I think I posted this before...I love it
These became....
I
Down at the marina
Friday, 13 January 2012
Second Saturday Shots
With the disaster of my phone it's taken me a little longer to find my pictures from December, but here's a few I've managed to retrieve
A rather splendid church in Southwark
The juxtaposition of the old and the new
Blackfriars tube
Evening view over the Thames
Banksy...who else?
More street art
Street art meets the Olympics
Old street
....these
Sunset out the window
Now what film is famous for a man stepping out of the shadows?
The girls...
Ice skating at the Brighton Dome
Same bar.....
Thursday, 12 January 2012
The Scottish Play
Having breezed into the new year last week, it's come as a bit of a shock to the system to find I'm getting knocked from pillar to post by one battle after another...one in particular is shaping up to be pretty gruesome and probably expensive. It involves property and lawyers...never a pleasant combination. And this is giving me sleepless nights.
I had a battle of a different kind over the Christmas period. The memory card in my (android) phone corrupted meaning that the whole thing just went through a cycle of switching itself on, switching itself off, switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off, until the processor got so hot I could fry an egg on it. On the card were all my 'apps'...all 200 of them, as well as my music, my messages and my photos. The photos are, of course, very precious to me, so that was upsetting, but what was most irritating was that the icons for the apps just appeared as ghosts on the screen...and like all good poltergeists they just wouldn't go away. It didn't matter what I did, I just didn't seem to be able to solve the problem. Even putting the card in the computer, dragging everything off and then re-formatting it didn't work. It took me until this weekend to get a whole new card, put some music on it, and start downloading the apps all over again. Believe me it took some time, and I'm still left with all sorts of ghost icons on the screen. I've scoured the interweb with no success. So I'm now entirely dependent on Kellogsville to come riding to the rescue. No pressure
When I were a lad...these were absolutely brilliant...filling me with wonderment and joy. I'm so glad they are still going in the 21st century...and getting a makeover to bring them up to dateand infinitely preferable to those 3D TVs
Technology is not all bad..it can provide some entertainment. The sat-nav, when it speaks, has renamed Hove Huv, Lewes is called Loos, Loughton is Lufton, and our journey ended at Arns rather than Anne's. I see the Government has put together a task force to sort out the problem of sat-navs taking people down narrow streets, cycle paths, through rivers and over cliffs. Well let me give them a clue, it's not a technology issue. It's an issue about a lack of common sense. A lack of self-responsibility. Tackle that and the whole world, not just sat-navs, will become a better place.
The other night over dinner, we were musing about how warm it's this winter, and I was lamenting the lack of snow which I love. At this point The Boy piped up that what people don't realise is that global warming doesn't mean hot summers and more sunny days, instead it means more indeterminate seasons and just plain shitty weather all year round. Damn, I will put my sun tan lotion away now. From there the conversation just spiraled...the Brighton flat will be gone washed away by rising tides. Fortunately the house is on the top of a hill, so good for keeping our heads above water, and for shooting marauding less fortunates...that was The Boy's contribution. We debated whether it would be warm enough to keep chickens in the garage (if not there's always the cellar - battery chickens are the way to go), and whether our other livestock should be sheep, cows or goats. The vote went to goats as we suspect they're most productive on the least amount of space...but we may yet be proven wrong. We know where we'll be growing vegetables (there was a debate about sugar beet, but I think I prevailed. A windmill could be fixed to the roof to provide power and pump water from the stream at the bottom of the hill.
Then The Boy threw in about how much space we needed to support ourselves, and what this might mean for relatives who may want to join us. I hate to say this, but if there's a blood-link, the news is not good for you. The girls sentimentally claimed that they loved their relatives, and couldn't do without them. The Boys pointed out the hot air balloon argument, and there was no point in us all going down. There's no room for sentiment. If you can't pull your weight, then I'm sorry you just have to do the decent thing.
At that point it was time to clear the table and wash the dishes.
You wouldn't expect me to miss the opportunity to remark on the Scottish independence issue would you? My informed and considered opinion is that Hadrian's Wall was put up for a reason, and what a tragedy it's been in a state of disrepair for so long. No, with a few exceptions (Auntie Gwen and her family, a few relatives, perhaps one of the two ex-girlfriends who hailed from Alba, and a few friendly readers) I find the Scottish a miserable bunch of whingers, lacking in any sense of humour whilst remaining completely obsessed with turning gentle home-nations rivalry into hating the English for no reason at all. The distribution of taxes means that for years and years and years the English have subsidised The Picts who drown their sorrows in Whisky...or is it Whiskey...and Special Brew whilst gorging away on deep fried everything. They claim to have invented everything, but five minutes reading of the Encyclopedia Britannica shows that is just a myth perpetuated by a country that suffers from low self-esteem. The men wear skirts and a purse...what kind of country is that? It's particularly perverse that whilst the rest of the world is trying to get into larger political groupings, The Scots are going the other way. Since Blair started messing with the political system, we've had Scots MPs voting on purely English matters, whilst English MPs have no say on anything in the Highlands, and woe-betide them for expressing any sort of opinion because that would be meddling. So whilst many people hold with the view that France would be great if it wasn't for the French (not me), I'm of the opinion that Scotland would be great if it wasn't for the Scottish. Bet you're wondering where I'm not headed for my holidays this year.
I had a battle of a different kind over the Christmas period. The memory card in my (android) phone corrupted meaning that the whole thing just went through a cycle of switching itself on, switching itself off, switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off,switching itself on, switching itself off, until the processor got so hot I could fry an egg on it. On the card were all my 'apps'...all 200 of them, as well as my music, my messages and my photos. The photos are, of course, very precious to me, so that was upsetting, but what was most irritating was that the icons for the apps just appeared as ghosts on the screen...and like all good poltergeists they just wouldn't go away. It didn't matter what I did, I just didn't seem to be able to solve the problem. Even putting the card in the computer, dragging everything off and then re-formatting it didn't work. It took me until this weekend to get a whole new card, put some music on it, and start downloading the apps all over again. Believe me it took some time, and I'm still left with all sorts of ghost icons on the screen. I've scoured the interweb with no success. So I'm now entirely dependent on Kellogsville to come riding to the rescue. No pressure
When I were a lad...these were absolutely brilliant...filling me with wonderment and joy. I'm so glad they are still going in the 21st century...and getting a makeover to bring them up to dateand infinitely preferable to those 3D TVs
Technology is not all bad..it can provide some entertainment. The sat-nav, when it speaks, has renamed Hove Huv, Lewes is called Loos, Loughton is Lufton, and our journey ended at Arns rather than Anne's. I see the Government has put together a task force to sort out the problem of sat-navs taking people down narrow streets, cycle paths, through rivers and over cliffs. Well let me give them a clue, it's not a technology issue. It's an issue about a lack of common sense. A lack of self-responsibility. Tackle that and the whole world, not just sat-navs, will become a better place.
The other night over dinner, we were musing about how warm it's this winter, and I was lamenting the lack of snow which I love. At this point The Boy piped up that what people don't realise is that global warming doesn't mean hot summers and more sunny days, instead it means more indeterminate seasons and just plain shitty weather all year round. Damn, I will put my sun tan lotion away now. From there the conversation just spiraled...the Brighton flat will be gone washed away by rising tides. Fortunately the house is on the top of a hill, so good for keeping our heads above water, and for shooting marauding less fortunates...that was The Boy's contribution. We debated whether it would be warm enough to keep chickens in the garage (if not there's always the cellar - battery chickens are the way to go), and whether our other livestock should be sheep, cows or goats. The vote went to goats as we suspect they're most productive on the least amount of space...but we may yet be proven wrong. We know where we'll be growing vegetables (there was a debate about sugar beet, but I think I prevailed. A windmill could be fixed to the roof to provide power and pump water from the stream at the bottom of the hill.
Then The Boy threw in about how much space we needed to support ourselves, and what this might mean for relatives who may want to join us. I hate to say this, but if there's a blood-link, the news is not good for you. The girls sentimentally claimed that they loved their relatives, and couldn't do without them. The Boys pointed out the hot air balloon argument, and there was no point in us all going down. There's no room for sentiment. If you can't pull your weight, then I'm sorry you just have to do the decent thing.
At that point it was time to clear the table and wash the dishes.
You wouldn't expect me to miss the opportunity to remark on the Scottish independence issue would you? My informed and considered opinion is that Hadrian's Wall was put up for a reason, and what a tragedy it's been in a state of disrepair for so long. No, with a few exceptions (Auntie Gwen and her family, a few relatives, perhaps one of the two ex-girlfriends who hailed from Alba, and a few friendly readers) I find the Scottish a miserable bunch of whingers, lacking in any sense of humour whilst remaining completely obsessed with turning gentle home-nations rivalry into hating the English for no reason at all. The distribution of taxes means that for years and years and years the English have subsidised The Picts who drown their sorrows in Whisky...or is it Whiskey...and Special Brew whilst gorging away on deep fried everything. They claim to have invented everything, but five minutes reading of the Encyclopedia Britannica shows that is just a myth perpetuated by a country that suffers from low self-esteem. The men wear skirts and a purse...what kind of country is that? It's particularly perverse that whilst the rest of the world is trying to get into larger political groupings, The Scots are going the other way. Since Blair started messing with the political system, we've had Scots MPs voting on purely English matters, whilst English MPs have no say on anything in the Highlands, and woe-betide them for expressing any sort of opinion because that would be meddling. So whilst many people hold with the view that France would be great if it wasn't for the French (not me), I'm of the opinion that Scotland would be great if it wasn't for the Scottish. Bet you're wondering where I'm not headed for my holidays this year.
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
Celebrity stalking
"It's behind you"..or at least it should be.
We trotted off to the local panto on Sunday - Peter Pan flew in. This particular amateur company of thespians have been putting on panto for 51 years. That's an awful lot of Dames. There was enough of us to fill up an entire row. It is a miracle of the modern age that even with an amateur production the tickets had been booked on line, and that was fortunate as there was so many of us. I'm always in two minds about this strange British tradition, but one thing you can't deny is the enthusiasm of the audience for corny. Really corny. jokes. Nor can you deny the enthusiasm with which the cast delivers some pretty awful lines, sings with all their heart and soul and perform with a woodeness that would be better applied to the tumbling scenery. I had woken up curmudgeonly, but got swept along by the whole thing. Perhaps it was remembering my days treading the planks under the guidance of Chris Timothy, including a stint as Genie of the Ring in Aladin, but whatever, it was fun. And not "Two and a half hours of your life you'll never get back" according to one of our number. "Oh yes it was". "Oh no it wasn't". "Oh yes it was". "Oh no it wasn't". Etc, etc
I was out on the town towards the end of last year (and I may have mentioned this already) with a couple of my friends. The Cat's Mother remained at home with a temperature. Unbeknownst to me, we were spotted by some friends of The Cat's Mother, and it transpires there was much discussion amongst the friends about WHY was I out without her, was I playing hookie, and should they dump my pizza in my lap. I may have been drunk, but evidently well-enough behaved to avoid pizza-in-lap punishment. A few days later they passed me in the Homebase car park and I missed them waving and shouting hello. Unobservant may be my middle name. It was getting beyond an an odd coincidence then that we bumped into their parents in a pub in Waterloo...the Anchor and Hope (it may be called the Hope and Anchor...I can never remember) which serves some particularly fine food. So clearly they're following me and keeping a watch on my movements.
It seems that I am the victim of a different stalking. After all it has to be more than a coincidence when you bump into someone half way up a mountain in Switzerland, and then again in a darkened auditorium in Waterloo. Really I don't know what to do about it. I know that celebrities are not what they used to be..after fancy Anthony Worral Thompson getting caught shoplifting in Tescos....what's wrong with Fortnum's or Harvey Nicholls for heavens sake? There we were celebrating UP's birthday at a performance of Noises Off, and I spotted him skulking a few rows behind us. His cover was simple, but I saw through it. He was there with his teenage children...but had failed to bring his wife. And who on earth would take teenagers to see a farce that had seen its best days a couple of decades ago? I guess he recognises that he may also have had his best days - after all did you watch the Top Gear Indian special over Christmas? Yes, it was poor, so no wonder Jeremy Clarkson is looking for inspiration. I realise I'm that sort of guy. Just along the row from him was Babs Windsor, so she must have heard as well. I'm not sure what can offer her that Sid James didn't already.
We trotted off to the local panto on Sunday - Peter Pan flew in. This particular amateur company of thespians have been putting on panto for 51 years. That's an awful lot of Dames. There was enough of us to fill up an entire row. It is a miracle of the modern age that even with an amateur production the tickets had been booked on line, and that was fortunate as there was so many of us. I'm always in two minds about this strange British tradition, but one thing you can't deny is the enthusiasm of the audience for corny. Really corny. jokes. Nor can you deny the enthusiasm with which the cast delivers some pretty awful lines, sings with all their heart and soul and perform with a woodeness that would be better applied to the tumbling scenery. I had woken up curmudgeonly, but got swept along by the whole thing. Perhaps it was remembering my days treading the planks under the guidance of Chris Timothy, including a stint as Genie of the Ring in Aladin, but whatever, it was fun. And not "Two and a half hours of your life you'll never get back" according to one of our number. "Oh yes it was". "Oh no it wasn't". "Oh yes it was". "Oh no it wasn't". Etc, etc
I was out on the town towards the end of last year (and I may have mentioned this already) with a couple of my friends. The Cat's Mother remained at home with a temperature. Unbeknownst to me, we were spotted by some friends of The Cat's Mother, and it transpires there was much discussion amongst the friends about WHY was I out without her, was I playing hookie, and should they dump my pizza in my lap. I may have been drunk, but evidently well-enough behaved to avoid pizza-in-lap punishment. A few days later they passed me in the Homebase car park and I missed them waving and shouting hello. Unobservant may be my middle name. It was getting beyond an an odd coincidence then that we bumped into their parents in a pub in Waterloo...the Anchor and Hope (it may be called the Hope and Anchor...I can never remember) which serves some particularly fine food. So clearly they're following me and keeping a watch on my movements.
It seems that I am the victim of a different stalking. After all it has to be more than a coincidence when you bump into someone half way up a mountain in Switzerland, and then again in a darkened auditorium in Waterloo. Really I don't know what to do about it. I know that celebrities are not what they used to be..after fancy Anthony Worral Thompson getting caught shoplifting in Tescos....what's wrong with Fortnum's or Harvey Nicholls for heavens sake? There we were celebrating UP's birthday at a performance of Noises Off, and I spotted him skulking a few rows behind us. His cover was simple, but I saw through it. He was there with his teenage children...but had failed to bring his wife. And who on earth would take teenagers to see a farce that had seen its best days a couple of decades ago? I guess he recognises that he may also have had his best days - after all did you watch the Top Gear Indian special over Christmas? Yes, it was poor, so no wonder Jeremy Clarkson is looking for inspiration. I realise I'm that sort of guy. Just along the row from him was Babs Windsor, so she must have heard as well. I'm not sure what can offer her that Sid James didn't already.
Friday, 6 January 2012
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
Untitled (not really)
It was probably a bit of a mistake to get to the end of the new Sherlock Holmes and declare to The Cat's Mother that I had added Lara Pulver to my list of five. There was an unnerving edge to her voice when she declared that she commended my honesty, after which I was relieved to find that I wasn't sleeping on the couch. She's always been quite tolerant of my list of five containing only Monica Bellucci, but I may have gone one step too far this time. Anyway, in the interests of good relations I've decided not to add her picture here. Instead I suggest you Google Lara Pulver Dominatrix.
Perhaps I should go for a cold shower? I can now, of course, because the builders did eventually finish the shower room. I'm sure you've been waiting the unveiling...and I was going to take a picture of myself in the shower to give you the full effect, but we've already had enough nudity for one day, so instead here's the new shower room all by itself:
A way back in the early summer, The Cat's Mother and I came across some paintings in a local gallery on the seafront in Brighton. The artist is called Jon Everitt, and you can see a selection of his wonderful works here. It was the humour of the pieces that caught us...and that unlike so many pieces these days, the titles all mean something, rather than the somewhat ubiquitous 'untitled'. Although there was a biggish picture, we were struck by some little 3" square ones which were well priced. But it became quite a challenge to actually buy them as the gallery didn't really seem geared up to sell them. The four of us just about managed to rustle up the cash between us as that was all they would accept and we were a mile from the nearest cash machine. They then fished some bags out of the rubbish bin for us to take our trophies away. Having bought three, we decided we wanted some more, and it was fortunate that he was exhibiting across in Chichester. One of the ones we wanted was no longer available, but that just meant he painted it again for us! It was at that point I secretly asked him if he would create a family portrait for us, which he agreed to. This was to be The Cat's Mother's Christmas present, so there followed clandestine meetings and many communications. My brief was simply a list of things that are important to us in some way...and the rest was down to his talent. I did begin to worry when we hit December and it was still a long way from being completed, but lo and behold it was finished and I collected it on December 22nd. I can tell you that when I saw it, it was a truly emotional moment...as indeed it was when The Cat's Mother took it out of the wrapping on Christmas Day.
And here it is...complete with hares, yellow ducks, Roa painting street art, The Cat playing the flute, The Boy playing rugby, Brighton Pavilion and a German inscription...you may even spot a couple of star constellations
Perhaps I should go for a cold shower? I can now, of course, because the builders did eventually finish the shower room. I'm sure you've been waiting the unveiling...and I was going to take a picture of myself in the shower to give you the full effect, but we've already had enough nudity for one day, so instead here's the new shower room all by itself:
A way back in the early summer, The Cat's Mother and I came across some paintings in a local gallery on the seafront in Brighton. The artist is called Jon Everitt, and you can see a selection of his wonderful works here. It was the humour of the pieces that caught us...and that unlike so many pieces these days, the titles all mean something, rather than the somewhat ubiquitous 'untitled'. Although there was a biggish picture, we were struck by some little 3" square ones which were well priced. But it became quite a challenge to actually buy them as the gallery didn't really seem geared up to sell them. The four of us just about managed to rustle up the cash between us as that was all they would accept and we were a mile from the nearest cash machine. They then fished some bags out of the rubbish bin for us to take our trophies away. Having bought three, we decided we wanted some more, and it was fortunate that he was exhibiting across in Chichester. One of the ones we wanted was no longer available, but that just meant he painted it again for us! It was at that point I secretly asked him if he would create a family portrait for us, which he agreed to. This was to be The Cat's Mother's Christmas present, so there followed clandestine meetings and many communications. My brief was simply a list of things that are important to us in some way...and the rest was down to his talent. I did begin to worry when we hit December and it was still a long way from being completed, but lo and behold it was finished and I collected it on December 22nd. I can tell you that when I saw it, it was a truly emotional moment...as indeed it was when The Cat's Mother took it out of the wrapping on Christmas Day.
And here it is...complete with hares, yellow ducks, Roa painting street art, The Cat playing the flute, The Boy playing rugby, Brighton Pavilion and a German inscription...you may even spot a couple of star constellations
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Once more unto the breech
Have you ever played Chubby Bunny?
There's no bunnies involved.
And no animals were harmed in the writing of this post.
It's a drinking game. Although I can't quite work out where the drink fits in. But I do know that it is a game best played when drunk.
The objective is to see how many marshmallows you can stuff in your mouth before you can't say "Chubby Bunny" anymore.
Unfortunately, as I gave up eating marshmallows last year, it's a game I fear I shall never play again.
It was fortunate, therefore that we went to see Matthew Bourne's Nutcracker yesterday. If you enjoy dance, you'll enjoy Bourne's modern twist on things traditional. Most famous is his Swan Lake with an all male cast. Startling. Anyway, back to the Nutcracker, no longer set in a sumptuous house, but instead Mrs Dross' home for children. It's more like a prison. Mrs Dross is the epitome of bad, as is Mr Dross and their children. It's a completely different, and more coherent tale than you would normally witness at a performance of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite, and all the better for it. Of the various highlights I shall pick out the dancing Knickerbocker glory and, of course, the Marshmallow Girls
I was planning to stay at home this week, but it says a lot about how relaxed the Christmas period has been that I felt positively enthusiastic about coming back to the office earlier. Obviously I was in a minority of one as the roads were almost completely empty this morning. Not that I was looking too closely as I fought to control the motorbike in gale force winds....but it must have been much easier for me than it was the brave souls on bicycles.
Most people in the media seem to be making predictions for the year...none anything other than gloomy. But my one and only prediction is that it will be the unpredictable that will be interesting, the rest just plain tedious.
Of my particular areas of interest, I suspect we should all be praying for an Obama victory in the Presidential elections. He may be as much use as a wet fish on a bicycle, but that may just be better than electing the Nazi alternatives. In the Middle East, we haven't really seen as much change as we might have hoped, but that is typical of the region. Egypt may yet implode, the Iranians are unlikely to be attacked overtly by the Israelis (but expect a few mysterious explosions caused by 'equipment failures), Libya is now a country ruled by various militias, and there will be blood in Syria. Oh dear. I'm still keeping my fingers crossed for Palestinian Statehood, although the wait may just give me arthritis. Russia is gradually slipping backwards politically, although not economically, and that may be no bad thing...at least everyone knows where they stand. Slowly but surely China will continue to make its presence felt....and that will do more to change the world's outlook than anything else. Europe will muddle along...the Greeks will be ejected I suspect, and that will be no bad thing. Here in Blighty, it will be all pain and no gain...but realistically it would be no different (perhaps worse even) if the Millibands were in charge. At least we have the Olympics to look forward to...and the Queen's Jubilee which means another bank holiday...
There's no bunnies involved.
And no animals were harmed in the writing of this post.
It's a drinking game. Although I can't quite work out where the drink fits in. But I do know that it is a game best played when drunk.
The objective is to see how many marshmallows you can stuff in your mouth before you can't say "Chubby Bunny" anymore.
Unfortunately, as I gave up eating marshmallows last year, it's a game I fear I shall never play again.
It was fortunate, therefore that we went to see Matthew Bourne's Nutcracker yesterday. If you enjoy dance, you'll enjoy Bourne's modern twist on things traditional. Most famous is his Swan Lake with an all male cast. Startling. Anyway, back to the Nutcracker, no longer set in a sumptuous house, but instead Mrs Dross' home for children. It's more like a prison. Mrs Dross is the epitome of bad, as is Mr Dross and their children. It's a completely different, and more coherent tale than you would normally witness at a performance of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite, and all the better for it. Of the various highlights I shall pick out the dancing Knickerbocker glory and, of course, the Marshmallow Girls
I was planning to stay at home this week, but it says a lot about how relaxed the Christmas period has been that I felt positively enthusiastic about coming back to the office earlier. Obviously I was in a minority of one as the roads were almost completely empty this morning. Not that I was looking too closely as I fought to control the motorbike in gale force winds....but it must have been much easier for me than it was the brave souls on bicycles.
Most people in the media seem to be making predictions for the year...none anything other than gloomy. But my one and only prediction is that it will be the unpredictable that will be interesting, the rest just plain tedious.
Of my particular areas of interest, I suspect we should all be praying for an Obama victory in the Presidential elections. He may be as much use as a wet fish on a bicycle, but that may just be better than electing the Nazi alternatives. In the Middle East, we haven't really seen as much change as we might have hoped, but that is typical of the region. Egypt may yet implode, the Iranians are unlikely to be attacked overtly by the Israelis (but expect a few mysterious explosions caused by 'equipment failures), Libya is now a country ruled by various militias, and there will be blood in Syria. Oh dear. I'm still keeping my fingers crossed for Palestinian Statehood, although the wait may just give me arthritis. Russia is gradually slipping backwards politically, although not economically, and that may be no bad thing...at least everyone knows where they stand. Slowly but surely China will continue to make its presence felt....and that will do more to change the world's outlook than anything else. Europe will muddle along...the Greeks will be ejected I suspect, and that will be no bad thing. Here in Blighty, it will be all pain and no gain...but realistically it would be no different (perhaps worse even) if the Millibands were in charge. At least we have the Olympics to look forward to...and the Queen's Jubilee which means another bank holiday...
Sunday, 1 January 2012
2012 and all that
And so to 2012. A Happy New Year to everyone.
It may seem a little strange.
It may be a little unorthodox.
It may not have been quite what we were expecting.
But our New Year was brought in by a near-naked fire-eating stripper gyrating on top of a grand piano with a vajazzle to preserve the last vestigies of her modesty, and flaming tassles to highlight her well-endowed chest.
We had spent the evening watching, from the "posh seats", La Soiree - contemporary circus that would make the most liberal of us blush. it was more burlesque than Billy Smarts. At the far-end of our row of tables, the younger members of our eighteen-strong party had set the pace by ordering Jager-bombs, whilst we supped more gently on red wine. The event took place at the Roundhouse in Camden. Even the men hadc been most impressed by the 'Singing in the rain' man who could hold himself horizontally on a lamp post whilst his legs 'walked' up an invisible wall to a near vertical position, but probably, on balance favoured the hula hoop girl. For certain The Boy was still dreaming of her the next morning. Honourable mentions to all the other acts too. Camden is an interesting part of the world...I do remember a previous visit and Auntie Gwen being chased down the underground platform by an unknown Irishman asking for her hand in marriage.
On the drive home, many memories were brought to the fore - the new year is always a good time to remember times past. The journey took us past The Boy's old home, and my father's old factory. How times have changed. It's probably forty, maybe forty five years since I'd been near the factory. If he was still alive he'd not recognise the area.
New Year's Eve, marks the beginning of the end of the Christmas season, and it's been so busy that I've not been near the blogosphere for the duration sadly. Christmas Day was as hectic as hectic could be with eighteen people for dinner. It's lovely to have folks from the age of six through to eighty a round, the the busy hustle and bustle reminded me of my own special childhood Christmases, the memory of which I still cherish. Whilst we emjoyed a big Christmas gathering, it was much quieter for Grandma in Cyprus. Many of the ex-pat Brits return to Blighty for the duration, so Grandma and Grandad in Cyprus went out for lunch together. There's more than a twinge of guilt about that, but I hope they know I was thinking about them throughout the day.
It was good to see my brother on the 27th before we retreated to Brighton for that strange, slightly mystical period when time seems to grind to a halt for a few days. We didn't really manage to do anything...not even go on the very, very magical skating rink at Brighton Pavillion, because skating in the rain cannot be a good thing. We did, however, get to enjoy our new bathroom. Actually shower room. the builders finished a day or so before Chritsmas, so the air was still flush with builders dust, but a few days of steamy showers seems to have settled the matter.
We returned in our fastest ever time - one hour twenty three minutes, with practically no other vehicles on the roads. And then readied ourselves for New Year's Eve.
And now I've written his, I'm going to try and catch up with everyone else's adventures over the last two-weeks. I hope everyone has a splendid year ahead.
It may seem a little strange.
It may be a little unorthodox.
It may not have been quite what we were expecting.
But our New Year was brought in by a near-naked fire-eating stripper gyrating on top of a grand piano with a vajazzle to preserve the last vestigies of her modesty, and flaming tassles to highlight her well-endowed chest.
We had spent the evening watching, from the "posh seats", La Soiree - contemporary circus that would make the most liberal of us blush. it was more burlesque than Billy Smarts. At the far-end of our row of tables, the younger members of our eighteen-strong party had set the pace by ordering Jager-bombs, whilst we supped more gently on red wine. The event took place at the Roundhouse in Camden. Even the men hadc been most impressed by the 'Singing in the rain' man who could hold himself horizontally on a lamp post whilst his legs 'walked' up an invisible wall to a near vertical position, but probably, on balance favoured the hula hoop girl. For certain The Boy was still dreaming of her the next morning. Honourable mentions to all the other acts too. Camden is an interesting part of the world...I do remember a previous visit and Auntie Gwen being chased down the underground platform by an unknown Irishman asking for her hand in marriage.
On the drive home, many memories were brought to the fore - the new year is always a good time to remember times past. The journey took us past The Boy's old home, and my father's old factory. How times have changed. It's probably forty, maybe forty five years since I'd been near the factory. If he was still alive he'd not recognise the area.
New Year's Eve, marks the beginning of the end of the Christmas season, and it's been so busy that I've not been near the blogosphere for the duration sadly. Christmas Day was as hectic as hectic could be with eighteen people for dinner. It's lovely to have folks from the age of six through to eighty a round, the the busy hustle and bustle reminded me of my own special childhood Christmases, the memory of which I still cherish. Whilst we emjoyed a big Christmas gathering, it was much quieter for Grandma in Cyprus. Many of the ex-pat Brits return to Blighty for the duration, so Grandma and Grandad in Cyprus went out for lunch together. There's more than a twinge of guilt about that, but I hope they know I was thinking about them throughout the day.
It was good to see my brother on the 27th before we retreated to Brighton for that strange, slightly mystical period when time seems to grind to a halt for a few days. We didn't really manage to do anything...not even go on the very, very magical skating rink at Brighton Pavillion, because skating in the rain cannot be a good thing. We did, however, get to enjoy our new bathroom. Actually shower room. the builders finished a day or so before Chritsmas, so the air was still flush with builders dust, but a few days of steamy showers seems to have settled the matter.
We returned in our fastest ever time - one hour twenty three minutes, with practically no other vehicles on the roads. And then readied ourselves for New Year's Eve.
And now I've written his, I'm going to try and catch up with everyone else's adventures over the last two-weeks. I hope everyone has a splendid year ahead.
Saturday, 24 December 2011
Thursday, 22 December 2011
Betrayal
I've lost a follower. My number has dropped by one. I don't mind, but I wish I could work out who it is.
Occasionally I've been known to rant and rave about governments, bankers and the state of the world's economy, but often it's a little out of context. So I found this piece on the BBC very interesting and useful. If you get bored over the next few days have a read here. The only thing it doesn't do is say that the bankers all started lending ridiculous amounts to people who could never repay the debt...and they did that because of the lax regulatory framework set by the politicians. So whilst it's simple to look at and understand...it still comes back to bankers and politicians who betrayed us all.
Last night we went to Secret Cinema - me, The Cat's Mother, The Cat and her friend Hopeful. Now one of the rules about Secret Cinema is that it's SECRET. To my immense frustration, the run has been extended through January...and that's a long time for me to hold on to a SECRET. So in the spirit of the thing, I can't tell you what we saw, but I can tell you that it's a film I've wanted to see for years...an absolute classic...and it completely lived up to expectations. I also can't tell you where we saw it either. But I can say that it took place in a building that I've been walking past for the last fifteen years without realising it is kept in a semi-derelict state for use by film companies. It's also next door to a pub which features heavily in one of my favourite films. We ate in a pop up restaurant catered by one of the best restaurants in London, so not only did we see one of the greatest movies ever made, we also dined well too. I think that it's OK for me to show you some of the photos I took, so you can see for yourselves that Secret Cinema is an amazing experience which creates an all-embracing night that we'll be talking about for months ahead.
If the pictures disappear, it's only because I've been accused of betrayal. And we wouldn't want that. if you have any ideas, please don't put it in the comments box, but do email me direct!
Occasionally I've been known to rant and rave about governments, bankers and the state of the world's economy, but often it's a little out of context. So I found this piece on the BBC very interesting and useful. If you get bored over the next few days have a read here. The only thing it doesn't do is say that the bankers all started lending ridiculous amounts to people who could never repay the debt...and they did that because of the lax regulatory framework set by the politicians. So whilst it's simple to look at and understand...it still comes back to bankers and politicians who betrayed us all.
Last night we went to Secret Cinema - me, The Cat's Mother, The Cat and her friend Hopeful. Now one of the rules about Secret Cinema is that it's SECRET. To my immense frustration, the run has been extended through January...and that's a long time for me to hold on to a SECRET. So in the spirit of the thing, I can't tell you what we saw, but I can tell you that it's a film I've wanted to see for years...an absolute classic...and it completely lived up to expectations. I also can't tell you where we saw it either. But I can say that it took place in a building that I've been walking past for the last fifteen years without realising it is kept in a semi-derelict state for use by film companies. It's also next door to a pub which features heavily in one of my favourite films. We ate in a pop up restaurant catered by one of the best restaurants in London, so not only did we see one of the greatest movies ever made, we also dined well too. I think that it's OK for me to show you some of the photos I took, so you can see for yourselves that Secret Cinema is an amazing experience which creates an all-embracing night that we'll be talking about for months ahead.
If the pictures disappear, it's only because I've been accused of betrayal. And we wouldn't want that. if you have any ideas, please don't put it in the comments box, but do email me direct!
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
I read somewhere...
...that this has been the busiest year ever for news. I'm not really sure what that means, but boy does it feel as though 2011 has been full of political, social and economic unrest. Add to that are the natural disasters which only go to show that Mother Nature is still master of the human race.
Worryingly it was only this week that Japan announced that the reactors at Fukushima had been brought under control. Remember the Japanese disaster? No barely...it was months ago, it's off the front pages. In fact it's off the news pages all together. We may well all be evolving into goldfish I think, so it's good that Google Street View took the time to do a series of before and after which you can see on the BBC here Sobering isn't it? Whilst we assume it's business as usual (except for me because the new camera I wanted is STILL not available because the Sony factory was disrupted...I've got my priorities right eh?), there are still thousands of Japanese who are displaced, and tens of thousands who lost friends and family.
I was very glad this week at the return of Millennium Housewife. Her blog was always most amusing, and helped me to become an enthusiast to go out and find blogs that have be come my staple reading. Have a read here
I was genuinely saddened to see that Vaclav Havel has died....his velvet revolution made an enormous impact on me when I was younger, and brought about many of the changes that have so shaped the world today. Without doubt he was a good man, a clever man, and some one who should be remembered as a great statesman. Here are some of his sayings.
The newspaper headlines have roared out this week that it was a lack of police planning that lead to the summer riots spreading. May be it did, may be it didn't, but I can't but help feel that whatever they do the police get criticised...certainly the suggestion that the police should have shot rioters seems more like a Jeremy Clarkson comment than something written by a learned enquiry. It's certainly not British...but then perhaps it is the collapse of any sort of British identity that has led to the underlying problems in our society
One of my favourite books this year has been 'Skippy Dies'. The title may not give you an idea that it's a humourous tale. It's long...pushing 700 pages, and took me a long time to read...not because it was difficult, but it was certainly dense...hardly a word wasted. If you get bored at all over the Christmas break I'd recommend it, as does The Guardian here
Hardly surprisingly I despair at the state of the world's economy. Actually less at the state of the economy, but more at the failure of the politicians to set out a vision, act with resolve and deliver a compelling solution whilst at the same time the banks continue to parade their arrogance in our face. By banks I mean the wider financial community which is still flaying around looking for an opportunity to land the killer blow. I can only say that my fourth favourite street artist Banksy has done well to encapsulate it in his latest work...and yes that is The City you can see in the background
On a lighter note...tonight is Secret Cinema...first one since I don't know when, last one this year. We're going dressed as rogues...and have been told to wrap up warm. Too excited for words.
Worryingly it was only this week that Japan announced that the reactors at Fukushima had been brought under control. Remember the Japanese disaster? No barely...it was months ago, it's off the front pages. In fact it's off the news pages all together. We may well all be evolving into goldfish I think, so it's good that Google Street View took the time to do a series of before and after which you can see on the BBC here Sobering isn't it? Whilst we assume it's business as usual (except for me because the new camera I wanted is STILL not available because the Sony factory was disrupted...I've got my priorities right eh?), there are still thousands of Japanese who are displaced, and tens of thousands who lost friends and family.
I was very glad this week at the return of Millennium Housewife. Her blog was always most amusing, and helped me to become an enthusiast to go out and find blogs that have be come my staple reading. Have a read here
I was genuinely saddened to see that Vaclav Havel has died....his velvet revolution made an enormous impact on me when I was younger, and brought about many of the changes that have so shaped the world today. Without doubt he was a good man, a clever man, and some one who should be remembered as a great statesman. Here are some of his sayings.
The newspaper headlines have roared out this week that it was a lack of police planning that lead to the summer riots spreading. May be it did, may be it didn't, but I can't but help feel that whatever they do the police get criticised...certainly the suggestion that the police should have shot rioters seems more like a Jeremy Clarkson comment than something written by a learned enquiry. It's certainly not British...but then perhaps it is the collapse of any sort of British identity that has led to the underlying problems in our society
One of my favourite books this year has been 'Skippy Dies'. The title may not give you an idea that it's a humourous tale. It's long...pushing 700 pages, and took me a long time to read...not because it was difficult, but it was certainly dense...hardly a word wasted. If you get bored at all over the Christmas break I'd recommend it, as does The Guardian here
Hardly surprisingly I despair at the state of the world's economy. Actually less at the state of the economy, but more at the failure of the politicians to set out a vision, act with resolve and deliver a compelling solution whilst at the same time the banks continue to parade their arrogance in our face. By banks I mean the wider financial community which is still flaying around looking for an opportunity to land the killer blow. I can only say that my fourth favourite street artist Banksy has done well to encapsulate it in his latest work...and yes that is The City you can see in the background
On a lighter note...tonight is Secret Cinema...first one since I don't know when, last one this year. We're going dressed as rogues...and have been told to wrap up warm. Too excited for words.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
'tis the time to be jolly tra la la la la la la
I seem to be unable to keep up with everyone's posts over the last few weeks...I've done my best, but it's just impossible...so sorry for that.
Christmas has kicked in with a vengeance in our world. At home on Sunday we had sixteen people round the table....that's a lot. They're all old friends of The Cat's Mother, but after three years I'm getting to know them quite well. At least I can remember most of their names. And that's a good start for me. They usually remember mine too. Lunch eventually finished at nearly eight in the evening, and the next day various of the guests spent at least the morning in bed recovering from a dose of over-indulgence. We spent the time after they left trying to clear up.
It was a good job then that yesterday was our office lunch. These things have always been important to me, I don't know why, but the office Christmas knees up always just bring the year to a happy close. Last year we didn't have a lunch as everyone kept chopping and changing so eventually I just cancelled the whole thing. This year we had ten of us round the table at Pizarro (a new Spanish restaurant in Bermondsey street)...it sells Spanish food, not pizzas as the name might imply. It was delightful. Strangely, the wine seemed to take up three-quarters of the bill, and only half of us were in this morning.
I've been trying to book a restaurant for my brother and us to meet up after Christmas. Remarkably every time I've rung over the last two weeks the line has been engaged. I've rung so many times I know the number off by heart. If it was a celebrity, I'd be in court for stalking by now. Eventually I sent them an e-mail. 48 hours later they rang back, I was driving so they left a message to say if I rang them back they would take my booking. I did. They were engaged. I'd have given up, but around us most places seem to be closed on the 27th. Anyway, in the same way that you can struggle for hours trying to open a stuck bottle of ketchup without any success and then hand it over to someone who does it immediately and with ease, The Cat's Mother rang, got through and booked. In the space of 30 seconds.
I was hoping to write a post about our fabulous new bathroom in Brighton. It may not be a major event in anyone's lives, apart from us, but it is the final and finishing step in modernising the Brighton flat. Alas and alack, the builders have done what builders do best. Sending the bill 'on completion' when the shower remains a hole in the ceiling, the electric light is still hanging at knee level, the shower screen is still flying free, the sink is at a tilt so empties its contents on to your lap when you fill it...and so on and so on. I won't comment on the radiator that has been carefull positioned so that when you sit on the toilet, you are guaranteed to burn your knee on it. I may need a cold shower to calm down. Oh. Er. Oh.
Meanwhile at home, and for the record (I don't want to be reading this in thirty years time with important bits missed out completely), one of our number is apparently determined to make our lives a misery and ruin what should be a splendid Christmas full of humour and good will. So if you want an extra person for Christmas time, just let me know....
Monday, 19 December 2011
21st Century living
Winter has officially arrived. Yes last week we, in London and the South East, saw a snow flake fall. Inevitably the tube trains stopped running, the buses were consigned to their depots, cars crawled along at less than walking pace, shops immediately sold out of plastic sledges, people wrapped up in clothes that would keep them warm in the Antarctic, supermarkets ran low on stocks as hoarding took hold, employees of some of the leading businesses were unable to make it in to work and many homes were left freezing as boilers broke down one after another. You may well say that where you are had inches of snow and Arctic temperatures to match, but carried on as normal. Well of course you did. You all live near the North Pole and are hardy folk used to the privations of less refined living. Here inside the M25 bubble, we are different. Civilisation has reached a pinnacle, and we live cossetted, man-made comfortable lives untroubled by Mother Nature. The change in weather has hit us hard. Send food parcels...well luxury hampers in Range Rovers at the very least. Please.
Driving back from Brighton (yet again) I felt that 21st Century motoring had truly arrived. I opened an app on my smart phone to listen to internet radio station Q radio. The smart phone was plugged into the car stereo so I could blast out the latest songs at deafening volume. The phone was connected by bluetooth to the SatNav, enabling me to have hands-free phone calls throughout the journey. Of course I could have added yet more technology by using the phone as a WiFi Hotspot for my HP TouchPad to connect to. I could have then used the TouchPad to tune into the internet radio station and connect it to the stereo. But that would have been ridiculous.
At the other end of the car, the exhaust pipe continued to belch out black clouds of diesel smoke.
So it may have been a case of civilising cannibals by giving them knives and forks.
Driving back from Brighton (yet again) I felt that 21st Century motoring had truly arrived. I opened an app on my smart phone to listen to internet radio station Q radio. The smart phone was plugged into the car stereo so I could blast out the latest songs at deafening volume. The phone was connected by bluetooth to the SatNav, enabling me to have hands-free phone calls throughout the journey. Of course I could have added yet more technology by using the phone as a WiFi Hotspot for my HP TouchPad to connect to. I could have then used the TouchPad to tune into the internet radio station and connect it to the stereo. But that would have been ridiculous.
At the other end of the car, the exhaust pipe continued to belch out black clouds of diesel smoke.
So it may have been a case of civilising cannibals by giving them knives and forks.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Into battle we go...
There is a fabulous shop in Bermondsey Street Called Lovely British. It is indeed lovely, and as far as I can tell after some significant nosing around that everything in it is British. It is irony in no small measure then that the shop is run by a lovely lady with a heavy French accent.
One of the recurring themes in my life is the constant need I have to get into tussles, fights, disagreements with people and organisations. It's monotonous, and causes me to question why it happens. If I won some and lost some then I would just think of it as the ups and downs of life. If I lost them all, or nearly all, I would think of it as just me being a scrapper. But as it happens, there's hardly an occasion when I'm wrong, when I lose. That means to me, at least, that just to get through the mundanities of life I have to fight, fight, fight. Of course over the years this has made me, probably, more aggressive than I should be. This I'm convinced is nurture vs nature and at the moment nurture is the thing.
I wrote some time ago...we may be talking years here rather than months and certainly weeks...that I had taken on the management company for a flat I owned. The result was eight, nearly nine thousand pounds in my pocket. The tribunal had sided with me when they hadn't produced any accounts as required in the lease. The management company then did as they were told and started producing 'accounts'. I was suspicious so I had a look. A close look. They didn't look right. In fact they looked distinctly wrong. The Cat's Mother who is a Chartered Accountant agrees. The management company wouldn't budge, and so after a bit of a hiatus...and a threatening solicitor's letter from them (obviously a firm based in Liverpool - well why not when the property is in London, the managing agent is in Essex, the freeholder is in Surrey or there abouts?), I'm back filing a claim at the Residential Valuation Tribunal. We're fighting over £5000.
In March I changed energy supplier from EDF to OVO...you may not have heard of Ovo, but do look them up, they're one of the smaller suppliers, and it will make your heart feel good. I heard nothing more from EDF until the beginning of November (yes that's a full eight months since I switched supplier. It was a final gas bill - they owed me just under £500. I'm still waiting for the final electricity bill. They would send me a cheque. Come the middle of December nothing so I rang them. Yes they said they haven't sent me a cheque they will. By the time I get the money it'll be nine months since I stopped have energy supplied by them. I find this unacceptable, as I bet they do that to everyone. That's a fat pile of cash they're sitting on which they don't deserve. They offered me £40 to go away. I said more. They offered my £50 if I don't rat on them to the Ombudsman. I took their 40 quid and told them I would complain to the Ombudsman. I have. I think they are a disgrace. I don't much care for the forty or fifty quid, but I seriously object to multinational companies taking consumers for a ride.
I still have an outstanding complaint with the Financial Ombudsman over Lloyds TSB.
I'm popping over the road now to buy something lovely and British.
One of the recurring themes in my life is the constant need I have to get into tussles, fights, disagreements with people and organisations. It's monotonous, and causes me to question why it happens. If I won some and lost some then I would just think of it as the ups and downs of life. If I lost them all, or nearly all, I would think of it as just me being a scrapper. But as it happens, there's hardly an occasion when I'm wrong, when I lose. That means to me, at least, that just to get through the mundanities of life I have to fight, fight, fight. Of course over the years this has made me, probably, more aggressive than I should be. This I'm convinced is nurture vs nature and at the moment nurture is the thing.
I wrote some time ago...we may be talking years here rather than months and certainly weeks...that I had taken on the management company for a flat I owned. The result was eight, nearly nine thousand pounds in my pocket. The tribunal had sided with me when they hadn't produced any accounts as required in the lease. The management company then did as they were told and started producing 'accounts'. I was suspicious so I had a look. A close look. They didn't look right. In fact they looked distinctly wrong. The Cat's Mother who is a Chartered Accountant agrees. The management company wouldn't budge, and so after a bit of a hiatus...and a threatening solicitor's letter from them (obviously a firm based in Liverpool - well why not when the property is in London, the managing agent is in Essex, the freeholder is in Surrey or there abouts?), I'm back filing a claim at the Residential Valuation Tribunal. We're fighting over £5000.
In March I changed energy supplier from EDF to OVO...you may not have heard of Ovo, but do look them up, they're one of the smaller suppliers, and it will make your heart feel good. I heard nothing more from EDF until the beginning of November (yes that's a full eight months since I switched supplier. It was a final gas bill - they owed me just under £500. I'm still waiting for the final electricity bill. They would send me a cheque. Come the middle of December nothing so I rang them. Yes they said they haven't sent me a cheque they will. By the time I get the money it'll be nine months since I stopped have energy supplied by them. I find this unacceptable, as I bet they do that to everyone. That's a fat pile of cash they're sitting on which they don't deserve. They offered me £40 to go away. I said more. They offered my £50 if I don't rat on them to the Ombudsman. I took their 40 quid and told them I would complain to the Ombudsman. I have. I think they are a disgrace. I don't much care for the forty or fifty quid, but I seriously object to multinational companies taking consumers for a ride.
I still have an outstanding complaint with the Financial Ombudsman over Lloyds TSB.
I'm popping over the road now to buy something lovely and British.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
Dereliction of duty
It probably sounded good in the brainstorming meeting which no doubt was run by an expensive marketing consultant, but I somehow felt that the trucking company may not have spent their money well when the side of their lorry was adorned with the line (in italics):
"We couldn't care any more"
I hope they weren't carrying someone's precious antique grand piano.
Europe's a mess isn't it? Whilst I can applaud Merkozy for getting tough about countries' budgets, I doubt that further integration is a good idea whilst the various pan-European political bodies remain shambolic at best and completely incapable at worst. Personally after many years of trecking round Europe changing currency every time I crossed a border I was delighted with the Euro, but it's a bad concept, badly implemented. It's frying pan and fire time though isn't it, and quietly The City must be smirking again as they realise how subservient the British Government is to it.
I've driven to Brighton and back in one day twice this week...which is probably the most the place has been visited in the last three years. We're having some work done there, and it always difficult to do it from a distance. I'm sure that builders are not malicious, but they have a habit of doing exactly what you don't want unless you keep the leash very short. And indeed, my list of corrections after the first visit was very long indeed, so much as I didn't want to, I was up early on Sunday morning to check on progress. No corrections this time, just some concern writ large that the work won't be done before the Christmas break. I still managed to be back within yawning and stretching time of the offspring arising.
There's a stretch of the A23 dual carriageway which has a double bend in it. I remember that when the road was upgraded, probably some fifteen or more years ago, this double bend was left as it was because the trees around it were ancient and protected. Sadly that doesn't appear to be the case anymore, and the whole lot have been chopped down. Perhaps they were diseased, perhaps the needs of road users were deemed too important, but whatever the case, they've gone, which is a real shame, even if it makes the road a little safer.
The Christmas season is well under way...tree up in the office, and now one at home too. To get us in the mood, we all trecked up to town to see Simon Callow re-tell Dickens Christmas carol. A completely bewitching performance managing to wring out every piece of emotion (from laugh out loud humour to tear inducing sadness) that's. That Simon Callow is a genius.
Friday night saw us walking the streets of London with Paul Talling. I'm not quite sure how I first came across him, but I'm glad I did. He is the author of two books - London's Lost Rivers and Derelict London. I have a fascination with old London and changing London, but am a complete junior school boy compared to Paul who has taken his passion beyond a hobby and now writes(Derelict has sold 13,000 copies) as well as running some very well-informed walks and talks during the summer months. We persuaded him to walk us up the old river Fleet, which essentially, is hidden in a sewer underneath Farringdon Road. Even in the freezing cold, the walk was fascinating...from the opening undiscovered (by us, at least) view of the Thames by night just near the remarkable Black Friar tavern (built on the site of a Dominican monastery), past Henry VIII's Bridewell Palace, through Smithfields meat market and on up to Clerk en Well, where we lay down in the middle of the road to peer a down a drain where we could hear and see the fast flowing river all the way to Kings Cross where he bade us farewell. Over three hours he didn't stop regaling us with the history and stories of the Fleet...mostly they seemed to involve nasty smells and carcasses floating down the river. The Boys particularly liked the (surely soon-to-be-revived) tradition of putting women in barrels and rolling them down the hills, the girls seemed to enjoy the more genteel history of the Venetian-like canal that Wren wanted to turn it into. If you get the chance go to Paul's web site here, and join one of his tours next summer...as we will.
The only downside is that I forgot to ask him to autograph the two books we had carried with us all evening
"We couldn't care any more"
I hope they weren't carrying someone's precious antique grand piano.
Europe's a mess isn't it? Whilst I can applaud Merkozy for getting tough about countries' budgets, I doubt that further integration is a good idea whilst the various pan-European political bodies remain shambolic at best and completely incapable at worst. Personally after many years of trecking round Europe changing currency every time I crossed a border I was delighted with the Euro, but it's a bad concept, badly implemented. It's frying pan and fire time though isn't it, and quietly The City must be smirking again as they realise how subservient the British Government is to it.
I've driven to Brighton and back in one day twice this week...which is probably the most the place has been visited in the last three years. We're having some work done there, and it always difficult to do it from a distance. I'm sure that builders are not malicious, but they have a habit of doing exactly what you don't want unless you keep the leash very short. And indeed, my list of corrections after the first visit was very long indeed, so much as I didn't want to, I was up early on Sunday morning to check on progress. No corrections this time, just some concern writ large that the work won't be done before the Christmas break. I still managed to be back within yawning and stretching time of the offspring arising.
There's a stretch of the A23 dual carriageway which has a double bend in it. I remember that when the road was upgraded, probably some fifteen or more years ago, this double bend was left as it was because the trees around it were ancient and protected. Sadly that doesn't appear to be the case anymore, and the whole lot have been chopped down. Perhaps they were diseased, perhaps the needs of road users were deemed too important, but whatever the case, they've gone, which is a real shame, even if it makes the road a little safer.
The Christmas season is well under way...tree up in the office, and now one at home too. To get us in the mood, we all trecked up to town to see Simon Callow re-tell Dickens Christmas carol. A completely bewitching performance managing to wring out every piece of emotion (from laugh out loud humour to tear inducing sadness) that's. That Simon Callow is a genius.
Friday night saw us walking the streets of London with Paul Talling. I'm not quite sure how I first came across him, but I'm glad I did. He is the author of two books - London's Lost Rivers and Derelict London. I have a fascination with old London and changing London, but am a complete junior school boy compared to Paul who has taken his passion beyond a hobby and now writes(Derelict has sold 13,000 copies) as well as running some very well-informed walks and talks during the summer months. We persuaded him to walk us up the old river Fleet, which essentially, is hidden in a sewer underneath Farringdon Road. Even in the freezing cold, the walk was fascinating...from the opening undiscovered (by us, at least) view of the Thames by night just near the remarkable Black Friar tavern (built on the site of a Dominican monastery), past Henry VIII's Bridewell Palace, through Smithfields meat market and on up to Clerk en Well, where we lay down in the middle of the road to peer a down a drain where we could hear and see the fast flowing river all the way to Kings Cross where he bade us farewell. Over three hours he didn't stop regaling us with the history and stories of the Fleet...mostly they seemed to involve nasty smells and carcasses floating down the river. The Boys particularly liked the (surely soon-to-be-revived) tradition of putting women in barrels and rolling them down the hills, the girls seemed to enjoy the more genteel history of the Venetian-like canal that Wren wanted to turn it into. If you get the chance go to Paul's web site here, and join one of his tours next summer...as we will.
The only downside is that I forgot to ask him to autograph the two books we had carried with us all evening
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