Neasden Lane – derrickjknight

Panettone And Jam Pudding

13th November 2013

Jackie drove me to and from Southampton Parkway today for my visit to Norman. I took my usual Green Park route from Waterloo as far as Piccadilly, which I crossed and continued up Old and New Bond Streets to the next station on the Jubilee Line. It was high tide on a choppy Thames as I approached Westminster Bridge. Gulls on the embankment wall were being tempted by one woman to provide photographic material for another, younger, one – and for me. They were both amused at my efforts. The fact that we did not understand each other’s languages was no barrier to communication. On 1st November 1973, Queen Elizabeth II gave the honour of unveiling the statue of Sir Winston Churchill in Parliament Square to the great man’s window, Baroness Clementine. The sculpture, gazing across from the green to the Parliamentary arena that its subject so dominated during the years of the Second World War, captures his distinctive posture so well that a silhouette is all that is needed for recognition. Ivor Roberts-Jones was the artist. The green grass still largely uncovered by leaves in St James’s Park, provides the carpet for crows, squirrels, waterfowl, and humans. Although the London planes slough their bark throughout the year, their leaves are retained a little longer than yesterday’s gorgeous maples. The reason I know about the bark is a little embarrassing. Some time around 1980, I was gazing thoughtfully out of my Westminster office window when I noticed planes in the street outside shedding their skin. Wondering whether this was a consequence of the hot summer and something should be done about it, I telephoned the department responsible for their maintenance to alert them of this fact. ‘They are meant to do that’, was the reply. ‘That’s how they get rid of city dirt’. Neasden’s trees were making a valiant effort to brighten its unattractive blocks of flats, but no amount of fallen leaves could have invited carpet slippers onto the ramshackle surface of the Neasden Lane pavements. Norman served a tender, well marinaded beef stew and pilau rice for lunch. Not having used his Le Creuset casserole dish for some months – since last Christmas as it turned out – he was surprised, when removing its lid, to find it contained half a panettone. He also had a jar of jam he wanted to finish up. Consequently the planned bread and butter pudding became one of panettone and jam, baked with a custard topping, and served with cream. The peel in the brioche type bread made an excellent substitute for marmalade which is sometimes spread on the bread of our normal version. I thought this an agreeably inventive variation on a theme. The choice of wine, appropriately, was an excellent valpolicella. My journey home was uneventful. Seeking an illustration of panettone on Google, I discovered the BBC posh panettone bread and butter pudding, and am able to insert a picture of this. It doesn’t have custard or jam, so I consider my friend could legitimately take out a patent.

Surprisingly Picturesque

Although I have been unable to confirm the nationality of a gang of childhood friends from the early 1950s, my recollection is that it was ‘the Czechs’ we did battle with in those days. For some reason Jackie and I got talking about this over coffee this morning. Refugee families had been housed in a large Victorian terrace in Worple Road. Somewhere nearby was a bomb site. My gang and a similar group of the incomers engaged in mock warfare. There were strict rules and no-one was ever hurt. On this patch of weed-covered rubble and debris each nationality built a den out of corrugated iron, wooden beams, old sinks, cisterns, and whatever else was available. We then hurled bricks and bits of concrete at each other’s structures until one collapsed, after which the winners crowed a bit, then we all shook hands and went home. It was absolutely forbidden to throw a missile at another boy. Language was a bit of a problem, but we managed to communicate rules and intent. There had not been enough postwar time for these sites to have been fully cleared, and they were most attractive playgrounds, no doubt full of enough hazards to have horrified today’s parents.

Four days ago, when Lydie was driving me to Bergerac airport, she described the beauty of morning mist rising from the local frosty fields on clear sunny days. In particular she had seen a scene where the tops of trees seemed to be emerging from a sea of water. As Jackie drove me to Southampton Parkway railway station for my London lunch date with Norman, we saw a similar phenomenon beside the M27.

On the train I was amused to hear a most original ring tone on the mobile phone of the man opposite. It was, in his little girl’s voice, ‘Dad, Dad, come on Dad, your phone’s ringing’. Yesterday Jackie had explained the significance of Charlie and Carlos in a TV auction programme, as being a jocular distinction between two men named Charles. So when the steward on board announced that there were two at-seat trollies in service, Peter being in charge of the rear five coaches, and Pedro of the front five, I had an idea what might be going on. When Peter arrived at my seat I asked him if this were so. He laughed and said he ‘couldn’t remember his name so [he] made something up’.

From Waterloo I walked my usual route to Green Park, where I boarded a Jubilee Line train to Neasden. Helium-filled love hearts hanging from the avenue of naked trees approaching the London Eye were juxtaposed with that wheel’s capsules, just one of which seemed to reflect their colour.

Cruise vessels were filling with passengers at Westminster Pier where, for Norman’s 70th birthday celebrations I had boarded one with Jessica, and last year, for his 80th, with Jackie.

This year’s tourists are now becoming difficult to negotiate in this iconic area of London.

In St James’s Park a slumbering goose had claimed a soporific shaft of sunlight.

On the tube a standing young man, plugged into one mobile device, peered down at that of a seated young woman who appeared to be scanning her messages. The rest of us were treated to a high volume African telephone conversation, the slightly robotic voice emanating from the mobile being even louder than that of our softer-spoken fellow traveller. On the return journey this effort was completely outbellowed by two Chinese men sitting on opposite sides of the carriage and several seats apart. Another African was loudly engaged in a telephone conversation, but at least he hadn’t got his device on hands-free mode.

Having some time to spare I attempted to visit St Mary’s church, Willesden. Unfortunately, as is almost invariably the case in London churches now, the doors were all locked. I walked around the graveyard which was tidied up a few years ago. A stone tablet by a gathered-up collection of gravestones proclaims this fact. Although there are a very few memorials to more recent interments, most of those there are Victorian. The land is virtually an open-air museum of a long-gone section of nineteenth century London. With the church itself, which is rather older, a surprisingly picturesque scene greets anyone venturing off the High Road at Church End. From Neasden station one walks past a very gritty area dominated on each side by scrap metal dealers and waste skip depots; sorry-looking terraces of rented accommodation; a busy garage whose customers often cause hold-ups as they queue to enter; then ugly 60s office buildings and slightly more recent council estates; rubbish everywhere, including the front of the graveyard; rusted benches surrounded by dog-ends; cracked, broken, and sunken paving stones; parking meters; and the often nose-to-tail queues of London traffic belching out exhaust fumes. It is all very sordid and I usually walk past the church feeling sorry for it. Today I was rewarded for taking a closer look.

Norman provided a lunch of boiled bacon followed by jam roly-poly, accompanied by Carta Roja gran reserva 2006.

At Neasden station on the way back to Waterloo, a young woman was attaching a small black fascinator to one of her companions’ hair. The headdress was blown out of her hand and made its way like a speedy spider scampering across the platform to be retrieved just before it descended onto the lines. With much gaiety it was finally firmly fixed in place.

I arrived back at Southampton Parkway in time for Jackie to collect and drive me back to the lodge.

Trilby

Heavy rain was forecast again for today. As a weak sun was putting in an occasional appearance I set off early for lunch with Norman, hoping to get my walk to Colliers Wood in before the deluge. I was lucky. The footpaths through Morden Hall Park and the Wandle Trail, except for dogs, once more required the slalom technique. The animals did create quite a splash, so it was best to steer clear of them. As I paused to contemplate a photograph, two small, punchy looking terriers wearing scary chain collars tore round a bend and cornered me. When their owner came into view she cried: ‘Wayne, leave him alone’. Wayne and his companion both desisted. I quipped that that was more polite than I was accustomed to. ‘People’, I said, ‘usually shout ‘Leave it’ (see post of 18th. June). She replied that she could be horrible. Glancing at her familiars, I thought that maybe she could. Maybe the dogs upset my equilibrium, for the photograph was out of focus. The rain set in as I reached Abbey Mills.

Emerging into the sunshine from Neasden underground station, I was soon aware of the unmelodic blasting of car horns. Turning the bend by Harvest garage on my right, the cause became apparent. There was a vast tailback along Neasden Lane. A 4X4 had left the garage, managed to cross the road, and come to rest on the nose of a sports car on the opposite side. The sporty driver was somewhat disgruntled. As were a host of other motorists. The 4X4 backed up, leaving the centre of the road clear for other cars. Only for those in one direction. Which stream would give way was still open for negotiation. I left the rowdy scene, and further up the road came across a vehicle with its front wheels on the pavement. The crews of two police cars, who had obviously pulled this one over, were taking details from its Eastern European occupants. Just before the roundabout where the Lane joins the High Road, a taxi cab had broken down. The driver spent a long time on his mobile phone, whilst I was sitting reading outside St. Mary’s Church. Eventually a truck from J. Madden garages came to pick it up. The scene was a bit too close to the roundabout for the breakdown man’s liking, but he was cheerful enough. On my return to the station after lunch, traffic was solid on both sides of the road. A police dog car, its sirens wailing, wasn’t making much headway. Not a good day to be driving in this part of London.

The pools on the Neasden Lane pavements, pitted with sunken paving stones, were deeper and wider than those described earlier. This time it was small children who enjoyed splashing about in them. Their parents took their chances with the slow-moving traffic.

By the time I reached Church Road market, which was its usual vibrant self, it was raining again. An enterprising stallholder was cashing in on the weather.

Norman provided an excellent meal of boiled bacon followed by rhubarb compote. The wine was Palataia 2011 Pinot Noir, a surprisingly good German red. Danni, please note I don’t need an evening repast after a Norman lunch.

Obediently keeping to the left on the way down the steps on my return to Neasden, I was confronted by a phalanx of women carrying buggies, with a man directly ahead of me, walking up the stairs, deep in a paperback book. I stood patiently facing him until he emerged from his novel and stepped aside.

In the Jubilee Line train, opposite me a man in a navy blue pin-striped suit sat next to a woman wearing a navy blue pin-striped Trilby. He had boarded the train some stations after her. They were therefore not otherwise together. I had already clocked her unusual appearance, including a large, gentleman’s style, watch strapped to the outside of her black sweater sleeve. Joining the man on the Victoria Line interchange platform, I apprised him of the juxtaposition. He was rather amused, especially as he had not noticed. I wondered if the elegant young woman had read George du Maurier’s eponymous novel, ‘Trilby’.