It was in December 1963 that Mike Vaquer, a work colleague in the Yorkshire Insurance Company, introduced me to colour slides, of which I produced thousands when still using film, and we began
a series of annual trips to photograph West End Christmas lights together. These hung over Regent Street that year.
I spent the afternoon continuing my reading of Elizabeth Goudge’s novel ‘Gentian Hill’.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s nourishing chicken and vegetable stewp and fresh crusty bread with which I drank more of the Bediani.
There were three weeks between my interview at Kingston and starting the job at Tolworth Tower. One question I had been asked was “How do you feel about driving?”. Not mentioning that I had never even sat in a driving seat, I replied that I felt it was just a way of getting from one place to another.
Jackie and I each had passed first time and each had made an error we thought would fail us, had another attempt, and got it right. Jackie’s was a hill start. Mine was reversing round a corner. I still remember feeling the rear nearside wheel touching the kerb. I stopped, came forward, straightened up, and then made a perfect turn. I must have been advised that that was the thing to do.
Just in case anyone is thinking that I am feeling smug about having passed my test first time, especially after only three weeks at the wheel, please let me disillusion you. Just days after I began life as an Assistant Child Care Officer in the Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames (I had passed my test on the day I started the job), I used the Borough mini to drive myself from Tolworth Tower in Chessington to the Guildhall in Kingston. I had no idea where to park or what the various coloured lines outside the building meant. It was as far back as December 1966, so I was actually able to take the car there. ‘I won’t be long; I’ll leave it here’, I said to myself as I left the borrowed vehicle right outside the cast iron gates. I entered the building and secured the loan cheque for which I had come that was the purchase price of my Hillman Imp. So far, so good. I left the building. The unmolested little mini was still there. Intact. Getting away from the awkward position in which I had left the car required at least a three point turn. Easy peasy. I’d done it in my test. Reversing perfectly, turning the steering wheel appropriately, I gently approached the gate to stop and make the next turn. Then I made my fatal mistake. Coming to a standstill requires the use of a brake. So I applied it. I thought. Actually I hit the accelerator. And the mini hit the gate. And stayed on it. Stuck. The railings having given the bonnet a suitably serrated outline.
That took a certain amount of living down.
It was soon after this that I managed to run out of petrol on Piccadilly Circus alongside the statue of Eros. I carried off a spare can in search of a refill. When I returned my car was still there. More than 50 years ago there were no yellow lines, no clamping of cars; and far less traffic.
Earlier I mentioned playing in the street in 1947. This continued well into the ’50s.
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 parents’ 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 stumped up for the window repair which they could ill afford. 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.
Amity Grove, SW20, where we bought a house in 1968, harboured only one car, which was mine. Now most of the front gardens have been sacrificed to the vehicles. Home owners are unable to park on yellow lines outside their dwelling. Meters have been resisted because their spots would be commandeered by commuters from Raynes Park to Waterloo.
It must have been 1967 when I ran out of petrol on Piccadilly Circus right opposite Eros. I left my Hillman Imp on a double yellow line and walked off with a can in search of petrol. The car was still in situ and bore no clamp which would certainly have been in place in this, the 21st century – although the car would more likely have been towed away to the pound..
I have received a 4th Anniversary Greeting from WordPress.
Haircut; car tax; filling up with petrol; paying in cheques; a new plant tray. I don’t normally report on the mundane, but this lot did occupy most of the morning.
This was a day of poor light, not conducive to photography, so I scanned some more colour slides from 1980, made during our last few months in Horse & Dolphin Yard.
Just after New Year the Christmas lights still illuminated Regent Street’s night sky which sported several moons and numerous shooting stars.
In February, as often at weekends,
Michael
and Matthew (clearly in the midst of a perennial growth spurt) played football in Horse & Dolphin Yard.
To take these photographs I must have been standing outside the door of our flat. On another occasion two gentlemen, to my left, somewhat the worse for having consumed a quantity of the cheapest possible intoxicating liquid, sprawled against each other in a corner on the floor. Michael and his friend Eddie were playing with a tennis ball. Soon, my son came running up the stairs to inform me that one of the imbibers had taken their ball. Naturally I descended into the yard to persuade the gent to give up his spoils.
The man’s fingers still clutched the ball, even though he was now dead.
I called the police who arrived quite quickly. The officer in charge, whilst arranging for disposal of the body, instructed me to send Michael inside because he shouldn’t be seeing this. It didn’t seem politic to argue, so I quietly suggested to the fifteen-year-old that he would get a better view from an upstairs window. Up he went.
There were no blue and white tapes applied to keep out sightseers, and no chalk outlines were made. Clearly this was not really considered to be the scene of a crime. Except possibly the snatching of the ball. In the circumstances, I was prepared to overlook that.
On 1st March Jessica emerged from the flat on her way to our wedding at Marylebone Registry Office,
and later returned to celebrate among a myriad of bouquets.
In the last Soho picture, later that month, she is drying her hair.
This evening Jackie and I dined on succulent cod fish cakes in fish gravy, new potatoes, cauiflower, carrots, and runner beans; followed by treacle tart and cream. The Cook drank Hoegaarden, and I drank Vineyards cotes du Rhone 2014. Fish gravy, by the way, is white sauce laced with fresh parsley.
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I have used the London Underground almost all my life. My earliest memory is of visits to South Kensington where my maternal grandparents lived in the early 1950s.
It was not until Helen and Bill gave me this book for Christmas that I had ever paid attention to the architecture of the stations, despite many thousands of trips through many of the total of 270.
This beautifully presented work, which I finished reading today, would appeal to anyone even vaguely interested in our capital, its history, its buildings, or its communication networks. Lavishly illustrated with contemporary photographs and original drawings., the author tells of what must have been the boom period in the 1920s and ’30s of the laying down of the underground veins of the metropolis. These were the decades of Holden’s architectural influence, before progress was interrupted by World War 2. Although he continued to operate into the 1950s, this was largely in a consultancy capacity.
I suppose, like most of us today, I concentrate on battling my way through the crowds, having ‘no time to stand and stare’ at the truly amazing complete design projects that are these working stations, now far more busy than could have been originally envisaged. Nevertheless, most of these early facilities, albeit many adapted and updated, are still in use today, although some have been renamed. Most have survived well, and are still up to the task.
I could not estimate the number of times I have walked around the splendid underground ring of Piccadilly Circus without understanding that it replicated the overground ring surrounding the statue of Eros.
These drawings for Eastcote demonstrate the thought and skill that was applied to all furniture and fittings.
When we lived in Morden, I used that terminal station of the Northern Line frequently. The sight of the classy shops and sparse populace would amaze anyone currently fighting their way into the station, and being depressed by the current items on offer in the rather less attractive outlets. (Like many illustrations, this one was a double spread).
Anyone who has not read of or does not remember the use to which the Gents at Clapham Common, outside which a gentleman stands with his arms folded, has now been put, may care to follow this link to A Bit Of A Bummer.
In https://derrickjknight.com/2012/10/31/curry-a-biography/ I feature a photograph of Tooting Bec station as it is today. When first built it was called Trinity Road, on the corner of which it stands. From 1980 until moving to Newark in 1987, a pack on my back, I ran past this building every weekday on my way to Edgware Road in North London. The Camp Coffee advertised on the wall to the left in Trinity Road was a treacly mixture to be stirred into a cup of hot water, administered by my maternal grandmother. If it is still available today, I don’t want to know.
As mentioned in https://derrickjknight.com/2014/01/25/all-is-flux-nothing-stays-still/,in the summer of 2013, the public house ‘The Colliers Tup’, opposite Colliers Wood tube station, has undergone a complete facelift and has been renamed ‘The Charles Holden’. I will look upon his legacy with fresh eyes in the future.
Our friends Vicki and Barrie joined us for the evening, which was as hilarious as we expected. In her own fair hand Jackie wrote me out a menu in order to expedite this post. She was too humble to add the necessary superlatives, but I’m sure you could supply some yourselves. Cabernet sauvignon, Hoegaarden, water, and fruit juices were imbibed
Steady rain fell most of the day, so I scanned some more colour slides for posterity. The more observant readers will note that I have converted three to black and white images.
19th December 1979 was Matthew’s eleventh birthday. Being the generous soul he is, he allowed Becky to blow out his cake candles. I had to be quick to take this shot because these flickering flames were my only source of light.
Just before Christmas Jessica, Michael and I took a trip to Jessica’s parents in Wiltshire.
This standing stone must have been photographed at Avebury,
above which Jessica and Piper romped on the hillside.
Mat and Becky always enjoyed a trip to Trafalgar Square. In December 1979 you were still welcome to feed the birds with crusts of bread,
which, like the rooks foraging in the turf beneath our New Forest ponies, tried their luck around the sculptured hoofs of King George IV’s horse.
Lord Nelson’s memorial square is a very short walk from what was our flat in Horse and Dolphin Yard, in the doorway of which beam Jessica and Michael.
This Mews Yard lay off Macclesfield Street, between Gerard Street and Shaftesbury Avenue leading to
Piccadilly Circus, photographed in January 1980.
Jackie has abandoned me this evening for a trip to Surrey and a meal with her good friend, Pauline, which they have both been looking forward to. I therefore dined alone on fried eggs, bacon, potatoes, and carrots, with toast. I have never tried the orange vegetables with a fry-up before. They add a certain pleasant piquancy.
12th July 2014 I began the day by posting yesterday’s entry. This afternoon Jackie drove me to New Milton where I boarded the train to Waterloo for a trip to Shampers, Simon Pearson’s wine bar in Kingly Street, where Michael was holding his second 50th birthday celebration.
To walk my normal route to Green Park, turn right along Piccadilly, cross this thoroughfare into Air St, turn left up Regent St, and right then left into Kingly St, on a Saturday afternoon in midsummer, is definitely not to be recommended unless you are intent on recording the experience. But I was. So I did.
The walk along South Bank and up the steps onto and then across Westminster Bridge was like taking on the combined international rugby forwards of the Six Nations and those of the Southern Hemisphere.
A packed speedboat sped under the bridge while cruise ships unloaded one herd of passengers and took on board another. Tourists were wielding every kind of device capable of taking photographs, a
good number of them being selfies, two of the subjects of which claimed to be Absolutely Fabulous, and the other Knight Style.
No-one appeared to see the huge notices closing the crossings at Whitehall and Palace St instructing people to use the underpasses. But perhaps that was just for runners in the 10k run that featured in the small print. St James’s Park was a little easier, but still packed with
people lovingly basking in the sunshine.
Motionless herons kept an eye out for prey from the lake.
Piccadilly and Regent St were almost as crowded as Westminster Bridge.
In Aire St a group were perched on the pavement sketching the view of Regent St through an arch. Having arrived at the venue 90 minutes early, I walked around the corner and sat for a while in Golden Square
where two low-flying aircraft had come to grief; spectators communed with the sculpture; and table tennis was in progress.
The assembled company at Shampers were Michael, Heidi, Alice, Emily and her boyfriend Sam; Louisa and Errol; Mat and Tess; Eddie and his wife Rebecca; and two other friends whose names I can’t recall, but whose faces I know well.
Eddie is Michael’s lifelong friend who often stayed with us in Soho in the 1970s, as, of course, did Matthew and Becky. It was natural with that grouping to recount Soho stories. One I haven’t featured before is the tale of the mechanical digger. One afternoon I was horrified to peer out of our first floor window and see one of these clanking its steady way across the yard, its grabber reaching out like something from ‘War of the Worlds’. The cab was empty. Michael and Matthew were vainly attempting to bring it to a halt. I am not sure who reached up and turned it off. Perhaps it was me. This evening Mat revealed that this parked municipal vehicle had been started with the birthday boy’s front door key. Then things began to teeter out of control.
This narrative prompted Eddie, who had also stayed in many other places with us, to confess about the ride-on mower in Wootton Rivers. He had apparently gone for a ride on this sometime in that same decade, had approached the church, lost control, and crunched the stone wall. Eddie’s recollection is that the wall was undamaged, but that the mower was rather crumpled. It still worked, however, so the miscreant parked it in the garage and hoped that Jessica’s father would not notice.
Eddie’s optimism was not entirely misplaced, as was demonstrated by Matthew’s next story. The owner of the mower, you see, was not exactly in complete command of his vehicle. One day our son was playing in the garden with a group of Pearson cousins. Suddenly panic, and cries of ‘Clear the lawn, everything off the lawn’, set in. Small and medium sized children rushed to and fro, hither and thither, grabbing toys, balls, you name it. ‘And Louisa’, someone yelled, and scooped up the crawling infant. It was then that Matthew saw the mower hove into view. ‘The beach ball’, someone shouted.
Too late. The mower steamed over and flattened the large round beach ball. It is believed that the driver remained unaware of the tragedy.
These, and many other stories were enlivened by various excellent wines chosen by Eddie, the professional. I was particularly taken with the chilled Brouilly.
The food was superb, My starter was squid, followed by grilled sardines, chips, and salad, some of which Louisa snaffled. I had to desert the party before the cheese and dessert.
I walked back to Piccadilly Circus and took the Bakerloo Line to Waterloo, and thence to New Milton and from there home by a Galleon taxi.
Sitting opposite me on the train from Waterloo were a young Chinese woman attempting to sleep, and an older Englishwoman attempting to talk. I returned the conversation for a while then indicated my desire to return to my book. Soon peace reigned as my companions slept. They departed at Southampton Central, but very soon afterwards I had to abandon the book, as the train filled up to capacity, and a drunken, acknowledgedly ‘chatty’ young man full of Jameson’s sought to entertain us all. Giving up, I closed ‘December’ by Elizabeth H. Winthrop.
The taxi firm is to be recommended. They operate from a shed outside New Milton station.
Piccadilly Circus from Regent Street in December 1963 is today’s advent picture. The circus was originally created in 1819, although it has undergone various alterations in the almost two centuries that have elapsed since then. Having been used for advertising since the early 1900s, this is possibly the oldest and most famous site in the world sporting illuminated advertising signs. The lighting was first provided by incandescent light bulbs that gradually made way for neon which in turn finally bowed out to LEDs in 2011.
A building at the left hand corner of Regent Street partly obscures the Coca Cola sign that was first plugged in 1954. As far as I am aware this is the only product that has continuously graced the circus in the intervening years up to the present day. I was 12 when the young lady in the photograph put the finishing touches to the original C.
Anyone who has seen the recent photographs of our own Christmas decorations may have some idea of the number of large containers, stored full in the garage throughout the rest of the year. Now empty, they were this morning returned to their home, to be brought back, refilled, and replaced, after the festivities.
After this, mild as this December so far is, it was time to prepare for winter’s inevitable onslaught. Most of the plants in Jackie’s temporary garden were annuals. These pots for these required tidying away.
Now for the birds. Jackie stopped feeding them during the summer because she was tired of cleaning their droppings from her plants. Mind you, if they hadn’t been so prolific with their guano which contained various undigested items, we would not have enjoyed the sunflowers. The birds will soon begin their struggle to survive and the plants have all but given up the ghost. So we filled up the feeders. No doubt, like last winter, it will take our avian visitors a day or two to become confident that the only shots aimed in their direction will be from my camera.
Lunch today came with instructions to eat an inordinate amount of cucumber. This is because, having stocked up yesterday in preparation for the hoards we expect next week, Jackie found one in the car park. I trust it will not be repeated.
This afternoon Jackie drove us to Lymington where we visited the St Barbe Museum, where the town’s memorabilia are housed in a former Victorian school begun with a donation from Mrs St Barbe.
This being a museum of the area including various seaside holiday destinations like Milford on Sea, I imagine it was appropriate that the entrance lobby contained a display of women’s bathing costumes from the 1900s to the 1970s. It struck me that as the covering of the female form grew more scanty so must the bodies that would be eventually just about contained within the garments.
The history of the area is told in posters with accompanying photographs and prints on the walls of two large rooms. One example is the photos of Barton on Sea’s cliff collapse of the last century. A long floor to ceiling cabinet displays artefacts down the ages from prehistory to decades of the 20th Century. I was intrigued to see at the rear of the 1930s section an HMV record player similar to the one that Chris and I had enjoyed in the 1940s, behind a cup and saucer very like a pair that Ali and Steve gave to Jessica and me in the 1990s. Jackie and I still have the cups and saucers, but the record player suffered somewhat because my brother and I had no gramophone needles, so one of us wound the handle while the other held a rather blunt pin in the grooves to play the music. I am not sure whether the records or the machine lasted longer.
The rest of the exhibition consists of remarkable tableaux with excellent artwork, and outstandingly good models of humans. The first example of this which quite entranced me was the smuggler Bob the Barberous (sic). I was repeatedly tempted to prod him to see if he was real.
The display I could not at first get near was of Marsh and Mud, and contained apunt gun mounted on a gun punt. The reason I could not reach it was because it abounded with primary school children leaping all over the place and creating a row that would have drowned out the sound of the weapon itself. I then realised why the attendant had apologised in advance for this phenomenon, and decided to view the exhibition widdershins. After the marauding infants had departed the custodian examined the wig of the occupant of the punt to ensure that it was still securely in place.
In another scene, Jackie was startled to look up and see a male diver about to descend upon her. Fortunately he was wearing a 1920s outfit.
There is a well-stocked shop and gallery of well-crafted and reasonably priced art works.
This evening we dined on chicken kiev, ratatouille, mashed potatoes and swede, broccoli and brussels sprouts. I finished the Isla Negra.
Today’s advent picture is similar to the first, but has a different coloured central star. This seems to me to offer far more variation than one would see today. It is worthy of note that there are very few pedestrians admiring the window display and the vehicles on Regent Street in December 1963 are all taxis or buses.
As we set off for Southampton Parkway this morning, foraging ponies loomed out of a heavy mist weakly penetrated by a myopic sun resembling a haloed full moon shrouded by thick clouds. Visibility on the A31 was most meagre. There were some clear patches on the M27 giving layered views of the bordering forest trees. Foreground silhouettes would give way to a barely visible row followed by bright golden ones. The pattern would be repeated into the distance.
By the time my train had reached Waterloo the sun’s warmth had drawn most of the mist up into the ether. That which lingered over the Thames presented dreamy views of Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament. An oriental gentleman resting a super-long lens on the parapet of the Golden Jubilee Bridge told me what stunning sights he had just seen from the top of the London Eye. I apprised him of the reason I was unable to emulate him.
The Christmas fair on South Bank flourished. One of the stalls sold its own version of festive lighting. Like Catherine wheels they spun, expanded, and contracted. The timing of this photograph was a delicate matter of trial and error.
Crossing The Strand and walking through Trafalgar Square I was afforded a clearer view of the blue cockerel poised either to drink from the fountain or to peck at Nelson’s other eye. I now understand that the sculpture is not French after all. It is the work of German artist Katharina Fritsch who describes it as ‘feminist’.
On the piazza before the National Gallery a diminutive, motionless pirate perched on his own plinth. Dropping £1 into his hat I said: ‘If it’s worth a photograph, it’s worth a donation’. Silently, without moving any other, even facial, muscle, like a jointed puppet, he raised his glass in acknowledgement. I don’t know whether he had been aware I’d shot him.
From the square I walked up Haymarket to Piccadilly Circus and along Piccadilly itself to Green Park where I boarded a Jubilee Line train to Neasden and thence to Norman’s. Eros, presumably in preparation for the revelries to come, is now encased in a bubble.
A bagman I had seen over the years in numerous parts of London adjusted his load after having effected bicycle repairs.
Fortnum and Mason’s windows reflected the seasonal mood.
At Green Park I was to regret parting with my last coin. I needed a pee, which can now only be obtained by inserting 30p into a machine. So I had to ask the man at the ticket office to change a £10 note. The smallest coin he gave me was 50p. The machines don’t give change, so what once cost one old penny was subject to 120x inflation.
Norman fed us on a roast turkey and Christmas pudding lunch with which we shared an excellent bottle of Vacqueras 2011, after which I took my usual route to Carol’s and then on to Waterloo. Jackie collected me from Southampton.
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.
