River Thames – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Lovelocks

Last night Jackie researched the history of Bisterne on the Internet. Emma historian, in her blog featured this year’s Scarecrow Festival, photographing the exhibits as I did. She had this to say about The Village Hall and The Old School House: ‘The Village Hall was built in 1840 to house the local school and is adjacent to a thatched building which was once the old schoolhouse. Following its closure in 1946, the two buildings were given to Bisterne and Crow to be used as a Village Hall.’ In his 1958 article ‘Journeying through Bisterne’, Roy Hodges adds: ‘a picturesque cottage, once the home of the village schoolmistress when the hall was a school’ as a description of the house we viewed yesterday.

This afternoon Jackie drove me to Southampton Parkway for a London trip to visit Carol at her flat in Rochester Row. If anything interesting happened on the journey I missed it because I slept most of the way.

On this beautiful balmy Autumn day tourists, as usual thronged Westminster Bridge. Some of them, perhaps, had indulged in leaving tokens of their love for each other in a less vandalising manner than is generally applied. Locked in place on the supports for the handrails lining the steps leading up to the bridge were a row of tiny padlocks bearing the coupled lovers’ names. I thought of them as lovelocks. Normal examples adorned a seat in Westminster Tower Gardens, alongside the Houses of Parliament. Lovers in Barbados, as I discovered in 2004, use a less permanent platform on which to inscribe their names. Thick succulent leaves sufficed for them.

My reason for entering the gardens as a slight diversion from my route to my friend’s flat had been once more to admire the work of Auguste Rodin. That great French sculptor’s ‘Monument to The Burghers of Calais’ has always intrigued me, and sometime in the 1970s I had made a series of large black and white prints. Had I been able to find the negatives this evening I would have illustrated this post with one. So, why didn’t I use today’s photos? You may well ask. I didn’t take any. Why not? Because the work was away on loan. There is something elusive about Rodin for me. When Julia Graham, one of my Area Manager colleagues in Westminster Social Services, about the time I was taking the aforementioned photographs, had asked me to bring her a poster back from the Musee Rodin in Paris, that establishment had been closed on the occasion of my visit. I was able, on a subsequent trip, to rectify the situation, so maybe I’ll get to find my negatives.

In order to purchase the lifting of the siege of Calais by England’s Edward III, six burghers were willing to sacrifice their lives. This is the theme of the dramatic sculptural group. They were saved by the intervention of the English Queen, Philippa of Hainault. The crowns of England and France were pretty interchangeable in those days, as exemplified by Richard, Coeur de Lion, featured two days ago. Today, he still sits astride his horse, sword raised, about to send his motorised transport into battle from the Houses of Parliament car park.

Lambeth Palace, which I would pass on the 507 bus back to Waterloo, stands on the opposite bank of the Thames, vying with the vast modern buildings alongside, the tallest of which blends with it rather well.

I walked through Dean’s Yard, where the ornamental trees were beginning to rival the splendour of the Parliamentary gilt in the background.

Jackie met me at Southampton after I made my usual journey back there, drove me home, and fed me with a superb sausage and bacon casserole followed by apple crumble, with which I finished the Kumala begun a few days ago.

The Banana Skin

I travelled by my usual means to Waterloo this morning, and from there took the Westminster Bridge route to Green Park. There was a long queue on the M27, making my arrival at Southampton Parkway a little late. Obligingly, the train was also tardy, but reached the London terminal on time.

Bright sunshine coursing through the passing trees and the carriage windows caused rapidly flickering strobe lights to dance across the pages of my book. Dull clouds and a biting wind swirled across and over the Thames in significant contrast as I walked across it.

There are about fifteen ticket outlets at Waterloo station where, on arrival, I now buy my return tickets. From half way along the row a shrill shriek of ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ shattered the calm. An otherwise elegant young woman kept up a similarly tongued tirade at the teller. I’m not sure quite what had distressed her, but she demanded the return of a ticket for which she had paid. She momentarily claimed the attention of all those serving behind the other counters. This rather disconcerted people in a hurry to buy their admission to the trains. She disappeared before I had reached the front of the queue.

A figure astride a plinth set high up on the wall of the former County Hall was either giving birth to or supported on the shoulders of a young Hercules.

Near the London Eye a cheery oriental gentleman representing Lion Travel held up a flag which brought his compatriots flocking to him.

Around the corner the London Dungeon was decorated in season. The pumpkins, like the exhibits inside, were probably made of wax.

Gulls swooped down on a glutinous white substance, perhaps emanating from McDonald’s opposite, smeared on the coping of the Embankment wall. When they had sufficiently sated themselves and gummed up their beaks, starlings eagerly scraped up the residue.

The lines William Wordsworth composed on Westminster Bridge have stood the test of time. The picture can be enlarged by clicking on it to facilitate reading this famous work which is often obscured by the sheer volume of visitors passing by.

A painter has begun the task of applying a long-handled roller to boards screening works outside the Houses of Parliament.

In St. James’s Park a young squirrel disguised as a flattened teasel chewed a tourist’s tempting lure.

The window display of the wine merchants Justerini & Brooks in St. James’s Street suggested that, in Iberia and Italy at least, vintners still stop their bottles with corks.

Because he always opens the bottle before I arrive for lunch, I do not know whether the excellent St Emilion Norman served with our roast chicken was blessed with a cork or a screw top. Sainsbury’s apple strudel was to follow.

On the Victoria Line tube en route to Carol’s a pleasantly and persistently smiling young man, reading the Evening Standard whilst plugged into an electronic device, sat next to a fresh banana skin. When an elderly Chinese woman expressed interest in occupying the otherwise empty seat, he picked up the discard; nursed it carefully, whilst still managing to turn the pages of his newspaper; and carried it away when he left the train.

My normal journey from Carol’s to Southampton was uneventful, but poor Jackie, driving to meet me, had a reprise of this morning’s delay, because of an accident on the road ahead.

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.

A Vigil

I had some difficulty reading the Oxford History on the train to Waterloo today. After unsuccessfully struggling to shut out a conversation between two men sitting opposite about a business meeting concerning the creation of a website, I decamped to a seat further up the carriage. This was not entirely successful; first because their voices continued unabated throughout the journey, and were most penetrating; secondly because even they could not compete with that of a young woman like delivering like a monologue to her friend like mostly about the like stupid people like on Jeremy Kyle, or about like her own like relationship and whether it was like on or off. Even her sandwich was inadequate to stem the flow. Her constant repetition reminded me of a similar speech delivered on a commuter train from Newark to London about twenty years ago. It would have been impossible to calculate how many times the words Tom and Cruise were woven into a young woman’s delivery taking the whole of a journey of an hour and a quarter.

Just, no doubt, for variety, today’s cacophony was supplemented by the speaker system. Some time after we left Woking, the last stop before Waterloo, we were treated to the automatic announcement welcoming us to this train and listing every single station since its departure. Twice. On the way back I sat in the quiet coach.

I chose a different route to walk from Waterloo to Green Park where I boarded a Jubilee Line train to Neasden. This was across the Golden Jubilee Bridge to Charing Cross station and onwards via St. Martin’s-in-the-fields, Leicester Square, Shaftesbury Avenue, and Piccadilly Circus with a diversion along Jermyn Street.

A bitterly cold wind swept across the bridge and I admired the spirit of those in the London Voyages speedboat that rushed underneath it.

Overlooking Embankment I gained a different perspective on tourists’ fascination with our red telephone boxes.

On the steps of the famous church beside Trafalgar Square, with a companion, 72 year old Nara Greenway is holding a vigil in memory of 117 Tibetans who have immolated themselves.

One of the features of sightseers’ London is the group of visitors being lectured on the city and its history. The speaker in Jermyn street sounded German to me so I could not tell if he was relating the tale of Beau Brummel, the early nineteenth century dandy who stood behind him. Notes were being taken.

Not to be confused with the memorial to Diana, Princess of Wales, in Hyde Park, the Diana drinking fountain in Green Park was originally erected in 1954. It stands near a food and drinks outlet near the Piccadilly entrance. Presumably the vendors do not see it as a serious rival waterhole. As it was in disrepair, retaining E.J.Clack’s statue of ‘Diana of the tree tops’, the fountain was replaced in 2012 by The Constance Fund which exists to promote the art of sculpture in London’s parks. The huntress and her hound, perched above their gilded supports, were interestingly silhouetted against the grey sky.

Norman produced turkey thighs and vegetable bake followed by trifle for lunch with which we shared a bottle of Carta Roja.

School was out as I walked back to Neasden underground station to catch the tube train direct to Waterloo to return to Southampton where Jackie collected me. Children in various stages of disarray, accompanied by or straggling behind their parents, wended their way home. One small boy, wearing his bright green uniform jumper with his raincoat hung loosely over his head by means of its hood, carrying his blue plastic schoolwork container, ran on ahead and skidded to a halt when bellowed at by his father.

A Night At The Globe

I began the day by photographing the corner of the garden in which the new fernery is located, so that Danni can see where it is.

Jackie then drove us back to Morden in readiness for a visit to The Globe Theatre this evening. Sam and Holly had given me two tickets for Richard III for my birthday. Disaster then struck. I had left the lead for transferring photos from my camera to my laptop at The Firs. I therefore walked to Jessops at Colliers Wood and back, to try to purchase a new connection. They do not sell them, but sold me a Multi Card Reader. Since I have been using a card reader system at Elizabeth’s, I thought this would be fine.

In the precincts of Abbey Mills Centre by the river Wandle, a heron was offering suggestions to a puzzler.

Walking back through Morden at school finishing time, I was reminded that I had left rural Hampshire for the end of the Northern Line, gateway to the South, as Peter Sellers put it when chanting of Balham. I had to weave my way through milling schoolchildren, taking care to dodge their icecreams and sticky sweets; make way for mothers pushing buggies; elude shoppers with wheelie bags, endangering my sandalled feet; and avoid motorised vehicles for people with disabilities. I was back on familiar territory.

Settling down with my laptop I followed the meagre instructions which came with the reader. Nothing was happening. I could not download my pictures. I telephoned Jessops, whose representative said it sounded as if the reader was faulty, and advised me to reboot my laptop and if it still didn’t work return to the store. It didn’t, so I will return to Jessops in the morning and hope to be able to add photographs to this post.

This evening we travelled by underground to Sam Wanamaker’s gift to the world. Our mode of changing trains at Kennington is best described in Jackie’s words. As we approached a train about to leave for Waterloo she reports that I flung myself into the closing gap in the doors and left her standing on the platform. I turned, held my hand up to the window and raised one finger. This was to indicate that Waterloo was one stop away. Contemplating the amused glances of the other passengers, I felt grateful that it wasn’t two stations away.

Some twenty eight years earlier I had been taking Sam and Louisa on the underground for a trip somewhere or other. Sam was walking beside his sister in her pushchair. He trotted into the train just as the doors were closing. Having just taken Louisa out of it, I quickly shoved the puschair into the gap. The doors simply pushed the wheeled vehicle out of their way. This time it was Louisa and me left on the platform. I found a station employee. He rang down the line. Two young men on the train who had seen what had happened escorted Sam off the train at the next station. Louisa and I followed on, and left, the next train at the same station. A perfectly happy Sam, munching chocolate, was resting in the arms of a huge London Transport man. Panic over.

Walking along Blackfriars Road Jackie spotted, through a gap in the streetscape, The Shard, hailed as Western Europe’s tallest building. Sun reflected from this edifice causes the blinds to be drawn in her office on the eleventh floor of Morden’s Civic Centre. The view of the skyline we enjoyed as we walked along the Thames to the theatre can clearly be seen from that same office window.

We had a meal of meze at The Real Greek, a couple of doors away from The Globe. This was so good we wished we had had more time. Our only complaints might have been that the small tables were rather cramped together, and someone had taken a bite out of the bowl in which my excellent beetroot salad was served. Jackie drank Mythos, a Greek beer she enjoyed. I was less adventurous and sampled Kronenbourg.

The Globe is a replica of Shakespeare’s famous original. In The Bard’s day those who could afford them sat on hard wooden benches under a thatched roof. Those who couldn’t, known as groundlings, stood in the central enclosure, open to the elements. So it is today.

Neither of us knew the play and we were therefore surprised at its comic nature. The theatre was jam-packed with spectators, and we had to force our way through the groundlings to reach our bench, which was fully occupied. The play having just begun, we stood silently on the stairs until a steward approached, moved another couple out of our places, and, equally silently, ushered us in. Almost polished away by the many bums on these seats, our numbers were just discernible. This splendid production held our struggling attention until a wave of activity in the central open area, punctuated by the patter of raindrops, rendered what was happening on stage inaudible. The cast soldiered manfully on. I say ‘manfully’ because, as an authentic rendition of Shakespearean times, women’s roles were being played by men. Suddenly the activity in the pit became frenzied. The downpour drummed on the roof. The lighting illuminated vertical sheets of rain. Torrents bounced off hastily donned hoods and scarves. Shirts and blouses of those who had come unprepared became transparent second skins. Hair was plastered to scalps, and rivulets ran down necks. Some who had brought umbrellas were told to close them. A few who sat on the stairs we had vacated were instructed to leave and stand in the rain because they were blocking an emergency exit. Staff, and the occasional fortunate child, were issued with clingfilm wrappers by a young woman circulating among the rapidly diminishing throng of saturated, unsheltered, spectators. Whilst this continued the cast strutted their stuff on stage. I am sure they must be quite accustomed to such interruptions. After all, Shakespeare’s groundlings made an awful din. It will, however, be apparent from the attention I paid to all this going on in front of me that I had lost the plot. So had Jackie.

P.S. Dated 21st January 2014. Roger Lloyd-Pack, who was speaking as the Duke of Buckingham through the worst of the din, died a week ago. A splendid actor, may he rest in peace.

Murder In The Lounge

During odd moments in the last few days, I have finished writing clues for Mordred’s next Independent cryptic crossword submission. This morning, after a final bit of tweaking, I sent it off to Mike Hutchinson, that newspaper’s most accurate and humorous editor. Any further adjustment he may require will only improve it.

This morning Jackie drove us to Wolf and Luci’s caravan at Hurley in Berkshire. Passing Warren Road, mentioned on 23rd. August, with Jackie’s help I realised that my memory had let me down. ‘Shern’ children’s home was not in Warren Road. That was where the baby nursery was. It was closed during my time in Kingston. ‘Shern’ was actually in New Malden.

As we drove through Richmond Park I was reminded of the beauty of this ancient wooded parkland. There was quite a clear light filtering through clouds and sharpening one’s vision of the mature oaks. Cars were hampered by the myriad of cyclists on the road. Joggers abounded on the footpaths. Further on, Kew, despite low-flying aircraft, remains a picturesque village. Properties there are expensive, and much sought after. London, this vast metropolis, is in reality a series of conjoined villages, each with its own history and characteristics.

As someone who had a fairly antiquated idea of caravans, I am always impressed with the accommodation available in our friends’ second home in Hurleyford caravan park. They have two bedrooms, a fully fitted kitchen, and an ample shower room. The prefabricated building is what is called a static, in that it is a permanent fixture. All the plots have their own gardens, and the sites overlook fields or the river Thames. Owners can be resident for only eleven months of the year; they are contractually obliged to provide a permanent address for the other month. It is an idyllic spot which was discovered almost twenty years ago by Wolf’s late, lifelong, friend Robert when he was out walking one day.

We spent the day eating delicious salads and fruit crumble prepared by Luci, with red, white, and rose wines and fruit juices; talking; escaping the thunderstorm; and managing, between showers, a short walk. The rectangular walk took us round the field that is immediately behind the caravan, and along the Thames bank.

Apparently their cat, Aggie, is prone to wander. One day she came home without her collar. A day or two after Wolf and Luci had returned to their house in Clapham, they received a telephone call from a woman who had found it in a nearby hedge. This reminded me of a collar I had once found. My flat in Sutherland Place, W2, was plagued by neighbours’ cats. They seemed to think it was their territory. Boldly they walked in through the windows as if they owned the place, or simply sat on the windowsill observing me. These came from at least three sources. They were all fancy creatures. In W2 you don’t see many decently respectable moggies. Only indecently disrespectful pedigree animals who come in uninvited and scratch up your upholstery. I happened gently to mention this in passing to the owner of two of these feline intruders. She provided me with a squirt gun. In my younger days, I rather fancied myself as Clint Eastwood, but no way would I ever have beaten him to the draw. By the time I had reached my weapon, the cats were long gone. I took to chucking whatever I had in my hand at the time at any intruders, once scoring a direct hit with a loose-leaf file. Despite having to pick up all the loosened sheets, I found this rather satisfying.

One morning at about 5 a.m., for some reason which I cannot now remember, I went into the sitting room of my flat. The room was empty but for a coating of long white fur all over the carpet and all the furniture. It looked like a chicken run after a fox has been at it. In the fireplace was one solitary cat collar with a bit of black fur attached to it. Sure enough, it bore next door’s address. I returned the collar to its owner, the black cat. What of the white fur? Well, there was one most exotic creature. It had a very long, completely white, coat. I had never seen it in my flat, but it often sat on the sill. I always imagined it didn’t want to ruin its hairdo by squeezing under the window. I think it was called a Norwegian. I never saw it again. ‘Murder in the lounge’, said Luci, upon being told this story.

After leaving our friends early this evening my chauffeuse drove us to The Firs in West End.