Spring has come early to the city, and, just like the daffodils, Londoners are unfurling in the sunshine, willing to trust in the blue sky and hope that the weather isn’t playing an April fool. I, like many others, headed to the South Bank, and went to...
...a chocolate festival. Or, more aptly, a chocolate scrum. The thing is, thousands of people mill around the Royal Festival Hall on a sunny day in search of something, anything, to do that doesn’t involve listening to chamber music. So any little market that sets up around the back is pounced upon by everyone and their niece faster than a cheetah in Nikes, especially if it starts handing out free chocolate.
The best way to imagine the scene is to picture a stall covered in bunting, manned by shell-shocked chocolate makers. In front of them is a jostling, heaving wall of people, all seemingly absolutely desperate for a taste of dark chocolate and chilli. Occasionally the stall holder will gingerly hold out a free sample, akin to feeding ravenous penguins. I had this vision of me leaping out from the back, catching a piece of chocolate in a single bite, and then vanishing into the crowd with a self-satisfied ‘arf’.
I didn’t do this, good people. But I might have done, had I stayed there any longer. Instead I went and...
...watched some break-dancing. We sat opposite Shakespeare’s Globe theatre and were treated to a fab impromptu display from four guys and a girl, all throwing athletic shapes and spinning arms over legs on the dusty concrete floor. We clapped and we cheered; we threw money in the hat and marvelled at folk who go out dancing wearing a crash-helmet. I mean, you’ve got to be seriously committed to doing a head-twirl; it’s a tricky style look to pull off, otherwise.
We walked on and heard music drifting up from the Thames. A quick peer over the wall, and down in the murky water there’s a bloke in waders, playing a guitar. He sings to us, and we see that he has a blanket pegged on the strip of shoreline, covered in coins. We turn back and narrowly miss bumping into a bloke dressed as Oliver Cromwell, strolling through the crowds, his lady-friend nonchalantly carrying a trailing pennant. Following behind, we came to my favourite place...
...the long trestle tables filled with second-hand books underneath Waterloo Bridge. Five minutes later, and I’d already bought a 1963 Pan edition of Partners in Crime by Agatha Christie, and the 1968 book Poor Cow by Nell Dunn, author of Up the Junction. It’s too dangerous for my wallet’s health to linger so we did a quick flutter around the arts and crafts found in Gabriel’s Wharf before retiring to a secret place overlooking the river, continuing our evening inside while the sunset transformed the water into dusky pink and shot silver.
Chilly, chilly is evening time
Waterloo sunset’s fine...
The Kinks, 1967
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Sunday, 1 April 2012
Monday, 20 February 2012
Sixth sense
I’m a huge believer in gut instinct. If my inner warning bell starts ringing, I listen. On Sunday I think it saved me from being mugged.
The driveway in front of my house only has room for one car, so I usually park my car on the drive and my mum parks her car in front of mine on the street, a bit like a ‘T’ formation. She uses her car more in the week than I do, so it works out easier this way, although if I want to get my car out I have to jump in both and do some manoeuvring.
Whenever I do this I like to pretend I'm in The Sweeney.
I’d returned from the supermarket so had moved mum’s car, parked mine on the drive, and moved mum’s car back in front again. I’d just jumped out of mum’s car and was locking it when I noticed a man slowly cycling on the pavement across the street.
He was a fair distance away but as I walked around the car my inner alarm bell started ringing, softly at first. I saw out of the corner of my eye that he had seen me and had suddenly crossed over to my side of the road.
I went to my car, intending to get out my groceries. This is when my inner alarm bell went off like a siren and my subconscious clocked seven things simultaneously.
I quickly locked my car and practically bolted to my house. As I turned to shut the door I saw he had got incredibly close in a short space of time and was just passing my drive. We caught each other’s gaze and his look was so malignant that I knew my feelings were justified. And then he carried on down the street.
I’m not a paranoid person but there is a big problem with drugs (and knives) in the area that I live, with the gangs behind the trouble cruising the streets on bikes. So perhaps I’d clocked there was a reason to be careful from the moment I saw him. Whatever the case, I am so grateful to my internal warning system, and so very glad I listen to it. Please make sure you do the same with yours. x
The driveway in front of my house only has room for one car, so I usually park my car on the drive and my mum parks her car in front of mine on the street, a bit like a ‘T’ formation. She uses her car more in the week than I do, so it works out easier this way, although if I want to get my car out I have to jump in both and do some manoeuvring.
Whenever I do this I like to pretend I'm in The Sweeney.
I’d returned from the supermarket so had moved mum’s car, parked mine on the drive, and moved mum’s car back in front again. I’d just jumped out of mum’s car and was locking it when I noticed a man slowly cycling on the pavement across the street.
He was a fair distance away but as I walked around the car my inner alarm bell started ringing, softly at first. I saw out of the corner of my eye that he had seen me and had suddenly crossed over to my side of the road.
I went to my car, intending to get out my groceries. This is when my inner alarm bell went off like a siren and my subconscious clocked seven things simultaneously.
- He’d sped up. Before he was aimlessly cruising down the road.
- There was also no reason for him to cross the road, no junction for him to turn down into, no obstruction his side that would stop his progress.
- The road was unusually quiet and totally empty.
- He was an adult on what looked like a teenage boy’s bike
- He had his hood up despite it being a sunny day
- I had the keys to two cars in my hand
- I look quite young
I quickly locked my car and practically bolted to my house. As I turned to shut the door I saw he had got incredibly close in a short space of time and was just passing my drive. We caught each other’s gaze and his look was so malignant that I knew my feelings were justified. And then he carried on down the street.
I’m not a paranoid person but there is a big problem with drugs (and knives) in the area that I live, with the gangs behind the trouble cruising the streets on bikes. So perhaps I’d clocked there was a reason to be careful from the moment I saw him. Whatever the case, I am so grateful to my internal warning system, and so very glad I listen to it. Please make sure you do the same with yours. x
Monday, 13 February 2012
Churchill War Rooms
Take my hand on this dark winter’s evening and walk with me down the wide expanse of Horse Guards Road. The black skeleton trees in St James Park stand tall on our left; the Portland stones of Her Majesty’s Treasury on the right seem to glow with their own ethereal luminescence. We join a group waiting in the night gloom, breath steaming in the air, faces cheerful with chatter. Big Ben in the distance solemnly chimes the hour. We are now allowed to scurry down the cold steps and enter the Cabinet War Rooms, Winston Churchill’s nerve centre throughout the Second World War.
Deep under the bustle of Whitehall hides an old sturdy rabbit warren of corridors. Let’s imagine for a second the uniformed men and women who worked down here. Their footsteps echo ahead of us, rushing important communications to the Map Room. The blue haze expelled from cigars and cigarettes cloaks the ceiling, making the rushing figures hazy and indistinct. We rush with them, a glance to the side revealing a stark room with a cot-bed, a desk, a lamp, a washing basin with a jug of water on standby. A telephone’s shrill demand for attention makes us jump; in the distance we can hear the rumble and shudder of distant bombs, the low wail of sirens warning Londoners to beware, to take care. Closer to us a BBC radio announcer’s clipped tones speak over the wireless; we hear the steady click-clack-click of typewriters, a faint floating burst of music, hastily muted. The hands of the clock on the wall point the way to midnight, 6am, midday. Time means nothing down here; it has been cancelled. The smell of sleepless toil, of urgency, of expectancy, soaks through the corridors. That was then.
And this is now. The books and charts in the Map Room have remained exactly as they were left in 1945.
This was Churchill’s bedroom. The walls are covered with maps. The last thing he saw on closing his eyes, and the first thing that greeted him on awakening, was the territory of battle.
One of the many telephones. Whose hand last held the receiver and what was the message?
Of course, we had to look the part...
...courtesy of the 'vintage boudoir', which I was delighted to find consisted of Fleur at Diary of a Vintage Girl, and her Vintage Mafia! Thanks lovely ladies.
We spoke to museum curators, and followed the drifting sounds of music, past the group sketching caricatures of Churchill at his bulldog best, until we found the dance hall, manned by the London Swing Dance Society. Here we danced the Charleston and the lindy hop, and gathered in a circle for the Big Apple. All too soon it was time to climb the stairs and emerge back onto the street, blinking under the stars.
Deep under the bustle of Whitehall hides an old sturdy rabbit warren of corridors. Let’s imagine for a second the uniformed men and women who worked down here. Their footsteps echo ahead of us, rushing important communications to the Map Room. The blue haze expelled from cigars and cigarettes cloaks the ceiling, making the rushing figures hazy and indistinct. We rush with them, a glance to the side revealing a stark room with a cot-bed, a desk, a lamp, a washing basin with a jug of water on standby. A telephone’s shrill demand for attention makes us jump; in the distance we can hear the rumble and shudder of distant bombs, the low wail of sirens warning Londoners to beware, to take care. Closer to us a BBC radio announcer’s clipped tones speak over the wireless; we hear the steady click-clack-click of typewriters, a faint floating burst of music, hastily muted. The hands of the clock on the wall point the way to midnight, 6am, midday. Time means nothing down here; it has been cancelled. The smell of sleepless toil, of urgency, of expectancy, soaks through the corridors. That was then.
And this is now. The books and charts in the Map Room have remained exactly as they were left in 1945.
This was Churchill’s bedroom. The walls are covered with maps. The last thing he saw on closing his eyes, and the first thing that greeted him on awakening, was the territory of battle.
One of the many telephones. Whose hand last held the receiver and what was the message?
Of course, we had to look the part...
 |
| Me |
 |
| Lovely friend R |
...courtesy of the 'vintage boudoir', which I was delighted to find consisted of Fleur at Diary of a Vintage Girl, and her Vintage Mafia! Thanks lovely ladies.
We spoke to museum curators, and followed the drifting sounds of music, past the group sketching caricatures of Churchill at his bulldog best, until we found the dance hall, manned by the London Swing Dance Society. Here we danced the Charleston and the lindy hop, and gathered in a circle for the Big Apple. All too soon it was time to climb the stairs and emerge back onto the street, blinking under the stars.
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Secret Cinema presents...
It is now safe to tell you about an exciting mission that took me and two friends deep into the shady heart of 1940s Vienna...
‘Psst! Do you want to go to a secret cinema?’
This was the tantalising question that arrived with a ‘ping’ into my Inbox last November. I quickly tapped a resounding and enthusiastic ‘YES!’ and hit send, only later thinking to ask ‘what actually is a secret cinema?’ A few discreet enquiries revealed that it's the brainchild of a specialist event company who take great delight in creating a theatrical spectacle based around a cult classic film. Clues are sent in a series of mysterious email communications and half the fun is trying to guess what you're going to see.
We were given this dress code...
…and were told to meet a man carrying balloons outside Barbican tube station. It was all incredibly exciting. We booked into the Powder Room in Soho for some vintage hairstyling, ready to play our part as 'Rogues'. Already some subterfuge was going on as my long hair was very cunningly disguised into a bob.
We met our contact and soon were being hurried along the dark streets by uniformed officials shouting ‘schnell’, creating bafflement in modern onlookers. Our destination was the shadowed entrance to a former ‘lead and glass’ warehouse in Clerkenwell. Practically everyone had adhered to the dress code, and this styling, combined with subtle smoke and clever lighting, helped create the illusion that we had turned back the clock, had suspended time.
This feeling became more apparent as we entered the yard. Everywhere we looked was perfect – the money exchange swapping our sterling into Austrian schillings, the decorative bars in all their faded glory, the secretive gambling club upstairs, the spivs trying to barter watches and nylons. Every new arrival brought a book to leave behind – later to be swapped or given to charity - resulting in a heaped table filled with treasure.
The audience were part of the play – unrehearsed but just as key. Our greatest compliment came when we asked someone to take our picture. ‘But I thought you were actors!’ he said. Vintage mischief managed!
In what must have been a feat of unseen project management, little groups were gathered and rushed away to be shown secrets and illusion, helping to create the atmosphere of suspense. We whispered passwords and were ushered behind the bar, down echoing stone steps into a smoky long cellar. Here we played follow the leader through a strange underworld - scurrying across planks of wood bridging water, ducking through tunnels - were we chasing or being chased?
The motif of the evening was the man in a trilby hat – he lurked in the shadows; he appeared in the smoke. Occasionally you’d look up and there he was...
You may have guessed the film by now. It was The Third Man. And it was the best cinematic experience of my life!
Take a look at the short clip below to find out more...
Read M's write up at To Happy Vegans
Read more about Secret Cinema
Thanks to M for some of the pictures included on this blog post
‘Psst! Do you want to go to a secret cinema?’
This was the tantalising question that arrived with a ‘ping’ into my Inbox last November. I quickly tapped a resounding and enthusiastic ‘YES!’ and hit send, only later thinking to ask ‘what actually is a secret cinema?’ A few discreet enquiries revealed that it's the brainchild of a specialist event company who take great delight in creating a theatrical spectacle based around a cult classic film. Clues are sent in a series of mysterious email communications and half the fun is trying to guess what you're going to see.
We were given this dress code...
 |
| A rogue-ish dress code |
…and were told to meet a man carrying balloons outside Barbican tube station. It was all incredibly exciting. We booked into the Powder Room in Soho for some vintage hairstyling, ready to play our part as 'Rogues'. Already some subterfuge was going on as my long hair was very cunningly disguised into a bob.
 |
| A quick bite to eat at Leon in Soho |
 |
| Checking ID at the entrance to the International Zone |
This feeling became more apparent as we entered the yard. Everywhere we looked was perfect – the money exchange swapping our sterling into Austrian schillings, the decorative bars in all their faded glory, the secretive gambling club upstairs, the spivs trying to barter watches and nylons. Every new arrival brought a book to leave behind – later to be swapped or given to charity - resulting in a heaped table filled with treasure.
 |
| Posters tying the film with the era |
 |
| The money exchange |
 |
| A higgledy piggledy pile of books |
 |
| Clever lighting helped set the mood for film noir |
 |
| Me, no doubt transfixed by the wandering balloon seller |
 |
| Lovely friend S |
 |
| Lovely friend M, one of the bloggers behind To Happy Vegans |
The motif of the evening was the man in a trilby hat – he lurked in the shadows; he appeared in the smoke. Occasionally you’d look up and there he was...
 |
| The man with the trilby hat |
Take a look at the short clip below to find out more...
Read M's write up at To Happy Vegans
Read more about Secret Cinema
Thanks to M for some of the pictures included on this blog post
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Delights of the falling season
It’s hard to crack open the blog when I’ve spent a little while away from it. I forget what words unlock my voice. So instead of struggling to find something profound to say that will encompass the highs and lows of balance finding, I will share some fun things from the tail end of last year. (Last year already! Time flies on hummingbird wings.)
A Happy Meeting
I had the good fortune to meet with the lovely bloggers behind Happy Frog And I and HeArtfully Drawn. A few messages passed between us beforehand (I have long hair! I’m wearing a red coat! I have on boots!), the way they do when online acquaintances skip past the monitor and land in the real world as friends. We instantly got along, nattering and chattering and laughing and sharing stories, making our table nestled inside a Paddington pub a small beacon of happiness. All too soon it was time to wind scarves around necks and bid a fond farewell... until next time.
A Grand Evening
Ever since the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel threw open its refurbished doors I have wanted to wander inside and soak up its luxurious Art Deco atmosphere. Luckily two good friends felt exactly the same way, and since we were in a celebratory sort of mood, we made reservations at the Gilbert Scott restaurant. This was (and still is, in a way) the Dining and Coffee Room of the original Midland Grand hotel, with pillars of polished limestone and gilded capitals carved with conquers, pea pods, and bursting pomegranates.
The decor of the bar area is magnificent. There is something about sitting in such a chic environment that makes backs straighten, and anticipation thread through the air like stardust.
The ceilings were a marvel...
...awash with colour and style...
...and blinking large bells!
We enjoyed a lovely meal and relaxed afterwards with their signature cocktail, the 1873. Again it was one of those sparkling evenings where time fooled us, skipping ahead around the corner before we realised it had slipped away.
Read a lovely write-up of our night by M at To Happy Vegans
A Classical Spectacular
One of my biggest indulgences is going to the Royal Albert Hall at least once a year to listen to amazing orchestras. My mum shares my passion, so we excitedly look forward to our treat – a day ‘up west’ window-shopping, a pause for a coffee and cake, and then dinner in Kensington before the show. A Classical Spectacular will be a night of very accessible scores – as well as Elgar, there could be Ravel, Handel, Verdi, the ‘infernal galop’ of the Can Can, a tenor singing Nessun Dorma... A beautiful evening lost in music, letting thoughts soar into dreams.
I had the good fortune to meet with the lovely bloggers behind Happy Frog And I and HeArtfully Drawn. A few messages passed between us beforehand (I have long hair! I’m wearing a red coat! I have on boots!), the way they do when online acquaintances skip past the monitor and land in the real world as friends. We instantly got along, nattering and chattering and laughing and sharing stories, making our table nestled inside a Paddington pub a small beacon of happiness. All too soon it was time to wind scarves around necks and bid a fond farewell... until next time.
Ever since the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel threw open its refurbished doors I have wanted to wander inside and soak up its luxurious Art Deco atmosphere. Luckily two good friends felt exactly the same way, and since we were in a celebratory sort of mood, we made reservations at the Gilbert Scott restaurant. This was (and still is, in a way) the Dining and Coffee Room of the original Midland Grand hotel, with pillars of polished limestone and gilded capitals carved with conquers, pea pods, and bursting pomegranates.
The ceilings were a marvel...
...awash with colour and style...
...and blinking large bells!
We enjoyed a lovely meal and relaxed afterwards with their signature cocktail, the 1873. Again it was one of those sparkling evenings where time fooled us, skipping ahead around the corner before we realised it had slipped away.
Read a lovely write-up of our night by M at To Happy Vegans
One of my biggest indulgences is going to the Royal Albert Hall at least once a year to listen to amazing orchestras. My mum shares my passion, so we excitedly look forward to our treat – a day ‘up west’ window-shopping, a pause for a coffee and cake, and then dinner in Kensington before the show. A Classical Spectacular will be a night of very accessible scores – as well as Elgar, there could be Ravel, Handel, Verdi, the ‘infernal galop’ of the Can Can, a tenor singing Nessun Dorma... A beautiful evening lost in music, letting thoughts soar into dreams.
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
I want to live in John Lewis
I scuttled into the large department store John Lewis after work last night. Well, when I say ‘scuttle’, I was bounced along the Metropolitan line, ejected at Baker Street, squooshed down towards the Bakerloo line, trundled on the tube, and then splashed out as part of a giant wave of people at Oxford Street, straight into another giant wave of people trying to rush back down into the station.
After a bit of confused ebbing and flowing I finally escaped into the shop. There is something about department stores that picks me up and cuddles me in rich soft duvets. I waft around pretending I can afford this and that, and look at things like fabric for my imaginary house. Within the store’s well-lit walls anything can be possible, and I’ve decided I want to live there.
I didn’t make this decision lightly. There are four department stores worthy of consideration within a walk of Oxford Circus. These are Debenhams, Selfridges, John Lewis and Liberty’s.
If Lived in Debenhams
I wouldn’t be able to resist the makeup and beauty department. I’d sparkle with glitter gloss and super shine. I’d have huge false eyelashes and would swan around in tons of reasonably priced bling. In fact, I’d bling and shine so much that I’d cause the national grid to do a Matrix like surge of power and cut all the lights in the west end. It’s probably not a wise move to let me live in Debenhams.
If I lived in Selfridges
I’d be no good at living in Selfridges. I’d be too tempted to clear all the stock out and just sell fridges. I’d employ traders with plenty of chat to sell them as if they’re flogging a job lot down Hackney Market, and every buyer would get a yellow Selfridges bag with spare fridge parts and egg racks. And then when all the fridges had gone I'd rename the store 'Sodfridges' and sell flowers instead.
If I lived in John Lewis
I would write novels about the hunt for the perfect kitchen utensil in the style of Moby Dick - 'Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whisk itself.' You can picture its majesty I'm sure. It would be a publishing sensation, and while I was writing, I'd be an elegant addition (perhaps) to the sofas. I’d even be willing to point people in the right direction if they were lost and needing new moleskine notebooks. I’d create fabulous artwork out of the contents of the haberdashery department, and cry tears of joy to be John Lewis’ new Barbara Hepworth with buttons.
If I lived in Liberty’s
If I lived in Liberty’s I’m afraid it would go straight to my head. I’d hole up in the Grand Scarf Hall and the next time you see me I will be doing the dance of the seven sheer silk and bloody expensive veils. I might bolt the doors to shoppers and stalk the store in various velvet cloaks, gloating at my incredible fortune. People will look up at the candle-lit windows to watch me waltz past, occasionally reappearing on a different floor in a new hat. I’d throw petals down into the street, yell ‘ahoy’ in honour of Liberty’s sea-faring connection, and cause debate in the House of Commons about whether I’m a wonderfully eccentric tourist attraction or just a ruddy nuisance. I feel my residence may be rather short-lived.
So there you have it. John Lewis it is. Me and my button-sculpturing and Moby Dick parodying skills are poised to move in immediately!
After a bit of confused ebbing and flowing I finally escaped into the shop. There is something about department stores that picks me up and cuddles me in rich soft duvets. I waft around pretending I can afford this and that, and look at things like fabric for my imaginary house. Within the store’s well-lit walls anything can be possible, and I’ve decided I want to live there.
I didn’t make this decision lightly. There are four department stores worthy of consideration within a walk of Oxford Circus. These are Debenhams, Selfridges, John Lewis and Liberty’s.
If Lived in Debenhams
I wouldn’t be able to resist the makeup and beauty department. I’d sparkle with glitter gloss and super shine. I’d have huge false eyelashes and would swan around in tons of reasonably priced bling. In fact, I’d bling and shine so much that I’d cause the national grid to do a Matrix like surge of power and cut all the lights in the west end. It’s probably not a wise move to let me live in Debenhams.
If I lived in Selfridges
I’d be no good at living in Selfridges. I’d be too tempted to clear all the stock out and just sell fridges. I’d employ traders with plenty of chat to sell them as if they’re flogging a job lot down Hackney Market, and every buyer would get a yellow Selfridges bag with spare fridge parts and egg racks. And then when all the fridges had gone I'd rename the store 'Sodfridges' and sell flowers instead.
If I lived in John Lewis
I would write novels about the hunt for the perfect kitchen utensil in the style of Moby Dick - 'Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whisk itself.' You can picture its majesty I'm sure. It would be a publishing sensation, and while I was writing, I'd be an elegant addition (perhaps) to the sofas. I’d even be willing to point people in the right direction if they were lost and needing new moleskine notebooks. I’d create fabulous artwork out of the contents of the haberdashery department, and cry tears of joy to be John Lewis’ new Barbara Hepworth with buttons.
If I lived in Liberty’s
If I lived in Liberty’s I’m afraid it would go straight to my head. I’d hole up in the Grand Scarf Hall and the next time you see me I will be doing the dance of the seven sheer silk and bloody expensive veils. I might bolt the doors to shoppers and stalk the store in various velvet cloaks, gloating at my incredible fortune. People will look up at the candle-lit windows to watch me waltz past, occasionally reappearing on a different floor in a new hat. I’d throw petals down into the street, yell ‘ahoy’ in honour of Liberty’s sea-faring connection, and cause debate in the House of Commons about whether I’m a wonderfully eccentric tourist attraction or just a ruddy nuisance. I feel my residence may be rather short-lived.
So there you have it. John Lewis it is. Me and my button-sculpturing and Moby Dick parodying skills are poised to move in immediately!
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
London
It is heart-breaking to see what is happening in London recently. Be under no illusion that this wanton destruction is about protest; this is about theft. The people doing this don’t want to talk or bargain; they don’t wish to lobby for answers, better employment or less cuts. They just want free trainers. They really don’t care if they burn down a person’s business or home, damage communities or historical buildings, and destroy trust. None of that seems to matter if you can get a free, slightly cracked, plasma TV. They think it’s a game with no consequences.
Sadly, the consequences for a community and London as a whole go much further than an individual person being arrested for their crimes. Shops that once had pretty glass fronts may be tempted to put up ugly metal shutters. Barriers could be raised where once there were none; restrictions might be in place where once movement was free. That’s what they don’t realise, these silly people.
There is pride in being a responsible person in the world. With pride comes respect – respect for yourself and respect for those around you, for the natural world and how amazing it is to be alive. Being kind costs nothing and yet the dividend is priceless – far higher than anything they can steal.
I hope one day these people looting realise this.
PS - This post is opinion only, not an analysis.
Sadly, the consequences for a community and London as a whole go much further than an individual person being arrested for their crimes. Shops that once had pretty glass fronts may be tempted to put up ugly metal shutters. Barriers could be raised where once there were none; restrictions might be in place where once movement was free. That’s what they don’t realise, these silly people.
There is pride in being a responsible person in the world. With pride comes respect – respect for yourself and respect for those around you, for the natural world and how amazing it is to be alive. Being kind costs nothing and yet the dividend is priceless – far higher than anything they can steal.
I hope one day these people looting realise this.
PS - This post is opinion only, not an analysis.
Monday, 21 February 2011
The House of Dennis Severs
‘You are going to take a journey...’
Glass-fronted office buildings may squat bulkily upon Bishopsgate, but the warren of streets reflected in those anonymous eyes can sometimes reveal an older time, for those with the ability to see and imagine.
The art of Dennis Severs, showcased in his amazing time-capsule house in Folgate Street, Spitalfields, plays upon this ability, offering visitors the chance to step back through the centuries.
This is the house of the ten spells – ten rooms given over to sensory illusion lit by flickering candle. The game is that we have interrupted a family of Huguenot weavers and as we step in the room we find they have just stepped out. It is then down to our imagination to see more, should we choose. This feeling is predominant as you walk around the rooms – it is and feels like a private house, and we are but shadows in their time.
Walking around, I couldn’t help but notice how dark it was, even with candles and weak daylight filtering through the dusty windows. It was also cold – very cold. It gave me such a strange feeling about how it must have been to live in that time – how I would have lived in that time. If you didn’t have money for coal or wood, and you couldn’t spare many candles for light, then you would have lived a miserable shivery existence. Even living in opulence would have been a challenge.
I liked the two rooms used for relaxation. Pretty pastel colours ruled in the ladies ‘withdrawing’ room (so that is where the term ‘drawing room’ came from!) and the men had a wooden chamber next door (pictured above) where they could roll around spilling wine, which seemed to be their chief occupation, if you go by Hogarth. I presume the women rolling around spilling wine would have been harlots down the public house. Seems odd to think that women were either ladies or harlots. There doesn’t seem much middle ground.
I came away from the house inspired and buzzing about ideas for stories, ideas for decoration, ideas for ideas. Even better, I went to see the house with the lovely Pamela, the blogger behind From The House of Edward – so had someone equally enthused to talk to for the rest of the afternoon! If you don’t know Pamela’s blog do go and check it out – she is a beautifully evocative writer that often marries her magical words to inspiring pictures – her blog is simply one you sink into, like cashmere, and think ah, I’m home!
The pictures on this post are taken from the Dennis Severs' House website - do go to see it if you have the chance!
Glass-fronted office buildings may squat bulkily upon Bishopsgate, but the warren of streets reflected in those anonymous eyes can sometimes reveal an older time, for those with the ability to see and imagine.
The art of Dennis Severs, showcased in his amazing time-capsule house in Folgate Street, Spitalfields, plays upon this ability, offering visitors the chance to step back through the centuries.
This is the house of the ten spells – ten rooms given over to sensory illusion lit by flickering candle. The game is that we have interrupted a family of Huguenot weavers and as we step in the room we find they have just stepped out. It is then down to our imagination to see more, should we choose. This feeling is predominant as you walk around the rooms – it is and feels like a private house, and we are but shadows in their time.
Walking around, I couldn’t help but notice how dark it was, even with candles and weak daylight filtering through the dusty windows. It was also cold – very cold. It gave me such a strange feeling about how it must have been to live in that time – how I would have lived in that time. If you didn’t have money for coal or wood, and you couldn’t spare many candles for light, then you would have lived a miserable shivery existence. Even living in opulence would have been a challenge.
I liked the two rooms used for relaxation. Pretty pastel colours ruled in the ladies ‘withdrawing’ room (so that is where the term ‘drawing room’ came from!) and the men had a wooden chamber next door (pictured above) where they could roll around spilling wine, which seemed to be their chief occupation, if you go by Hogarth. I presume the women rolling around spilling wine would have been harlots down the public house. Seems odd to think that women were either ladies or harlots. There doesn’t seem much middle ground.
I came away from the house inspired and buzzing about ideas for stories, ideas for decoration, ideas for ideas. Even better, I went to see the house with the lovely Pamela, the blogger behind From The House of Edward – so had someone equally enthused to talk to for the rest of the afternoon! If you don’t know Pamela’s blog do go and check it out – she is a beautifully evocative writer that often marries her magical words to inspiring pictures – her blog is simply one you sink into, like cashmere, and think ah, I’m home!
The pictures on this post are taken from the Dennis Severs' House website - do go to see it if you have the chance!
Monday, 31 January 2011
Hidden Places
So many times in London you hurry by grand residences with large silent doors - Georgian windows cloaked by secrecy and heavy curtains, and in the velvet dark outside you wonder what life is like for people who live in such places. On Friday night we knew the secret handshake; the ‘open sesame’ to unlock the door. In London speak; this translates to knowing a friend of a friend of a friend.
We were ushered inside to an echoing stairwell where the ghost of 1920s piano music trembled in the air. High ceilings stretched for eternity; stone flag steps were lit with hesitant candles. The mask of elegance slipped and faltered in the flickering shadows – gone were the days of decadent luxury for this building. What was left was a Grimmauld Place – the shabby heart concealed inside a grand facade. We drank champagne, pondered mysteries, and danced a tango as candelabras burnt low. When the hour struck three we scurried out; well-wrapped mice streaming from a once-proud ship. In the few minutes it took to cross the road and duck into a taxi the house had already turned to stone. The party continued behind its doors undetected and invisible; in London the party always continues somewhere.
It was a bit of an odd night, but fun and unexpected. Cities steeped in history and intrigue are made for such nights, I think.
By contrast, Sunday was spent enclosed in a women-only retreat hidden behind the bustle of Covent Garden. You enter via a shop, shed your clothes, don a robe, and wander around determined to relax. One therapy room was across a bridge over a koi carp pond and up some stairs, and there was a slight Logan’s Run feel as we ascended. I checked my hand for a red flashing life-clock, but all was well.
We relaxed, swam, gossiped, and let our worries dissipate like the steam that rose from the spa pool. Time sped up, slowed down, extended, decreased. We were in a little time warp, and if Doctor Who had stepped from behind a pillar and said we were in fact part of the woman-only world of Zog then I wouldn’t have been at all surprised.
Sometimes you live in the city; sometimes it lives in you. But either way, and even better, moments like this create stories!
We were ushered inside to an echoing stairwell where the ghost of 1920s piano music trembled in the air. High ceilings stretched for eternity; stone flag steps were lit with hesitant candles. The mask of elegance slipped and faltered in the flickering shadows – gone were the days of decadent luxury for this building. What was left was a Grimmauld Place – the shabby heart concealed inside a grand facade. We drank champagne, pondered mysteries, and danced a tango as candelabras burnt low. When the hour struck three we scurried out; well-wrapped mice streaming from a once-proud ship. In the few minutes it took to cross the road and duck into a taxi the house had already turned to stone. The party continued behind its doors undetected and invisible; in London the party always continues somewhere.
It was a bit of an odd night, but fun and unexpected. Cities steeped in history and intrigue are made for such nights, I think.
By contrast, Sunday was spent enclosed in a women-only retreat hidden behind the bustle of Covent Garden. You enter via a shop, shed your clothes, don a robe, and wander around determined to relax. One therapy room was across a bridge over a koi carp pond and up some stairs, and there was a slight Logan’s Run feel as we ascended. I checked my hand for a red flashing life-clock, but all was well.
We relaxed, swam, gossiped, and let our worries dissipate like the steam that rose from the spa pool. Time sped up, slowed down, extended, decreased. We were in a little time warp, and if Doctor Who had stepped from behind a pillar and said we were in fact part of the woman-only world of Zog then I wouldn’t have been at all surprised.
Sometimes you live in the city; sometimes it lives in you. But either way, and even better, moments like this create stories!
Monday, 11 October 2010
Kew Gardens in autumn
Sunday was a perfect day for a picnic at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew (which we all know as Kew Gardens). Although don't spend so long admiring the plants and trees that you lose track of time and end up getting accidentally locked in. Whoops.
Friday, 8 October 2010
First-time buyer in London
Estate agent’s blurb: ‘Property has its own door’. Now there’s a relief. What next – ‘delighted to say property has its own toilet’, ‘proud to present this car parking space that could be converted into a three bed if you are all really, really good friends’?
I desperately want a little pad to call my own, somewhere I can feel settled, paint the walls, dig in a garden (or window-box – let’s be realistic), put up shelves, have a desk (oh the dream), and just potter about surrounded by everything that makes me ‘me’. So I have been saving desperately and foregoing treats for what seems like years. I now think I may be able to buy a potting shed. If I’m lucky.
I find myself clicking through property websites, and think that copywriters for estate agents have a really hard job. All the cheery exclamation marks in the world cannot hide the fact the property they are trying to market is a dump. ‘Look at the wondrous views,' they trill bravely as they try to flog a high-rise flat. ‘Close to all transport amenities,' they say about properties choking in fumes alongside the busy North Circular ring-road.
And why do they all ‘boast’ or are ‘proud’ to present properties? Why just settle on those two adjectives – they could brag, declare, even swank a little (we are swanking with delight to tell you about this flat). Actually I don’t know if I want to think about estate agents swanking with delight. Do you?
Sometimes I get bored with the sort of results my price range throws up in the London areas that I am looking in, and extend the search to Cornwall. I then look longingly at the sort of place I could get if I wasn’t attached by a monetary umbilical cord to a job in London, and sigh. Of course, it is thanks to the fact I am so attached that allows me to even dream of owning my own place. I’m in a weird catch-22 when all I really want to do is live like an artist and skip around with a leaf.
Do you think we ever grow up and become the people we want to be, or do you think people settle for less than ideal? Gosh that is philosophical for a Friday. Let’s go back to talking about swanking.
I desperately want a little pad to call my own, somewhere I can feel settled, paint the walls, dig in a garden (or window-box – let’s be realistic), put up shelves, have a desk (oh the dream), and just potter about surrounded by everything that makes me ‘me’. So I have been saving desperately and foregoing treats for what seems like years. I now think I may be able to buy a potting shed. If I’m lucky.
I find myself clicking through property websites, and think that copywriters for estate agents have a really hard job. All the cheery exclamation marks in the world cannot hide the fact the property they are trying to market is a dump. ‘Look at the wondrous views,' they trill bravely as they try to flog a high-rise flat. ‘Close to all transport amenities,' they say about properties choking in fumes alongside the busy North Circular ring-road.
And why do they all ‘boast’ or are ‘proud’ to present properties? Why just settle on those two adjectives – they could brag, declare, even swank a little (we are swanking with delight to tell you about this flat). Actually I don’t know if I want to think about estate agents swanking with delight. Do you?
Sometimes I get bored with the sort of results my price range throws up in the London areas that I am looking in, and extend the search to Cornwall. I then look longingly at the sort of place I could get if I wasn’t attached by a monetary umbilical cord to a job in London, and sigh. Of course, it is thanks to the fact I am so attached that allows me to even dream of owning my own place. I’m in a weird catch-22 when all I really want to do is live like an artist and skip around with a leaf.
Do you think we ever grow up and become the people we want to be, or do you think people settle for less than ideal? Gosh that is philosophical for a Friday. Let’s go back to talking about swanking.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Winter in London
London is a lovely city in which to point a camera. All these photographs were taken on Saturday 9th January 2010.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
I want to live somewhere nice
Back when I was growing up, my neighbourhood was a nice place to be. It wasn’t rich, it wasn’t poor, but it had decent folk from all nationalities and everyone got along. We had neighbourhood parties where we ate jerk chicken alongside cucumber sandwiches, we danced to reggae and roxy music, and people tended their gardens and waved to each other in the street.
Now litter blows from one end to the other. Gone are most of the neighbours that we used to know, their gardens replaced with ill-kept driveways. Teenagers patrol the streets on low-slung bicycles, casting about disdain and boredom in equal measures. Cars get scratched, police sirens and helicopters rule the night, and you know not to come home after dark. No one knows their neighbours anymore, and people hide behind their front doors.
Three incidents just this year alone – a violent alteration in the street outside my house in the early morning hours that led to a shooting, neighbourhood kids throwing stones at passers-by, and calling the police when I saw a man beat a woman to her knees in the street. I’ve just had enough of this place of no respect, where people and property mean naff all, and all you see is rubbish everywhere. Some neighbourhoods go up in London and some go down, and mine has been on a downward spiral for the last ten years. It may get better in forty years time, but it is going to get a lot worse first.
I hate not feeling safe in my home. I hate worrying about kids two doors down throwing stones at my cats (and at me!) when in the garden. I hate worrying about my mum being there on her own when I am not with her. I have to find somewhere new for all of us. No pressure then.
But where is nice? I want to feel safe and be surrounded by green trees and gardens. I want neighbours who say hello when you see them, who grow vegetables and cheerfully walk their dogs. I want a train line where the seat cushions are connected to the seats and people don’t spit on the platforms. I want a period house with some sort of period detail – like some tiles, or a fireplace. I want a shed full of plastic plant pots waiting to be filled and a garage for the car I don’t have. I want a grocer selling local produce. Heck – throw in a forge, I want that too. I want a nice restaurant and a pub with timbered low ceiling and real ale. I want to be able to get my mum and J’s mum sweet little cottages in the same street as mine, near yet far. I want some sort of local tea shop that sells cupcakes, and a nice bookshop. I want to be able to go for a walk without worrying about straying into the wrong areas. I want some peace, and no sirens.
I’m not sure this place exists but I will keep searching for it. And keep buying lottery scratch cards!
Now litter blows from one end to the other. Gone are most of the neighbours that we used to know, their gardens replaced with ill-kept driveways. Teenagers patrol the streets on low-slung bicycles, casting about disdain and boredom in equal measures. Cars get scratched, police sirens and helicopters rule the night, and you know not to come home after dark. No one knows their neighbours anymore, and people hide behind their front doors.
Three incidents just this year alone – a violent alteration in the street outside my house in the early morning hours that led to a shooting, neighbourhood kids throwing stones at passers-by, and calling the police when I saw a man beat a woman to her knees in the street. I’ve just had enough of this place of no respect, where people and property mean naff all, and all you see is rubbish everywhere. Some neighbourhoods go up in London and some go down, and mine has been on a downward spiral for the last ten years. It may get better in forty years time, but it is going to get a lot worse first.
I hate not feeling safe in my home. I hate worrying about kids two doors down throwing stones at my cats (and at me!) when in the garden. I hate worrying about my mum being there on her own when I am not with her. I have to find somewhere new for all of us. No pressure then.
But where is nice? I want to feel safe and be surrounded by green trees and gardens. I want neighbours who say hello when you see them, who grow vegetables and cheerfully walk their dogs. I want a train line where the seat cushions are connected to the seats and people don’t spit on the platforms. I want a period house with some sort of period detail – like some tiles, or a fireplace. I want a shed full of plastic plant pots waiting to be filled and a garage for the car I don’t have. I want a grocer selling local produce. Heck – throw in a forge, I want that too. I want a nice restaurant and a pub with timbered low ceiling and real ale. I want to be able to get my mum and J’s mum sweet little cottages in the same street as mine, near yet far. I want some sort of local tea shop that sells cupcakes, and a nice bookshop. I want to be able to go for a walk without worrying about straying into the wrong areas. I want some peace, and no sirens.
I’m not sure this place exists but I will keep searching for it. And keep buying lottery scratch cards!
Monday, 8 September 2008
Blue Plaques
Bob Smith, 1711 – 1752, Plumber, lived here (but died around the corner)
Nearly every time I look up in London and see a blue plaque the name being commemorated is completely unknown to me. I’m not sure if this is a woeful ignorance on my part of 18th century philosophers or a woeful misguidance of the authorities on who to bestow a plaque.
How do they choose – is it perhaps done by sticking a pin in the Victorian equivalent of the Yellow Pages (the Distemper Pages, perhaps) and seeing who they get? What elevates a person to be selected for a blue plaque – what criteria do they use to be nominated? From the English Heritage website it appears to be:
That he or she has been dead for at least 20 years, or has passed the centenary of his or her birth. It is also vital that at least one London building associated with the nominated figure survives unaltered.
It just goes to show how much history we have in this city for there to be buildings that stand ‘unaltered’ for such a long time! The person also has to have done something noteworthy – nominating my great-grandmother for her (rumoured) delicious roast potatoes probably wouldn’t quite cut the mustard in Blue Plaque world.
The strange but marvelous thing about blue plaques is that you think you have no idea who that person is, as the description will just say ‘composer’, ‘industrialist’ etc, but when you google them you realise they wrote ‘Rule Britannia’. However, since you’d have to make a note of their name, and then hurry yourself to a computer to do your research it almost negates the point of identifying where they used to live.
The latest blue plaques to be screwed to a wall were for actor Alastair Sim, and the ‘Pioneer of the Screw-Propeller’, Sir Francis Pettit Smith. Even though the latter surely invented something of note, I would still walk past his house slightly confused.
Let’s look at notable deaths in 1978 to see if we can pinpoint any likely upcoming candidates… How about Ronald George Wreyford Norrish, a Nobel Peace Prize winning chemist? He sounds like a typically obscure choice. Or Nicolas Bentley, author and illustrator – heard of him? Perfect.
I think I’ll have a word…
Nearly every time I look up in London and see a blue plaque the name being commemorated is completely unknown to me. I’m not sure if this is a woeful ignorance on my part of 18th century philosophers or a woeful misguidance of the authorities on who to bestow a plaque.
How do they choose – is it perhaps done by sticking a pin in the Victorian equivalent of the Yellow Pages (the Distemper Pages, perhaps) and seeing who they get? What elevates a person to be selected for a blue plaque – what criteria do they use to be nominated? From the English Heritage website it appears to be:
That he or she has been dead for at least 20 years, or has passed the centenary of his or her birth. It is also vital that at least one London building associated with the nominated figure survives unaltered.
It just goes to show how much history we have in this city for there to be buildings that stand ‘unaltered’ for such a long time! The person also has to have done something noteworthy – nominating my great-grandmother for her (rumoured) delicious roast potatoes probably wouldn’t quite cut the mustard in Blue Plaque world.
The strange but marvelous thing about blue plaques is that you think you have no idea who that person is, as the description will just say ‘composer’, ‘industrialist’ etc, but when you google them you realise they wrote ‘Rule Britannia’. However, since you’d have to make a note of their name, and then hurry yourself to a computer to do your research it almost negates the point of identifying where they used to live.
The latest blue plaques to be screwed to a wall were for actor Alastair Sim, and the ‘Pioneer of the Screw-Propeller’, Sir Francis Pettit Smith. Even though the latter surely invented something of note, I would still walk past his house slightly confused.
Let’s look at notable deaths in 1978 to see if we can pinpoint any likely upcoming candidates… How about Ronald George Wreyford Norrish, a Nobel Peace Prize winning chemist? He sounds like a typically obscure choice. Or Nicolas Bentley, author and illustrator – heard of him? Perfect.
I think I’ll have a word…
Sunday, 21 October 2007
Jack the Ripper
While the whole world and his bored wife was watching the rugby (ouch for England), I was instead one of a pack of people attending a Jack the Ripper walk through the City of London.
It appears that the City of London is home to several scurrying packs of walkers come the weekend. I spied at least four separate walks criss-crossing between Tower Hill and Liverpool Street, and those were just the ones we bumped into, who knows how many others were infecting the city? It is all rather odd…
The tour was organised by London Walks, and is on the premise that you don’t book, you just turn up exactly at the right time at the meeting point. Of course, you wonder what happens if no one shows, but this is obviously not a problem for this successful company, as we rounded the corner at 7pm sharp and there were bleeding hundreds of people milling around waiting to walk in a serial killer’s shoes. Okay, there were about sixty, but that is still a goodly number of people just showing up on the off chance. It was so many that the tour guide summoned another tour guide up, as if by magic, and we were split in two, and off into the misty night…
Or rather, off into the well-lit and non-misty night, heralded by the happy cheers of South Africans watching the rugby accompanied by a few jugs of lager. The main problem is that the area has changed so much in almost 120 years that it is pretty unrecognisable as the area the infamous Jack the Ripper once stalked. It was hard to paint the impression of smog choked alleyways on top of sanitised and shiny office blocks. Still, our tour guide gave it a good go, and the moment he described the first murder, the audience fell silent, perhaps as everyone remembered this wasn’t actually an attraction, but once a real story.
It made me feel a bit strange to be honest, as these poor women were killed, yet here were we all, using their grisly murders as a Saturday night diversion between pub one and pub two. Does more than a hundred years difference make it less meaningful? It shouldn’t at all, but the distance of time and the fact the area is so changed does make things feel less real. However, there are places along the walk where old London still breathes, and when you happen upon these old buildings and shop fronts you do stop and wonder at it all.
It appears that the City of London is home to several scurrying packs of walkers come the weekend. I spied at least four separate walks criss-crossing between Tower Hill and Liverpool Street, and those were just the ones we bumped into, who knows how many others were infecting the city? It is all rather odd…
The tour was organised by London Walks, and is on the premise that you don’t book, you just turn up exactly at the right time at the meeting point. Of course, you wonder what happens if no one shows, but this is obviously not a problem for this successful company, as we rounded the corner at 7pm sharp and there were bleeding hundreds of people milling around waiting to walk in a serial killer’s shoes. Okay, there were about sixty, but that is still a goodly number of people just showing up on the off chance. It was so many that the tour guide summoned another tour guide up, as if by magic, and we were split in two, and off into the misty night…
Or rather, off into the well-lit and non-misty night, heralded by the happy cheers of South Africans watching the rugby accompanied by a few jugs of lager. The main problem is that the area has changed so much in almost 120 years that it is pretty unrecognisable as the area the infamous Jack the Ripper once stalked. It was hard to paint the impression of smog choked alleyways on top of sanitised and shiny office blocks. Still, our tour guide gave it a good go, and the moment he described the first murder, the audience fell silent, perhaps as everyone remembered this wasn’t actually an attraction, but once a real story.
It made me feel a bit strange to be honest, as these poor women were killed, yet here were we all, using their grisly murders as a Saturday night diversion between pub one and pub two. Does more than a hundred years difference make it less meaningful? It shouldn’t at all, but the distance of time and the fact the area is so changed does make things feel less real. However, there are places along the walk where old London still breathes, and when you happen upon these old buildings and shop fronts you do stop and wonder at it all.
'Jack' would have seen this building
Lots of theories were advanced and retreated as to who the real ripper was during the walk. I have no idea (like I would! Obviously one walk in and I’m an expert!), but to imagine what that part of London was like, dark as pitch apart from flickers of gaslight, looming buildings, riddled with tiny alleys, most people blotting out their existence on gin… to walk the streets must have been truly terrifying, let alone have the spectre of a killer hanging over the city.
The Gerkin, view from the walk
Oh, and I cannot sleep (funny that, eh?), so I decided to write some more of chapter 8, in case you are wondering. Might as well strike while the fire’s hot, eh?
Friday, 19 October 2007
Friday nights
The one thing I have noticed about being at home writing away is that my liver is a lot healthier. There once was a time when Friday nights meant the whole office would be checking the time wondering if 4pm was too early to crack open the beer, and as soon as it was home time you would be out, and in the nearest boozer. How times have changed…
See, Friday nights were traditionally the night you go for a drink with work colleagues, and then you would end up blearily calling your normal pals at around 10pm, roughly at that point when you realise that all your work colleagues are idiots and talk about work, of all things. Slurry conversations would take place shouted over the backdrop of loud pubs, as everyone tries to work out where to meet, since all of us worked from all over London. We'd finally get together around pub closing time in various degrees of sobriety, and roll into the nearest club we could find to dance like looneys.
But to tell the truth, times changed a good two years ago. We all gave up smoking, which was really the watershed for saying goodbye to bad behaviour and growing up at long last. And I don’t miss it a jot, as long as I don’t completely forget what the world is like out there while I am in here, tapping away on the keyboard. But I leave Friday nights now to the rest of you, safe in the knowledge that it is in good, slightly shaky hands.
See, Friday nights were traditionally the night you go for a drink with work colleagues, and then you would end up blearily calling your normal pals at around 10pm, roughly at that point when you realise that all your work colleagues are idiots and talk about work, of all things. Slurry conversations would take place shouted over the backdrop of loud pubs, as everyone tries to work out where to meet, since all of us worked from all over London. We'd finally get together around pub closing time in various degrees of sobriety, and roll into the nearest club we could find to dance like looneys.
But to tell the truth, times changed a good two years ago. We all gave up smoking, which was really the watershed for saying goodbye to bad behaviour and growing up at long last. And I don’t miss it a jot, as long as I don’t completely forget what the world is like out there while I am in here, tapping away on the keyboard. But I leave Friday nights now to the rest of you, safe in the knowledge that it is in good, slightly shaky hands.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Dig For Victory!
Today I decided to take full advantage of the gorgeous autumnal weather we are experiencing in the UK (well, at least, in my part of it) and go to the Dig For Victory Harvest Fair in St James Park, London.Dig For Victory was a second world wartime slogan, calling to all still at home to bolster their meagre rations with as many vegetables and salad items as their gardens could grow. The Harvest Fair was recreating what people would have been growing in the 1940s, along with a bit of a free food fest, to be honest. Hooray for free things!
Of course, this is all tied in with the book, as anything that can help me get some 1940s flavour is all good with me, and luckily I managed to coerce a couple of pals to wander along with me and peer at veg. Only the best days out when I am in charge...
But it was fab! I was particularly fascinated (if that is the right term) with broccoli. If I had ever thought of how it grew at all, it was as some sort of green cauliflower. But it is this huge plant thing, and the bit we eat is actually the flower. We marvelled at the lettuce, nodded at the beetroot, pointed out brussel sprouts... but as with all exhibition type things, you do the worthy bit first (read the posters, ponder the exhibits), and then you go in search of the fun bit.
Well, we could smell the fun bit – volunteers were cooking up a storm to the right of us, using fresh home grown ingredients. We had pumpkin pie (delicious) and hot corn on the cob, settling down on hay bales to eat, watching children make scary corn dollies and rather sweet paper flowers. It was one of those I Love London sort of days…
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