pigeons – Page 3 – derrickjknight

The Rosewood Wine Table

Taking a slightly longer route to Colliers Wood to visit Carol, I walked down Morden Road and turned right into Merton High Street.

British Summer Time not yet being over, and it being what Larry Grayson would have called ‘a grey day’ anyway, it was, at 8.30 a.m., still quite dark. Somnambulant pedestrians ambled along, whilst young children ‘creeping like snail’ or being dragged along, trekked ‘unwillingly to school’. Some, clutching the sides of buggies, struggled, uncertain of step, to keep pace with their younger siblings comfortably esconced.

A welcoming luminous glow emanated from cafes whose occupants were dozing over breakfast. On the low brick wall opposite the Civic Centre several smokers were seated, some, no doubt, having a drag on their last fag before boarding the tube. Sleepy customers were propping up the forecourt pillars watching for buses. Others were waiting for shops to open or collecting cash from the dispensers.

The street lamps had been extinguished some time ago, but, on the left hand side of Morden Road the red tail lights of vehicles trailed along. Pale yellow headlights shone on the right. This colourful composition was syncopated by the alternating green and amber of the traffic lights. Passengers streamed up the steps of the tram stop, and rushed towards Morden, some possibly to open up the shops. Others were strung out hoping for buses, the first of which was due in eight minutes.

A crocodile of schoolchildren, two by two; chaperoned by teaching assistants, one, heavily pregnant bringing up the rear; filed into South Wimbledon tube station.

On the crowded platform at Victoria a minuscule young oriental woman cannoned into me from behind, bouncing off. ‘Sorry’, she said as she squirmed past and wriggled into a packed compartment. As she stood, facing outwards, no doubt hoping the closing doors would leave her feet intact and press her into the mass of passengers behind, I gave her a soft smile which seemed somewhat to assuage her embarrassment. Rie, you are perhaps familiar with this method of boarding trains.

Pigeons outside Westminster Cathedral were attempting to shelter from the rain beneath a plane tree which didn’t have much plumage left.

Mention of Eccleston Square in my conversation with Carol reminded me of Auntie Gwen (see post of 3rd July) and her papal medal. My godmother had worked for more than fifty years in the Pontifical Mission Aid Society in that street. For this she had received her treasured commendation, which I had inherited, and which was, I believe, stolen in a burglary at Lindum House, along with a fob watch my father had given me. I cannot be sure that is when I lost these heirlooms because I did not miss them until some time after this rapacious intrusion. What was obviously missing was a rosewood wine table and a small reproduction station clock given to Jessica and me by seventeen-year-old Michael.

Three days after our return from holiday Jessica spotted the table on a stall in Newark Market. Soon after we arrived in this historic market town in 1987 I bought this table from Joan Stevenson in the Old Chapel antiques centre. We did not know each other at the time, because we had bought the house from the Kings who had only been there four years; but Joan and Ralph had brought their family up in this splendid Victorian house. Jessica called the constabulary, and the stallholder admitted also to having the clock, so these two articles were returned to us. When I told Joan this story she said that she was most relieved, for she had noticed the table on the stall and imagined that we had sold it because we hadn’t liked it. She explained that it clearly belonged in our home, as she had bought it from previous occupants who had lived there for thirty years before she and her husband had acquired the house. It must have had a mind of its own. Neither the burglars nor their fence can have been very bright.

The table and clock are two of the very few items I was able to bring to London when I left Lindum House.

This evening we dined on resuscitated cottage pie and phoenix-like bread and butter pudding (see post of two days ago). I finished the Lidl Bordeaux and Jackie had another glass of Wickham Celebration.

Harvest Mice

Seated in the arbour this morning, Jackie and I contemplated the wildlife around us. A squirrel scampering across the lawn was no doubt seeking store-cupboards for winter supplies. Underneath a thin covering of the grass lie ancient gravel footpaths. These are always the first sections to turn brown in a drought. A scuffed up part of one of these suggested that even a squirrel could not get through it to bury its spoils. Squirrels had, however, turfed out small potted seedlings from their containers; rather like cuckoos placing their eggs in foster parents’ nests. The bird-feeders had been refilled yesterday. Small birds were feasting from them, whilst the larger, ungainly, pigeons, hyena-like, scavenged for spillage on the ground. Jackie had emptied the bird-bath yesterday, with the intention of cleaning and refilling it today. This was because it had been fouled by the pigeons. A number of tits were flitting down, expecting a drink after their breakfast, only to be disappointed. So she refilled it and I am sure the birds expressed their gratitude.

The pigeon photographed on 13th. September drinking from the bath could not have been a soiling culprit. It had been ailing, and eventually succumbed to a marauding cat. We think a cat, rather than a fox, because it’s clawed body had not been eaten.

Having lunch at the kitchen table I admired the sweet peas which usually adorn it. Constantly cutting the flowers ensures frequent replenishment of the stock. Some of these will have come from the cosy arbour mentioned above. Another container of flowers regularly being filled is the ‘accident pot’. This sits on the patio between the kitchen door and that of the workroom/garage/potting shed; and is a receptacle for flowers which have been broken off inadvertently during the gardening activities.

Jackie explained the production of the sourdough bread we were eating. It is apparently the extra length of time in the yeast box which produces the strong flavour. She spoke of how she had enjoyed making bread for the harvest festivals with Matthew and Becky. The children used to love making little mice with which to decorate the sheaves of dough. They had a very special effect, since, by the time they were applied, they were always grey.

Later, we finished putting the pages for the project for Mum into the display albums; then worked on developing ideas for the logo for Elizabeth’s new company, Psychologists for Autism. Jackie came up with our favourite idea which we played around with to send to the professionals. Elizabeth has received a draft of a different idea which really isn’t suitable.

This evening Roc des Chevaliers 2010 and, for Jackie, Hoegaarden 2012 helped down her roast pork dinner followed by apple crumble and custard or cream depending on taste. A few strawberries found at the back of the fridge, although a bit crusty, were still edible.

The London Marathon

It being a much brighter day, I set off for Green Park, travelling by underground. As I left the flat, it began to rain. This proved to be nothing more than a shower. I thought I would walk around this public open space which, when we lived in Soho, was a local haunt. The station has been improved, now offering an exit straight into the park. For some reason which escapes me, I walked out into Piccadilly, turned right into St. James’s Street, down into The Mall, and across into St. James’s Park. This was where, nearly fifty years ago, I had first fallen in love with Jackie, when, seated on a bench, we had, in unison, both exclaimed ‘cannibal’ on seeing a pigeon pecking at the discarded shell of someone’s boiled egg. She may not agree, but to me that meant we at least shared a sense of humour. Runners in the London Marathon must run down The Mall, around the corner facing Buckingham Palace, and along Birdcage Walk to the finish, just out of sight, on Westminster Bridge. Entering the park, I witnessed a scramble of pigeons, in the demarcated feeding area, being fed by tourists. In fact, everywhere, especially in the fenced off designated wildlife section, people were photographing and feeding the livestock. I missed a wonderful photo opportunity when a young woman straightened up, having shot a squirrel. I asked her to repeat the photograph so that I could take a picture of her taking her picture. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortuitously, she didn’t understand English. For which she and her male companion were most apologetic.

Crossing the Blue Bridge into Birdcage Walk I remembered my nephew, Peter Darby-Knight, bravely struggling to walk to the finish, having injured his knee, many years after my own London runs. I had also watched my granddaughter Emily, on two occasions, representing Croydon in the mini-marathon which takes place on the morning of the major event. From the bridge I reprised a photograph I had first taken in the early 1960s. The scene is now dominated by The London Eye.

The pigeons mentioned earlier put me in mind of the mass start to the marathon in Greenwich. It takes ten minutes walking to reach the line, and quite a bit longer to find room to get into your stride. On one occasion I was tripped by a man who tried to pass me in this melee. I ran the race with blood trickling from my grazed knee. He also fell. I didn’t help him up.

In the first London race in 1981, Michael and I had watched the two leading men finish hand-in-hand as they crossed the line. Then, the taking part was all. Like the Olympics, that spirit has evaporated. Winning is all.

My son, who the following year would be eighteen, and therefore eligible to run, suggested we do it together. Taking up the suggestion in earnest, I trained for it. Thinking that, as a rugby-playing fast bowler, I was fit enough, my first session was a five mile run from Croyon College to our home in Furzedown. When I’d finished I could barely walk. I tottered stiffly down to the box at the bottom of Gracedale Road to post a letter. As I turned the corner on my return, who should be striding down the road but John Bussell. John was a neighbour who had said I was completely mad to contemplate the venture. Quick as a flash, I straightened up, denied my pain, and lengthened my step, to greet him.

Michael had more sense, so I ran the race alone. Despite the strenuous competition at the elite level, there are still many thousands of people for whom just taking part is a magnificent experience. I was fortunate enough to participate three times. Then, the Canary Wharf business complex was a heap of rubble. We wondered what was going to be built. The elation of running this race with the streets all lined with row upon row of cheering spectators can only be imagined by non-participants. Jazz bands are playing, and the world is watching on television. If you are thinking of trying it, do not accept one of the many pints of beer which will be proffered outside the pubs alongside. Rather, enjoy the hoses which may be played on you in hot weather.

Coming along The Embankment you will have your first sight of Big Ben. Your heart may sink when you realise you still have four more miles to go. Do not be tempted, as many are, to walk along the underpass where you cannot be seen. If you do, you are unlikely to start running again.

In 1982, Matthew and Becky ran along the footpath beside me towards the finish. That would not be possible now.

Today, entering the park opposite Buckingham Palace, a jogger, attempting to leap the low railings which form a border, tripped and went sprawling. Fortunately on the grass. Some years ago, en route to Victoria where I was to board a train to visit Wolf and Luci in Dulwich, I did something similar. Running there from Harrow Road, in the darkness, off Edgware Road, I tripped on a chain closing off a church car park. I had thought I was still on the footpath. Back-pack in harness, my feet still attached to the chain, I came a right cropper. My hands firmly on the tarmac, I was unable to prevent myself from pivoting, head first onto the unyielding surface. The priest took me in, administered first aid, and called an ambulance; and Wolf and Luci visited me instead. In hospital, where I was being stitched up. I bear the scar to this day. Our meal was a little late that night.

These days, I walk. It’s safer. As I did this afternoon, along Buckingham Palace Road to Victoria, where I boarded a tube train to begin my return to Morden. A blustery shower greeted me as I emerged from the underground and walked back to Links Avenue, listening to the rythmic sound of an empty Carlsberg can playing chicken amongst the traffic.

This evening, I served up a roast chicken meal. Jackie finished yesterday’s Kingfisher and I drank the last of the chianti.

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.

The Folio Society

On this hot, humid, and overcast morning I set off by my usual route for lunch with Norman in Harlesden. I was very sticky by the time I reached Colliers Wood.

A heron landed in a tree in Morden Hall Park before taking off, no doubt aiming for the river Wandle. On the trail joggers were taking their exercise. One, a young mother, was, one-handed, pushing her toddler in a three-wheeled buggy; although I stood aside when approached by a couple, it was clear one would have to drop back. I speculated which it would be. I was right. It was the woman. She certainly looked the fitter of the two. I hoped this was the reason. A fisherman was unravelling his line. Deen City Farm (posted 16th. May) was filling up, probably because at last it wasn’t raining.

On the Underground there were constant announcements warning of the congestion expected during the forthcoming Olympic games. A busker (see 14th. June) was playing an accordion at Green Park.

Norman fed me with gammon, all the trimmings, and a fruit flan. We shared a bottle of Cona Sur 2008, a superb full-bodied Chilean pinot noir, purchased in Morrison’s, which I had given him for his birthday. He gave me a couple of CDs which I will unveil on Saturday, my birthday.

His pedestrian street, as many others in The London Borough of Brent’s NW10, now has allocated residential parking occupying exactly half of the not over-wide pavements. In 1966, when I learned to drive I had been taught that it was an offence to mount the kerb in a motor vehicle. The kerbs in these roads have not been dropped, so, at least in Brent, this is apparently now legal. An elderly Somali gentleman was feeding a vast flock of pigeons in Preston Gardens (that’s a tiny street, not a park). Fortunately Flo has grown out of breeding several generations of them on her Mitcham balcony. On the way up to Neasden underground station two cyclists sped past me on the footway, one displaying the crack in his bum.

On the tube I finished reading J. Meade Falkner’s novel Moonfleet. This late nineteenth century work is a marvellous tale well told. It is at least equally good as those of the better known Robert Louis Stevenson. When she knew I was about to read it, my friend Heather commended it. She did not exaggerate. The theme of smuggling features as a decoration to the front cover binding of my Folio Society edition, and the header photograph above displays the spine of the book in its customary slipcase. The description of Elzevir Block and John Trenchard’s, albeit brief, ordeal in the hold of a Dutch prisoner ship bound for transportation and a life of slavery, reminded me of the horrors of Alex Hayley’s ‘Roots’ and Robert Hughes’ ‘The Fatal Shore’. This latter volume is a history of the origins of modern Australia and desperate plight of those transported in the convict ships.

Had I had more confidence in my teenage abilities, and had my parents been able to send me to art school, I may well have taken up book illustration. As it was, I needed, on leaving school, to go straight to work. I also thought I’d never make a Charles Keeping, a John Bratby, or even a Beryl Cook, all of whom have illustrated Folio books. My first annual salary was about £340, the bulk of which I handed over to my mother. I kept enough back, however, to be able, upon seeing an advertisement for The Folio Society, to sublimate my desire to illustrate by joining this book club. Fifty two years later I have a large collection of beautifully illustrated, imaginatively bound hardback books, printed on good paper which doesn’t turn brown, with suitable typeface and font. All these elements are carefully selected to be in keeping with the original writing. Younger, budding, illustrators are encouraged by an annual competition. Michael Manomivibul illustrated ‘Moonfleet’. Maybe he is one of those. I have the Society to thank for many works of which I may otherwise have no knowledge, and for pleasurable editions of numerous others.

I finished reading the abovementioned ‘The Fatal Shore’ on Christmas day 2007, on the plane to Perth, where I spent a couple of days with Holly’s delightful and most hospitable parents and brothers before being driven to a winery in the Margaret River area of South West Australia for the wedding she shared with Sam. I had a far more comfortable journey than had the early transported convicts.

This is a copy of the solution to an Independent cryptic crossword I designed to commemorate the event. Read the highlighted perimeter letters clockwise from top left.

By coincidence, just after his own birthday this March, Norman shared with me an excellent bottle of wine his niece in Queensland had sent him. This had originated in Margaret River.