the first ship in the Royal Navy to be named after the capital city of Northern Ireland and one of ten Town-class cruisers, began in December 1936. She was launched on St Patrick’s Day 1938. Commissioned in early August 1939 shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War, Belfast was initially part of the British naval blockade against Germany. In November 1939, Belfast struck a German mine and spent more than two years undergoing extensive repairs. Belfast returned to action in November 1942 with improved firepower, radar equipment, and armour. Belfast saw action escorting Arctic convoys to the Soviet Union during 1943 and in December 1943 played an important role in the Battle of North Cape, assisting in the destruction of the German warship Scharnhorst. In June 1944, Belfast took part in Operation Overlord supporting the Normandy landings. In June 1945, Belfast was redeployed to the Far East to join the British Pacific Fleet, arriving shortly before the end of the Second World War. Belfast saw further combat action in 1950–52 during the Korean War and underwent an extensive modernisation between 1956 and 1959. A number of further overseas commissions followed before Belfast entered reserve in 1963.

In 1967, efforts were initiated to avert Belfast‘s expected scrapping and to preserve her as a museum ship. A joint committee of the Imperial War Museum, the National Maritime Museum, and the Ministry of Defence were established and then reported in June 1968 that preservation was practical. In 1971, the government decided against preservation, prompting the formation of the private HMS Belfast Trust to campaign for her preservation. The efforts of the Trust were successful, and the government transferred the ship to the Trust in July 1971. Brought to London, she was moored on the River Thames near Tower Bridge in the Pool of London. Opened to the public in October 1971, Belfast became a branch of the Imperial War Museum in 1978. A popular tourist attraction, Belfast receives over a quarter of a million visitors per year.^[8] As a branch of a national museum and part of the National Historic Fleet, Belfast is supported by the Department for Culture, Media and Sport, admissions income, and the museum’s commercial activities. The ship was closed to visitors following an accident in November 2011 and re-opened on 18 May 2012.’

Tower of London and St Paul's

Beyond Tower Bridge, St Paul’s still dominates the horizon.

Soon we passed another paddle steamer, the Dixie Queen, a luxury party boat; and the Tower of London.

I would have been very remiss had I not photographed Oliver’s Wharf and made a print for my grandson Oliver. The Victorian Web has this to say about this building on Wapping High Street:

‘Oliver’s Wharf. F. & H. Francis. 1869-70. Wapping, London E1. Built for George Oliver “in the Tudor gothic style, this wharf handled general cargo but had special facilities for tea” (Craig et al. 45). Bought for redevelopment in 1972, it was the first warehouse in Wapping, and one of the first of all the old warehouses, to be converted into housing, yielding twenty-three very expensive luxury flats. It has been described as “the most architecturally sophisticated warehouse” in its street (Williamson et al. 228).

I made many images of this event, and will continue the story in due course.

This evening we dined on Mr Pink’s fish and chips with pickled onions and gherkins.

No More Shell Building

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As usual when I travel to London, Waterloo, Jackie drove me to and from New Milton today. Apart from the fact that the ticket office was closed because the system wasn’t working, and I held up the queue for the machine on the platform because I didn’t know how to use it, the journey was uneventful.

When I last took today’s walk from Waterloo Station, across Westminster Bridge to Carol’s home off Victoria Street, I would have crossed York Road by footbridge from the station concourse. This was not possible today. The bridge was closed and we had to walk down steps on the station side, and along the road until reaching the County Hall corner before we could cross.

A great, gaping hole appeared where the Shell Building, a landmark as long as I can remember, had stood when I made the trip a year ago.

This is to become a South Bank Development of ‘exceptionally stylish apartments’. Apparently people are already queuing up to acquire them although prices have not yet been fixed.

Around the corner, on the approach to The London Eye, I noticed two men in hard hats sitting against the background of building works.

As I came nearer, one of the very friendly men held up warning hands to ensure that I did not, without a hard hat, enter the site. The other gentleman came over to me and we had a pleasant conversation during which he suggested I might prefer to be photographing the New Forest.

I then shot the scene without the workers.

Once on Westminster Bridge I was reminded how difficult it is to negotiate that thoroughfare during the tourist season.

The piper, however, was given some breathing space.

An assiduous road sweeper kept the area around Parliament Square suitably tidy. The Plane tree around which he had just wielded his brush, was bursting into leaf,

as were those in an unusually quiet Victoria Street,

and outside St Stephen’s Church, Rochester Row.

I didn’t note the name of the excellent Italian restaurant in that street where Carol and I enjoyed each other’s company over a superb meal. My choice was a tortellini and clear chicken stock soup followed by sea food risotto. We both chose creme brûlée. I drank Friuli sauvignon.

I returned to Waterloo on the 507 bus, from which I gained a clear view of Lambeth Palace.

P.S. Perusal of the comments by Paul and Geoff below, will show that the title and the inference of this post is only partially correct. The main tower remains. It is just the lower levels that have been removed.

Emily Lee

Jackie drove me to and from New Milton for the Waterloo train to lunch with Norman at The Archduke.

Before meeting my friend, I walked along Concert Hall Approach and up the steps to the Golden Jubilee Bridge, the supports of which paralleled the structure of a nearby crane.

On our previous visit to the restaurant I mentioned the change of decor reflecting the new jazz theme. Greats such as John Coltrane, Theolonius Monk and Jimi Hendrix now grace the walls.

Norman and I both chose superb sea trout on a creamy pecan risotto, followed by tasty pecan pie and clotted cream, with which we shared an excellent Sicilian shiraz.

On leaving The Archduke, I was drawn to return to the bank of The Thames by the strains a powerful and exciting voice, which was itself unstrained. This emanated from a vibrant, humorous, young woman, who also had the engaging personality to hold crowds transfixed on a day that was cold enough to urge sightseers to keep moving. She is Emily Lee, who is soon to release a CD. She claimed to be suffering from a persistent cough which didn’t appear to detract from her performance. Look out for her.

The train on our return journey was as packed as ever. Three seats opposite or beside me were occupied by the bags of neighbouring passengers. A couple in their fifties approached the seats, looked at them, and said they would sit on the floor by the gangway. They were ignored, and this they proceeded to do. As awkwardly and painfully as usual in this tiny cramped accommodation I rose to my feet, walked over to the people on the floor, and told them they need not be so uncomfortable when available seats were occupied by luggage. The woman said it was very sweet of me, but they opted to stay where they were. I returned to my seat.

I ask you.

P.S.

I wouldn’t have mentioned the contribution I made to the singer’s collection, but after posting this, I went on to her Facebook page to send her the link to this post. She had already posted her busking session, complete with photograph. This is what she said:

‘Busking next to the London Eye and a £5 note that a lovely guy gave me goes flying straight into the Thames. Damn you wind.’

A Robotic Swivel

At New Milton station, where Jackie delivered me on this bright, cold, morning for the London train, the strong sun silhouetted travellers crossing the bridge linking the two platforms.
Norman and I changed our venue today. We lunched at The Archduke on Concert Hall Approach Road opposite Waterloo Station. I had not been there since, when we both worked in London, Wolf and I frequented it up to about five years ago. It has changed ownership and now has a jazz theme. The food, wine, and service was as good as ever. My choice was Cumberland sausages, mashed potato and onion gravy followed by pecan pie with clotted cream. We shared an excellent bottle of Sicilian red wine.
As I was early for our rendezvous I took a walk along Lower Marsh and back to Waterloo via Station Approach Road, where the graffiti constantly changes. In a tunnel behind a metal grill, perhaps fitted to keep him contained, The Incredible Hulk prepared for action.
By the time I left Norman and walked to Carol’s via South Bank and Westminster Bridge, the light had failed and the sky clouded over. Westminster Winter Festival was again installed on the South Bank. A jolly little train was parked in the sidings in sight of Big Ben.
A metallic military living statue stood motionless beside the stalls. With my now customary comment: ‘If it’s worth a photograph……..’ I made a donation, in the process dropping an additional 5p piece which, because my lower back still has a knife stuck in it, I was unable to pick up. I told him this, and that he was welcome to it. He smiled, swivelled robotically, and raised his hand in acknowledgement.
On Parliament Square a demonstration urged the immediate cessation of Guantanamo torture.
Again early, I sat in Christchurch Gardens for a while before visiting Carol for our usual enjoyable conversation. Afterwards I returned home by the usual methods. Jackie, of course, was waiting at New Milton on time.

Supporting Big Ben

Jackie and I began the day with a trip to Ferndene Farm shop for more gravel, for the patio corner and the path completed a couple of days ago that I am freshening up. We didn’t quite have enough for both, but I think you will get the picture.

A few more flowers were planted in the area cleared yesterday, including some Japanese anemones moved from the gravelled platform.
After this my chauffeuse drove me to New Milton for my trip to London.
From Waterloo I took the Westminster Bridge route to Carol’s in Rochester Row.

Despite the dull day, the South Bank was so crowded as to be almost impassable. The lovelocks, which have become a menace in so many major cities, have been removed from the handrails beside the steps up to the bridge.
Everywhere, as usual, cameras and mobile phones were brandished in the direction of the targeted sights.

The piper had his customary entourage of visitors recording his image. One beautifully smiling young woman took direction from her male photographer crouching low on the ground guiding her positioning of her hand for a shot in which she was to be seen supporting Big Ben.
On leaving Carol’s, I travelled by the Circle Line from St James’s Park to Edgware Road tube station from where I walked to the Akash restaurant for an enjoyable time and meal with my friend Jessie. This gave me an opportunity to exchange greetings with other friends from my favourite Bangladeshi establishment.
On the train I finished reading Desmond Seward’s history of ‘The Wars of the Roses’. From the very first paragraph of the author’s introduction we are dramatically drawn into this description of the fickle family feuds over the throne of England that occupied the country during the last decades of the fifteenth century. The maps, chronology, who’s who, and dynastic family trees that supplement the well researched and lively text make a good job of unravelling the story. I only wish I could hope to remember it all.
I moved on to Victoria’s Park, a novel by B. J. Haynes.
Jackie met me at New Milton station and drove me home.

‘Good Haircut’

Yesterday I promised Richard a copy of the photograph of him shovelling shingle. I printed it A3+ size today, and am very pleased with it.
Jackie drove me to Southampton Parkway after lunch. I then took my usual route to Carol’s, involving a train to Waterloo and a walk across Westminster Bridge and down Victoria Street.
On the south side of the River Thames The London Dungeon drew its usual crowds. At the top of the entrance steps stands a barrow loaded with human corpses wrapped in sacking. The occasional hand escaping from its primitive body-bag no longer twitched, unlike those of a visitor anxious to venture inside to feast her eyes on further gruesome spectacles. Perhaps the dead bodies had once entered with rather more trepidation.
Rainclouds gathered above Westminster Bridge and the silhouettes of some of the most photographed buildings in the world.
Flocks of pigeons lazing and foraging in a now much reduced little green at the Victoria Street end of Broadway, suddenly disturbed, periodically took flight and arranged themselves on safe perches in the plane trees above.
The green is Christchurch Gardens which has a history probably unknown to the millions passing by. There is no surviving evidence of either of the two chapels or the Church of Christ Church Broadway which have stood on the site at different times.
A chapel dedicated to St Mary Magdalene had occupied the area then known as Tothill Fields as early as the 13th century. By 1598, according to John Stowe, the building was ‘now wholly ruined’.
A new churchyard of St Margaret’s, known as The New Chapel was consecrated by the Dean of Westminster in December 1626. During the Commonwealth period it was used as a stable by Parliamentary soldiers and as avail for Scots prisoners captured at the Battle of Worcester. Twelve hundred of these prisoners were said to have died and been interred in the fields.
In the 19th century the New Chapel was demolished and replaced by Christ Church Broadway. Less than 100 years later, this in turn was destroyed by German incendiary bombs in the early morning of 17th April 1941.
Sadly, as in many London public spaces, this one now bears a sign telling you what you can’t do in them.
On one corner is situated a tribute to those who suffered in the suffragette movement which fought for votes for women in the early twentieth century. The body of their leader, Emmeline Pankhurst, is buried in Brompton Cemetery. Her gravestone in the form of a celtic cross features in ‘The Magnificent Seven’.
After visiting Carol, I returned to Southampton where Jackie was waiting to drive me home.
Noticing my reflection in the window of the 507 bus to Waterloo as it passed St. Thomas’s Hospital, I was reminded of the keen observation skills of Jackie and Judith Munns in August 2012. I had posted a photograph of the Sigoules boulangerie on an afternoon following a morning visit to the hairdressers there. ‘Good haircut’, Jackie had texted from England. How, I wondered, had she known? The answer was that I was unwittingly reflected in the baker’s window.
On the return train journey, I amused my fellow travellers, most of whom were engrossed in laptops, by commenting that ‘when I commuted everyone read books’. ‘Times have changed’, was a young woman’s smiling reply.
When we arrived home we dined on superb sausage casserole (recipe); green beans; orange carrots; red cabbage with chillies; and yellow swede, potato, and onion mash.

Back To The Akash

18.7.13

For the third heat-wave day in succession, Jackie drove me to and from Southampton for a London trip. First port of call was Carol’s, to whose home I struggled over Westminster Bridge and down Victoria Street. This time it was mid-afternoon in 30+ degrees.

The international teeming throng offered neither let-up nor pavement space. Wherever possible, leaders of groups held up all kinds of devices for their followers to keep in their sights. The journey from Waterloo to the comparative freedom of Victoria Street probably took twice as long as normal. I considered myself fortunate that I wasn’t a tourist or a sightseer intent on visiting places of interest.

On South Bank various entertainers, such as the jester exchanging high fives with little boys, set up pitches. Before reaching the concourse Charlie Chaplin strode by on his way to his performance venue. The artists must have been sweltering under their costumes.

The Thames is, of course, a tidal river. As I fought my way through the pulsating populace I wondered about descending to join the gulls clambering on the rocks and silt below. There was no way down, which was probably a blessing.

After I had finally made it up the steps to Westminster Bridge it was a male hand that thrust the camera into mine. In vain did I attempt to explain to the three young Italians that, because of the height and angle of the sun, they would be backlit in their determination to have the famous clock face featured in their group portrait. I had a go in French which was just as alien to them as was English. They did understand my comment that my Italian was non-existent, but pointing at the sun and swivelling myself around didn’t cut much ice.

At Parliament Square a silent demonstration pleaded for the closure of Guantanamo detention centre.

There were several ice-cream vendors about. Two men in their thirties were debating where they could find shade to sit and eat the treats. I suggested a park a short way down Victoria Street. This didn’t interest them as they had to attend a meeting at Guildhall. Mind you, the cooling delicacy would probably have run all the way down their forearms and dripped off their elbows onto their trousers long before they reached the oasis. They wouldn’t then have cut very impressive figures at the discussion.

Quite a few people, risking poking others in the face, were using umbrellas as parasols. One gentleman used his as a beacon for his followers.

From Carol’s I walked along Broadway to St. James’s Park underground station where I boarded the Circle Line tube to Edgware Road, along which I walked to the Akash (see post of 31st October last year) for a meal with Jessie. There is no air-conditioning on the packed tube trains. On the Circle Line the temperature was 34.2 degrees.

I enjoyed the usual delightful meal with my very good friend Jessie. Majid, Zaman, and Shafiq gave me their customary warm welcome and once again produced my favourite repast without my having to order. It was as if I’d never been away.

We took our coffee outside, where Majid was happy to serve it. As he placed the pot on the table, I asked him to return to the doorway for a photo. He had his back to the Akash. The Christmas tree alongside him is probably one of those he always sets up for the Christian festive season.

Jessie drove me to King’s Cross whence I took the underground to Waterloo and thence to home.

‘That Was Worth Fighting For’.

Jackie provided her usual chauffeuse driven service to and from Southampton for today’s journey for lunch with Norman. Why should I have been surprised that, after last night, the train was only five coaches long, with seats at a premium? In fact I only obtained one by tapping on the shoulder of a young woman, plugged into earphones and thumbing her way through pictures in her mobile phone, and point to her bag which occupied the only available space. My expression probably helped get the message across. She wouldn’t have heard anything I said. The price paid by those too tactful to interrupt such self-absorbed multitasking was to stand all the way to Waterloo.

From the London terminal I took my Westminster Bridge route to the Jubilee Line at Green Park. The concourse leading to The London Eye is now densely populated. As I weaved my way through the crowd my path began diagonally to converge with that of a man pushing a Henry hoover on a hand truck. What little room there was between us was suddenly bisected by a cyclist. As he shot through I asked him, in less than dulcet tones, ‘What the Hell are you doing?’. Having proceeded to a safe distance, he turned, smiled superciliously, and said: ‘Relax’. I didn’t. He sped away as I got as far as: ‘You…’

As the unpleasant velocipedist vanished into the throng, Henry’s bearer apologised to me. I told him it wasn’t his fault. That relaxed me.

Long queues stretched and swelled outside every South Bank attraction, none larger than that for The London Eye. When told how many hours she would have to wait for admission, a woman remonstrated with her polite young informant, complaining that the little boy she was pushing in a buggy was only three years old. There was quite a bit of food for thought there, it seemed to me. As I walked away from this, I overheard Dan’s quip. He amused me more than he did his companion with: ‘That’s the I.Q.’. I told him I loved it. He was ‘more than somewhat’ pleased. He was happy to be photographed for the blog. His friend declined to share the honours.

When he was very young Sam once delighted Matthew with his phrase for an unwonted involuntary activity. ‘I’ve been and gone and done it’, he said. Well, now I have. I’ve been and gone and photographed a smiling group against the backdrop of Big Ben. As I fought my way across Westminster Bridge a mobile phone and a small camera were thrust into my hands by slender feminine ones. I was asked, in attractive Iberian accents, to photograph a quintet of beautiful women. Big Ben had to be in the shot. Once I got the hang of the i-Pod it was no hardship really.

On Birdcage Walk the tinkling of old-fashioned bicycle bells scattered other pedestrians. A pair of Boris’s Bikers (see post of 19th June last year), seemed to think they enjoyed the priority of New Forest ponies. I don’t suppose my glower enlightened them much.

The air-conditioning of the M & S shop by Green Park station where I bought Norman’s wine was a welcome relief from the sauna outside.

At the bottom of the Jubilee Line escalator, facing the descending mechanism, head down; arms flailing; left foot frantically sliding across the toothed grill of the track disappearing into the nether regions; balancing precariously on his other leg, struggled a young man. He was attempting to release a silver coin that repeatedly bounced on the teeth and fell back. As it finally flew up onto firm ground and he bent, red-faced, to retrieve his 5p piece, I said: ‘Well done. That was worth fighting for.’ He enjoyed the joke. The redness was brought about by effort, not embarrassment.

Pouring sweat, I walked back to Neasden to board the Jubilee Line to Waterloo, after Norman’s cooling salad lunch followed by summer pudding accompanied by an excellent Georges Dubeuf beaujolais. Noticing a lost dog in Roundwood Road, prostrate and gasping for water, I knew just how he felt.

There was a faint smell of vomit flavouring the air-conditioned atmosphere in the train to Southampton. I did my best not to imagine it emanated from the late lunch a man opposite me was eating. Perhaps it was released by the tattooed gentleman in the row behind who chewed gum, picked his nose, and pressed the bogies into what he was masticating.

Not deterred by this experience I enjoyed Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi this evening. The beverage was sparkling water.

A Different Mother Each Day

After Jackie delivered me to Southampton Parkway for my trip to visit Norman, my train journey was almost uneventful. No doubt taking the Quiet zone notices literally, a taciturn young man opposite me, sporting an attenuated Mohican that had recently been mown, said nothing and did not take his eyes off the screen of his DELL laptop, even when I asked him to allow me to place my book on the table. Spread all over the surface, he drew the device about two centimetres towards himself. For form’s sake, and in order not to lose face, I positioned my book half way on to the table’s edge under the forward-leaning p.c.’s seemingly invertebrate lid, and read a page or two before shifting my seat from the aisle to the window where there was no-one opposite. I was not being difficult sitting opposite the man. I don’t have leg room on the inside seats if someone does come and sit opposite, whereas, as long as I pull them in when someone passes I can stick them in the gangway. Of the three laptop users sharing the table on the return journey, two were asleep before we reached Winchester, and the other’s DELL was not spineless.

From the terminal station, keeping an Eye on Big Ben, I crossed Waterloo Bridge, skirted Covent Garden, and wandered into Bloomsbury, passing James Smith’s magnificent umbrella shop where I had bought the brolly stolen from the stairs of our flat in Horse & Dolphin Yard mentioned on 9th February this year.

Incidentally, Becky, who has many memories of that Soho residence, on 30th June 2008 sent me a photograph of Flo taken beneath the yard’s street sign during a nostalgic visit.

From Bloomsbury I returned via Tottenham Court Road to Oxford Street, the New version of which I had crossed, and weaved in and out among the whole world’s populace to Bond Street tube station where I boarded a train to Neasden. The main difference between Westminster Bridge and Oxford Street, in terms of the crush of people, is that Westminster Bridge is shorter. Perhaps that is the better route after all.

Shortly before I reached Neasden, as an elderly man wearing a cross put his bible away in preparation for departure, a young woman, carrying a comatose child dangling from a sling like a puppet on a string, walked the length of the carriage placing a printed notice on each of the many vacant seats. She then retraced her steps in a not very enthusiastic effort to collect the money the message claimed she needed. Empty handed, she gathered up all her slips of paper and moved on to the next compartment. My fellow passenger, clearly a kind man, said how difficult it was to determine genuine need. I offered the observation that the infant was probably not hers, but agreed that it was very problematic and not a very comfortable way for the woman to make a living. This, however, is a scam I have seen so much of in the London Underground that I have become sadly cynical. I also experience some guilt when I do not offer help. Finsbury Park’s station entrance described in my post of 14th June 2012 was notorious when I frequented it in the ’80s and ’90s. The apparently sleeping three year old flopping in a buggy had a different mother each day.

A display on South Bank for the amusement of those crossing the bridge enabled me to pay lip service to the week’s gardening theme. A roof was being swept by a woman in curlers and a rather short hoodie, seemingly created from grass cuttings. A winding string of coloured wheelbarrows containing floral baskets could been seen below.

For lunch Norman provided duck in plum sauce followed by bread and butter pudding. We shared a bottle of excellent Rioja.

I finished reading John Guy’s ‘The Tudor Age’ section of The Oxford Illustrated History of Britain, and began John S. Morrill’s ‘The Stuarts’ before arriving back at Southampton where my driver was waiting.

Return to The Smoke

Against the odds, Jackie got me to Southampton Parkway in the nick of time for the London train for my visits to Norman and Carol.

Today being Red Nose Day, the culmination of national efforts to raise money for children’s charities, Red Noses gathered on Waterloo station concourse, from where I walked to Bond Street station and boarded the Jubilee Line train to Neasden.

As usual photographers were shooting their companions against the backdrop of London monuments. When a young oriental gentleman saw what I was doing, he insisted on returning the favour. At least, that is what I thought he was saying. But then language wasn’t really a problem. His intentions were clear.

This time I took the direct route from Piccadilly, up Old, then New Bond Streets. The class of the shops and the expense of their goods reduces somewhat once you have passed the flower stall alongside Churchill and Roosevelt still amusing each other at the graft linking Old and New.

Forests of flags festooning their upper facades proclaim the outlets, and the retailers’ displays, both inside and out, are as colourfully artistic as ever.

Huge, stony-faced doormen stand guard before the exclusive jewellers; a less scary uniformed attendant stands at the entrance to Burlington Arcade; and, as elsewhere in London, staff stand outside their workplaces smoking cigarettes. Two young men were most amused to be thought of as an integral part of the capital’s modern scene. The metropolis has, for different reasons, borne the nickname ‘The Smoke’, since at least Victorian times. This is because of the number of coal fires that were lit throughout the city during that era. The great smog of 1952 described on 6th January was instrumental in having a stop put to this.

The contrast between this most opulent thoroughfare and Church Road, NW10 could not be more marked.

Norman served up tuna steaks, pilau rice, and roasted vegetables, followed by raspberry trifle, complemented by an excellent Pinot Noir. Thus replenished I returned to the tube for a trip to Carol’s in SW1.

At Neasden I met and spoke with a peaceful Egyptian Muslim. His view was that religion should not be mixed with politics. No faith required us to kill people. Although he was too young to have known him, he spoke fondly of Anwar Sadat, whose assassination I had seen reported on French television in 1981. He told me that those behind the death of the former president were now in power and a revolution was being mounted to oust Mohamed Morsi, who would not leave voluntarily. More bloodshed was inevitable. Arab Spring had brought this about.

It had rained on and off all day in London, and when Jackie collected me at Southampton it was pouring there too.