The Cut – derrickjknight

Knitting

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Jackie drove me to New Milton this morning, for me to catch the train to Waterloo and lunch with Norman at Tas.

The platform planter’s pansies sparkled with a sprinkling of early rain on this bright, sunny, day.

The train was packed, with many people standing. I homed in on the one seat unoccupied by a person. It bore a back-pack with a collection of papers on the table in front of it. I asked the man next to it if there was anyone sitting there. ‘No’, he said, got to his feet, removed the offending items, and placed them in the rack above. I ask you.

On leaving the main entrance of Waterloo Station I stood contemplating the remaining tower that is the sole survivor of the Shell complex being replaced by residential apartments, when I felt a gentle pressure on my shoulder and turned to see Shelly and Ron, on their way home from a night in London.

Watching a City Tour bus approach the circular IMAX cinema, I wondered how long such a ride would take.

The construction alongside the Old Fire Station is rising faster than the new Shell complex. Anyone caring to enlarge the image of the passing scaffolders’ lorry will be treated to a certain dubious witticism. In Emma Cons Gardens, opposite the Old Vic theatre, it appeared that the plane trees were being afforded protection against the recent unseasonal frosts. They bore arboreal versions of Hampshire horses’ rugs.

Closer inspection revealed that their decoration is the inaugural part of a project designed to knit together some of our capital’s shopping streets., in this case Lower Marsh and The Cut.

Across the road in Lower Marsh, once described to me as ‘A Beautiful Setting’ Waterloo Millennium Green was beginning to attract basking visitors.

In The Cut itself, I enjoyed an entertaining conversation with a couple of burrowing BT engineers, who were intrigued to learn of our frequent contact with their country colleagues.

Norman and I enjoyed an excellent meal at Tas. My choice was slices of sirloin steak cooked in a tomato and almond sauce, followed by a delicately flavoured cold rice pudding. We shared a bottle of the house red wine.

I travelled to Brockenhurst on my return from Waterloo. Jackie met me there and drove Godfrey Smith, who I had met on the train, to his Sway destination on our way home.

As I thought she would, Jackie had almost completed the planting of the Palm Bed.

Why is it that writers of book blurbs and their jacket designers will often describe them as hilariously funny at the expense of any other quality they may have? So it is with those of Bill Bryson, which is probably why I have not read one before ‘The Road To Little Dribbling’ that I finished today.

The book is humorous of course, but it is also a fond bitter-sweet ramble through the author’s adopted land. I haven’t read ‘Notes From a Small Island’, but the Daily Telegraph’s description of that would fit this sequel much more appropriately than those that follow. Our friend Barrie Haynes passed this one on to me because he thought my writing similar. I take that as a compliment.

After my lunch, a slice of pizza was ample sustenance this evening.

Agnes Miller Parker

Jackie drove me to and from New Milton for me to lunch with Norman at Tas, in The Cut, EC1.

In the rather neglected station garden a Leycesteria is blooming rather early. Note the dumped supermarket trolley visible beyond the stems.

From Waterloo Station I approached The Cut, as congested as ever, via Lower Marsh

with its cosmopolitan food stalls preparing for the lunchtime custom.

I wasn’t the only photographer focussing on food.

Norman and I had our usual enjoyable discussion over the Anatolian cuisine. We both chose the Tas Special lamb meal, which was very tender and tasty. Before that we had each chosen soups. Mine was fish with coriander and ginger. For dessert we each enjoyed baklava, and shared a bottle of the house red. We finished with coffee before I made my way back to Waterloo for my return home. Further sustenance was not required this evening.

Two days ago, I featured the dust jacket of Eiluned Lewis’s ‘Honey Pots and Brandy Bottles’. This was to display the work of Agnes Miller Parker. I had bought this 1954 publication some forty years ago, essentially for the illustrations. Perhaps, I thought, it was time I got around to reading it. I finished it on the train today.

The book is a collection of essays and poems gathered to represent the four seasons of the year. Published by Country Life the writing is pleasant, if, for this reader, unexciting.

What lifts the publication well beyond the ordinary are the wood engravings of a woman I regard as one of the best illustrators of her day.

The clarity, perspective, and depth of field evident in these masterpieces would be impressive if they were simply pen and ink drawings. When one considers the technical skill required to bring light and life to images worked into blocks of wood, admiration can only be enhanced.

Taking Charge

Jackie drove me to and from New Milton today for me to lunch with Norman at Tas in The Cut.

The Cut, forming part of the B300 has perforce become a main thoroughfare linking Waterloo and Blackfriars Roads, roughly parallel with Waterloo East Station. Far too narrow for its current usage, this road is severely congested at the best of times. As I walked along it in the direction of the restaurant, I became aware that all traffic was at a complete standstill. A car horn cacophony rose to a crescendo. Perhaps the loudest, more like a fog-horn, emanated from the longest articulated lorry I have ever seen.

At the corner of the unfortunately named Short Street was not a good place for this vehicle to have become stuck. There was no way round the corner until a small white van parked in front of the cab was moved. The fog horn only succeeded in drawing the proprietor of the tapas bar to his doorway. No transport could move in either direction along The Cut. Passers by passed on by. Drivers of both streams of private cars, taxis, and delivery vans turned off their engines and sat and waited.

I told the lorry driver that I would ask the restaurateur, who carried a mobile phone, to phone the police to have the van removed. This man must have had contacts with local police, but was not prepared to do it. He said the driver should do it. Acting as a go-between by now, I conveyed this to the driver. English was not his first language, but he asked me if I could move the traffic, so he could reverse and go by a different route which I was able to give him.

Suddenly feeling like Oliver Hardy, I realised I’d got myself into a fine mess. Nevertheless, I said I could move the traffic.

The solution was clear. The small car immediately behind the lorry had to get round it. The van behind the small car had to stay where it was, leaving the lorry room to reverse.

On the opposite side of the road the taxi at the head of the queue needed to make room for the moving car. This meant reversing into the vacant lane on the left of the picture above. The taxi driver wasn’t prepared to do it. The stalemate continued for what seemed an age, until the taxi mounted the populated pavement and continued on his way. I managed to get the van behind that to stay put so the small car could get round. As I turned to tell the first car he could move off, another private car passed the van and filled the space. I got him out of the way by suggesting he, too, mounted the pavement.

Well, someone had to take charge.

This gave the lorry driver the room he needed. I have to take my hat off to the man for manoeuvring that vehicle in any conditions at all, let alone this one.

Norman and I enjoyed lunch at Tas, an Anatolian restaurant. My choices were calamari and mushroom starters, chicken casserole, and baklava, accompanied by the house red wine, and finally Turkish coffee, without the sugar.

Having a little extra time, I wandered around these little Victorian streets and came across one that reminded me of Mary Tang of Life Is But This , a blog I can warmly recommend.

In a very small plot in Sydney, Mary grows a veritable potted arboretum.

I wondered what she would think of Isabella Street. This is full of restaurants, runs alongside railway arches, and is lined on both sides with huge tubs of trees.

Robin Hood Theatre

Jackie drove me to and from New Milton station today, in order for me to travel to Waterloo to lunch with Carol.

The Hampshire station itself is impeccably kept, but the garden attached to the railway buildings has seen better days. It now boasts a collection of discarded supermarket trolleys, burst wooden planters, and the ubiquitous buddleia plants.

On the journey up, I enjoyed a brief spell as an interfering old git. I walked through two of the five carriages before I found a seat. I had to claim it. I came to a halt between two four seat sections. Only four of the eight held passengers. On one side a young couple sat opposite their wheeled case laid across the other two. Alongside them one seat was occupied by a walking stick; another by a backpack. I announced: ‘Well, I need one of these’. A young man politely settled his bag on his knees.

Throughout the journey people stopped, looked at the large case, and silently walked on. Soon, an announcement informed us that more customers were expected, and asked that luggage be removed from seats. The couple did not move. After a minute or two, ‘excuse me’ said I, and asked the man if he had heard the announcement. ‘I did’, he replied. ‘And you have seen people looking at your case and moving on?’, I continued. There was no reply. In mitigation I said that I knew this was a difficult train for luggage. ‘I’ll find somewhere to put it’, he said, and carried it back down the carriage. After he had done so, another man, who had twice walked on past the case, and must have been standing in the aisle further along, collapsed into one of the now vacant seats and thanked the young man. A woman sat in the other, and also expressed gratitude.

From Waterloo I walked along The Cut to Tas restaurant.

In Cornwall Road, SE1, a young woman sat on a low wall, speaking into her mobile phone, in This plot is very small, and contains no benches, but at least they have made an effort.

‘High Society’ is still being performed at The Old Vic, and further along The Cut, Rory Kinnear looks down on us from The Young Vic where he is receiving acclaim for his performance in ‘The Trial’.

Smoking is not, of course, permitted in our theatres, or in any other workplace or public building. Perhaps that is why the sunken gravel-coated paving around a nearby young plane tree has been converted into an ashtray.

Even before I passed these famous theatres, I was thinking of the Robin Hood Theatre at Averham, just outside Newark in Nottinghamshire. It was the setting of Rumer Godden’s novel ‘A Candle for St Jude’, that brought it to mind. This book was my train reading. Except to say that the action takes place in a private theatre, I will write more about it when I have finished it.

Robin Hood Theatre’s website describes it as ‘a timber-built private theatre of 1913 set in the grounds of the former Rectory; outbuildings which were once stables are now used for storing scenery, properties and costumes. One such outhouse contains two small dormitories which can accommodate drama students on their occasional visits to the theatre. The auditorium is on one level, the rear half raked, seated in 15 straight rows each containing ten seats. This is a most interesting and much-loved little playhouse. The backstage arrangements are quaint, compact and different.’

It is unconfirmed that Actor Manager Sir Donald Wolfit who was born and raised in Balderton, on the other side of Newark, acted there as a schoolboy.

During our Newark years Jessica and I enjoyed several performances in this historic venue.

Lunch with Carol at Tas was a delightful occasion. We enjoyed our usual entertaining conversation, and the food and service was as good as my last visit. We had different meze starters, mine being calamari, and garlic sausages; and both chose an excellent chicken casserole to follow. My choice of wine was the house red. Baklava was our chosen dessert, followed by excellent coffee.