One week after Jackie and I met we enjoyed our first date. As I have indicated previously, this was the second time I had waited for a girl who turned up one hour late. This rendezvous was to take place at Victoria station and I had no ambivalence about the meeting. So I waited with much trepidation, and was mightily relieved when my patience was rewarded by the beauty running from the train.
We took a walk in St. James’s Park. I already knew I was smitten, but the moment I fell in love was 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.
Soon afterwards we became engaged. The first of these photographs was taken on Wimbledon Common in April 1966; the second at Kelsey Park, Beckenham in October 1967. Her wise parents insisted on a two year wait.
In the meantime she and Michael got to know each other.
Although my virus has definitely improved, it is still taking a while to clear my head, so, when I set out this morning to scan another batch of Elizabeth’s returned prints, I couldn’t face sorting them, so, instead, scanned a group of carefully catalogued colour slides from March 1973.
On a walk in Westminster’s St James’s Park I made some pictures
of briskly striding wrapped-up walkers, with Westminster Abbey in the background;
and of perching pigeons and other passers-by.
Against the background of the apple tree that featured in Becky’s Book, I photographed
Matthew.
and Becky.
This afternoon Helen, Bill, Shelley, and Ron came fro a late lunch which extended into the evening, when we watched the first day’s highlights of the final Oval Test Match.
Jackie offered a choice of excellent meals well up to her usual standard. There was a tender beef casserole, mashed potato and swede, with crisp carrots and green beans; and there was choice chilli con carne with superb savoury rice. I enjoyed small portions of each. Desserts were lemon tart, profiteroles, and forest fruits strudel. We could take our picks. Assorted red and white wines were imbibed.
Australia, finishing on 287 for 3, had a better day in the cricket.
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.
The strong winds are back. Although the skies are a fairly uniform dull grey, where there are differences in nuances, wispy streaks rush over their lighter neighbours like smoke from a bonfire, or what was soon to emanate from the car bonnet. The rain was not heavy, but the gusts blew Jackie and me up and down the gravel slopes crossing the heath on which we walked at Frogham where she had driven us this morning.
On Roger Penny Way there were two sets of temporary traffic lights marking spots where trees had presumably fallen across the road. One root mass circumference was quite the largest either of us has seen. For a short stretch around Godshill, vehicles, and the inevitable Sunday cyclists, had to share the road with runners as they strung out along the tarmac before disappearing through the car park into Ashley Walk which winds across the heath.
That resting place for cars was bone dry compared with the one at Abbot’s Well where Jackie normally parks when we go to that part of the forest. The road up to the second car park is normally pitted and can be muddy. Today the pock marks had widened and deepened and were filled with ochre liquid, some of which may have come from the glaucous lake which was even now lapping at the fenders alongside it. Fortunately we managed to leave the car in the lower section. The poster visible by the lake in the picture above explains that work is under way to control New Zealand pygmyweed which is threatening native New Forest plants. This perennial species of succulent, the Crassula helmsii, otherwise known as the swamp stonecrop, that has been introduced from the Antipodes, likes aquatic or semiterrestrial conditions. Given the amount of water that has lain on the forest terrain for the last two years it is hardly surprising that this invader is enjoying itself.
The John Tradescants, father and son, were seventeenth century travellers and gardeners who imported many new species of plant, some of which, named after them, are welcome additions to our flora. Others have, for various reasons, introduced both flora and fauna, some of which have come to be less than welcome. A warning about Himalayan balsam is posted on the Castleman Trailway near Ringwood. ‘Himalayan balsam (Impatiens glandulifera) is a relative of the busy Lizzie, but reaches well over head height, and is a major weed problem, especially on riverbanks and waste land, but can also invade gardens. It grows rapidly and spreads quickly, smothering other vegetation as it goes’ (RHS). I’m sure I’ve seen and, unknowingly admired it.
There are more than 1,000 species of rhododendron, many of which were introduced to England, I believe from China, in the 18th Century. Their splendour is evident in Furzey Gardens and in ours. Unfortunately ‘some types are now a pest in Britain, because they out-compete many native plants and, because their leaves contain toxins that some animals find inedible’.
In 17th Century, Canada Geese were introduced to supplement King James II’s waterfowl collection in St James’s Park. Just like any other living creature, the young of these large birds, as I found in Cannon Hill Common on 28th September 2012, are intriguing and attractive. They do, however grow up, and are now a menace on our lakes and rivers. Their excreta is rather copious and can clog up the land around the waterways preventing grass from growing. Another menace, thought to have been eradicated by 1989, is the coypu, introduced from South America in 1929. This was kept in East Anglia for its fur. Some escaped, went forth, and multiplied. These creatures are extremely destructive. Was the ‘giant rat’ killed in County Durham in 2012, a survivor of the slaughter? If so, how many more are there?
When we came back to the car at Abbot’s Well today, it would not start. The water with which we had filled the tank yesterday was all gone. We had just enough left in a bottle to enable us to limp home, but we have a problem. The car didn’t smell too good and steam clouds rose from outside the front.
We had thought the lack of transport would mean that we would be unable to attend Helen’s birthday party this afternoon, but Ron collected us and took us to Poulner, and Shelly drove us home afterwards. Stretching into the evening we had an enjoyable time with friends and family involving much reminiscing and a certain amount of alcohol. My choice was red wine. There were plenty of well-filled and inventive canapés, and Helen kept warm snacks such as sausage rolls, and pastry filled with pork and apricots, flowing from the kitchen.
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.
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.
On the train from Southampton to Waterloo, to which Jackie delivered me this morning, an extremely rowdy, already drunken group of young men bearing beer cans and plastic wine glasses, accompanied by very tiny fascinators flickering and wobbling above very weighty women wearing dresses to match, fortunately alighted at Winchester. One of the men rested his shod foot on a window. As they left, two of them didn’t know which way to turn with their unwieldy plastic packing case containing further cans. I wondered how they would fare at Ascot.
I finished reading John S. Morrill’s ‘The Stuarts’ and began Paul Langford’s ‘The Eighteenth Century’ in the Oxford Illustrated History of Britain.
We paused outside Clapham Junction where the embankment was incongruously meadow-like.
The Ascot crowds convening at Waterloo displayed far more elegance and fascination than my earlier companions on the train.
Having previously determined against it, my trip of a couple of days ago demonstrated that whichever way I walked I was not going to escape the global influx, so I took my usual route to Green Park to catch the Jubilee Line train to Neasden, and Norman’s for lunch.
The London Eye attracted its usual long queues.
A little girl riding along the Embankment perched on her father’s shoulders reminded me of Becky’s superbly adapted Fathers’ Day card.
She, too, will not have forgotten that climb up Mount Snowdon. I had walked up and down the Miners’ Track with her on my shoulders. Although I copped out of the last bit to the summit I had walked up this route regarded as the easy one without too much trepidation. That was because we were walking through clouds.
On the way down when they had cleared I realised that there was a sheer drop either side of the narrowest section of the path.
After I’d got past it, my shirt was wringing wet. The only trousers available in the 1970s were that sartorial aberration, flares. This made me think of a glorious episode of ‘Minder’ set in the 1980s when they were no longer de rigueur, and the hapless Arthur Daley, played so well by the marvellous George Cole, bought a bargain box of jeans. The dismay on his face when he opened the container elicited amused delight from Dennis Waterman’s beautifully depicted Terry, and howls of laughter from me. The garments were, of course, flared.
Westminster Bridge was slightly less populated than usual. A carnation (see post of 28th February) had been discarded on the pavement. Further along a vociferously combative middle-aged woman demanded £20 from a reluctant young man on whom she had planted another.
A London taxi had broken down in a most unfortunate spot. The driver alternated between tinkering outside with the engine and revving up the accelerator inside his cab.
Basking on their rocks, St. James’s Park’s pelicans enjoyed the spray from the fountain which cooled them on another sultry day.
Building works had brought single lane traffic to St. James’s Street. One had to weave around stationary taxis to negotiate zebra crossings. As the meters continue to click over whilst the cabs are not able to move, I dread to think what the fares cost.
As I sat down to Norman’s roast pork dinner, I burst out laughing. In response to his query I related a conversation I had had with Jackie last night. While we were enjoying her roast pork dinner she had said: ‘You will have roast pork tomorrow’. ‘Eh?’, said I, ‘How do you know what Norman will give me?’. ‘Sod’s law’, she replied.
This prompted Norman to tell his sod’s law story. ‘When you drop a slice of bread and jam on the floor it always lands jam side down’. ‘Yes……’, said I, sensing there was more to come. ‘Except’, continued my friend, ‘when you are demonstrating sod’s law’. Perfect.
Carta Roja gran reserva 2005 accompanied today’s meal that was completed by summer pudding which he knows is one of my favourites.
I went on to Carol’s and thence back to Southampton by my normal routes, and Jackie drove me back to Minstead.
Emily is now a nineteen year old student of Art History at Nottingham University. As I gazed skywards this morning, whilst waiting for Jackie to unlock the car to take me to the station for my London trip for visits to Norman and Carol, I saw one of my granddaughter’s first drawings. When asked what she had reproduced with a white chalk line across black paper, she replied ‘an aeroplane’. She was about two. Such are the advances in technology in the intervening years that the camera can now clearly show the two jet streams and the plane itself, not so visible to even the two year old naked eye.
The quiet coach on the outward journey wasn’t. Halfway along the carriage were seated three elderly women, at least one probably hard of hearing. One didn’t get much of a word in, but the other two more than made up for her. Intimate domestic arrangements; stories of cruises; the layout of London streets; how to care for nails; and many other enlightening topics distracted me from my Susan Hill. Although packed, the return train was much quieter and I was able to finish reading ‘The Magic Apple Tree’, being a record of a year in the country. I don’t know when blogs began, but this delightful book, first published in 1982, has all the ingredients of one. The writer even describes gardening; growing, cooking, and eating food; and offers various recipes of her own. She takes us through the changing seasons and their affects. I was reading one of my late friend Ann’s volumes. I bought my own copy as much for John Lawrence’s marvellous engravings as for anything else.
I walked the usual route from Waterloo to Green Park and took the Jubilee Line to Neasden. A footbridge spans the road from Waterloo Station and the South Bank of the River Thames. Crossing a square and descending some rather loose steps takes one to the London Eye. At the top of these steps stood a young woman with a child in a buggy. Her older companion, looking past me, the only person in sight, observed ‘we are going to have to get someone to help you. I can’t, because of my back’. Undeterred by my apparent invisibility , I took the hint and the bottom of the buggy.
The gilt on the Westminster Bridge lamp stands glinted behind the lone piper as he mopped his brow and swigged some bottled water. He has stood on that spot, puffing away, all through the recent cold months. Now in shirt sleeves, ‘I’m not complaining’, he said of the warmer weather.
In St James’s Park, I was just in time to alert a woman crouching to be photographed with a little girl that her strawberries and cream were sliding off the folded over cardboard plate clutched in her downward stretched right hand as she concentrated on putting her left arm around the child. It probably would have made a great picture, but it would have been rather cruel just to let it happen, even for the sake of art.
An authentically dressed, youngish, woman stood at her easel endeavouring to capture in pastels a gorgeous display of flowering cherry blossom. When asked if I could photograph her she said she wasn’t happy with the painting. She had one with which she was much more satisfied in her portfolio case. It was clearly a day for taking a hint, so I asked if I could see it. She took pleasure in unwrapping it for a private viewing. It was indeed very good, but of a different scene. I explained that I was more interested in her and her activity than in simply recording the result. She was both happy and relieved.
For a change, Norman having had an operation four days ago, I brought the food and he produced the wine. Jackie had selected and bought the stilton and cauliflower soup; the gala pie salad; and the brioche bread and butter pudding. The wine was an excellent Greek cabernet sauvignon.
Afterwards I visited Carol, then returned home by the usual routes, Jackie waiting at Southampton Airport Parkway to drive me to our flat.
Probably because it is slightly less cold today, snow began to fall as Jackie drove me to Ashurst for my trip to London. I was then presented with the problem of buying a ticket. We should perhaps be grateful that there is a railway station at this village. Unfortunately there is no person employed to dispense tickets or to help in any way. This task is performed by a machine. As usual when I fail to obtain what I need from one of these, I didn’t know whether the problem was the device or me. I could not find a way of getting it to allow me to apply my Senior Railcard which gives me a thirty percent discount. Fortunately we had anticipated this eventuality and Jackie had waited in the car, ready to drive me to Southampton Parkway if necessary. This she did. On the way there I speculated that the time of purchase might have been the problem. It had been 9.25. The train was due at 9.40. Railcards operate from 9.30. Maybe the robot was set not to issue my kind of ticket until after 9.30, despite the fact that the train would not come along for another ten minutes.
As it turned out, I caught the same train anyway, and the guard on it confirmed my supposition. He said the thing to do was to board the train without a ticket and find his counterpart who would issue a suitably discounted ticket. Of course, the machine would presumably have provided such a service at 9.31, or even a few seconds before that. The only person inconvenienced this morning was Jackie, who, in attempting to deliver me to a nearer station, found herself having to drive round to Southampton after all.
It was a splendid day in London; clear and bright with no snow. I walked my usual route from Waterloo to Green Park where I boarded a Jubilee Line tube train to visit Norman for lunch.
Reflected in a three-dimensional four-sided sculptural construction alongside Sutton Walk opposite the main entrance to Waterloo, a young couple photographed themselves. As they inspected the result, one of them seemed to have disappeared.
The low winter sun shone through the parapets of Westminster Bridge.
Waterfowl walked on the frozen surface of the lake in St. James’s Park.
Norman fed us on roast chicken followed by trifle. We shared a bottle of Chateau David Bordeaux superieur 2010. I then travelled by underground to Clapham Common to visit Wolf and Luci bearing gifts bought yesterday in Shaftesbury. Luci produced welcome slices of her tasty pumpkin pie.
My return journey to Southampton was uneventful, except for a memory it prompted. A man struggling down the carriage seeking a seat on the crowded train enquired after the occupancy of a berth which contained two bags. He was told the position was taken, and moved on. It was ten minutes before the female occupant returned to take up her place. Some twenty years ago, when commuting between Newark and Kings Cross, I had been without a seat of my own. As I stood in the aisle studying the other passengers, it dawned on me that every time one of them visited the buffet car their perch remained vacant for some fifteen to twenty minutes. I therefore spent upwards of an hour hopping from one temporarily unoccupied location to another. When other adjacent travellers pointed out, some rather indignantly, that the seats were occupied, I suggested that they were not at that moment, and ‘I’m only borrowing it. I’ll give it up when your friend returns’. This I did and found another vacancy. It seemed a better option than standing the whole way.
When Jackie collected me this evening, the morning’s flurry of snow had given way to the more familiar rain.
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.
