Gertsamtkunstwerk

Exercise sucks

Sod all this for a game of soldiers.

We went out on the bikes on Sunday, just down to Tooting Common and back, not very exciting, but just enough to loosen up and get a breath of fresh air and blow off the cobwebs.

(We would have been out longer but we had spent quite some time looking through the internet for somewhere to go on holiday...we have now booked apartment in and flights to the Costa Blanca, between Alicante and Benidorm, but most definitely not Benidorm).

On Monday we set off to continue our Thames Path adventure. Last time, we finished at Barnes Bridge Station in the rain, so this time we caught the train there, at which point it started to rain! Fortunately it cleared up after we had had coffee in a chi-chi coffee shop, and we set off along the Thames.

That was a really lovely ride.

We got as far as Richmond. I would have liked to have gone on, probably as far as Kingston, but it wasn't actually very warm, and Jimmy decreed that we had done enough. We had got caught  in the rain in the middle of nowhere, and at one point it was a bit wet and cold, but we survived, and it stopped.

We stopped off at the White Cross at Richmond for a pie. I made the mistake of having a pint of shandy. That was a really stupid thing to do. The beer's fine, but I just can't take the lemonade. In fact, it's not the lemonade, it's just the bubbles. Just a half pint of bubbles, and I'm still hiccupping at bedtime! So, long and short of it, we caught the train home.

I would strongly recommend the Surrey bank of the Thames from Hammersmith Bridge down to Richmond. A great deal of it is through woodland, often under a cover of trees. If it wasn't for the constant roar of jets approaching and leaving Heathrow, you wouldn't know you were in Zones 3-4. I can't say I'd care for living under the flightpath, but house prices don't seem to suffer, so I can only conclude that aircraft noise doesn't matter quite as much as people pretend.

I only took fifty photos, and of course, several are instant rejects. That's the problem with cycling, rather than walking. On the bike you whizz past and see the big picture, whereas with walking you have more time to take in the details.

When I'm walking, I tend to have the camera round my neck, out of its case. Cycling, I keep it in its case in the ruck-sack, so taking a photo involves getting off the bike, taking off the ruck-sack, taking out the camera, taking it out of its case, and turning it on, whereas walking, it's just point and shoot!

It was so good to be in Richmond on Thames Borough rather than Wandsworth. Wandsworth really is a horrible Borough. Unfortunately, it's far too close to where I live and thus difficult to avoid. It is extremely bike unfriendly in so many ways - for example the way they mark paths on Wandsworth and Tooting Commons as being 'no cycling' without suggesting a feasible alternative to get from a to b. They even have signs instructing cyclists to give way to pedestrians on the designated cycle paths that run alongside wide footpaths. They barely pay lip service to the London and National cycle networks, and are very grudging about even green tarmac (which I admit is not much more use than a chocolate fireguard).

But what annoyed me most about Wandsworth was their disregard for the Thames Path. It's a wonderful idea and a wonderful asset, but Wandsworth aren't interested. A combination of allowing developments to encroach onto the riverbank and failing to provide adequate signage. Richmond, in contrast, has clear signs, not only showing directions but also mileage, and at intervals they also provide maps with details of local attractions.

When we got home, it was lovely to have a shower, and then to sit snuggly and yet cool in light cotton pyjamas. But I couldn't help thinking, despite all the cycling, it's still my feet that hurt, from too much walking!

This evening I went swimming. I was delighted to see a new sign outside the changing room stating that no boys over five are allowed in the female changing room, please use the family changing room. Of course, that won't prevent the 6-8 year olds being taken in molly-coddling mothers, but hopefully it will be a useful tool against those who allow their 10-11 year olds to run around and climb the cubicles to stare at older women getting changed (breeding a new generation of perverts).

I went in the pool and my arms gave out. At first, I told myself it was because I was out of practice. Then I began to think it through logically. The arms are usually the last to go, in or out of practice. Then it dawned on me, I was suffering the effects of carrying the bike up and down steps at Streatham Hill, twice up and down at Clapham Junction, and down at both Barnes Bridge and Richmond. So in fact my arms got more exercise from carrying the bike than my legs did from peddling it. So I might as well take up weight-training!

Tomorrow night, it's a double Proms night!

Days out in London Town

About a month ago, I know, it seems a long time ago, the weather was unbelievably hot. We were pretty clear we didn't want to go out cycling. I thought up several great ideas of places we could go. Actually, in the end, we didn't really go anywhere, other than Marks and Sparks, to get supplies for al fresco dining. There's a whole hilarious story behind my attempt (unsuccessful) to take interesting photos of dinner.

The garden table stands on a slightly raised platform. Jimmy had already warned me not to move my chair backwards, because it was so close to the edge of the platform that I would be sure to topple off. He came out with some pasta and warned me to eat it quickly, before it got cold. At that point, the home phone rang. I ignored it, assuming that anyone ringing at that time would be a cold-caller. I poured the Prosecco and, despite the phone ringing a second time, I decided to take a final photo before eating. I moved back slightly, one chair leg fell off the raised platform, the chair fell backwards, taking me with it.

I tumbled to the ground, sending Jimmy into panic. Despite the phone ringing for a third time, all I could think of was my camera. Miraculously, neither I nor my camera were injured. I decided it was time to eat, refusing to be interrupted by the phone ringing for a fourth time. Once I had finished eating, Jimmy said that it seemed like somebody really wanted to speak to me.

I checked the phone, and discovered that as well as the expected sales call,my brother's number was displayed. So, I called back, it was actually my sister-in-law, who was phoning to say that my mother had been taken to hospital*, so surely thought I was barking mad as I rambled incoherently about multiple phonecalls and falling backwards off my chair (the shock just hit me!)**

Well, after all that, we were determined to go out rather than risk the dangers of staying at home. The following week we went to Regent's Park. Amusingly, that had been one of the suggestions for the stay-at-home day. Amusing, because having decided to stay in, I read Katherine Jenkins tweat from the boating lake at Regent's Park. I am sure we would have headed for the lake, too, knowing the weather. Imagine if I had come face to face, or oar-to-oar, with her on a stagnant municipal pond! Perhaps best all round that we did stay home that day!

But when we did go, we set out in sunshine. The sky looked a bit ominous when we went underground, but when we go to the park, we were convinced that any shower would be light and passing.

There were some advantages in being in a park in July rain

 

but the attractions soon wore off, and not just for us

 

All but one elderly woman, who had come prepared with waterprooofs and umbrella, sought shelter under the trees. She continued reading on her bench and looked at us over her spectacles with amused disdain.

The rain showed no signs of easing off, and, in any case, we were soaked, so we cut our losses and made for Chinatown.

Last week we went to Kew Gardens. That was a really nice day out. We couldn't go cycling, because Jimmy felt really rough having been seriously hungover on the Sunday. On reflection he feels sure he was slipped a Mickey Finn on Saturday night, because he was only drinking for two hours, and that was wine, although he had had a skinful on Friday but felt fine, and didn't feel better until midweek.

The weather wasn't hot, but it was warm and dry, with a pleasant breeze. It's not very far from home, but he had never previously been, and I haven't been in about fifteen years.

I won't waste words on trying to describe what was there. Apart form anything else, I took over two hundred photos, and although some are immediate rejects, and many are, ultimately, unexciting, I think that when I have finished editing them, there will be tens to publish.

I possibly could also rant about two families encountered, one at the Gardens and one on the trains, both of whom where the children were so out of control. Maybe another time - there's still another five weeks of the school holidays to go.

I liked the Water Lily House and the Palm house, and really enjoyed walking on the Treetop Walk, but I think my favourite bit was the Dear Dead Diana Conservatory, especially the cacti.

 

Mother came to visit for the weekend. We went out on Saturday. I expect I shall write a review of As You Like It, but I still have Wuthering Heights, Waiting for Godot and Fairy Queen outstanding! Beforehand we went for a river cruise. Only from Westminster to the Tower and back again, but even there, which I have done several times, I still managed to take over 50 photos. Sigh!

I have to confess we left As You Like It at the interval, having achieved the objective of being inside The Globe. We walked back to London Bridge along the river route. Jimmy wasn't with us, and I tried to convince him I had led my mother through the dark through the mean streets of mean Bankside, under the arches, past The Clink, and a pub called the Mudlark. Mother said 'rubbish, Bankside is the other direction, it was still light, there were lots of people outside Nandos and around the Golden Hinde, Southwark Cathedral looks very nice, and many people were walkign the same route to London Bridge'. I must explore that area in more detail in daylight.

We took her to Euston yesterday. Setting off in the rain, we took our swimming kits with us, but by the time I had put her on her train, the sun was out, so we headed to Regent's Park. We pedaloed for a while - no sign of Warbling Barbie this time. But, as well as being over-dressed and without sunhats and sunglasses, we were also without camera!

Hopefully this coming weekend we will be back on the bikes.

* nothing too serious, well, she thinks it is, unsurprisingly, but it's not any of those scary things that happen to the elderly

** whilst my mother was in hospital my nephew was recalled to A&E for a query on an x-ray he'd had after a standard teenage injury, then my sister-in-law managed to cut her hand in a glass as she prevented it falling on my niece's face and had to have an operation, and later that evening my other niece ended up in A&E.

Along the river

It seems that by accident, I have organised a mini expedition that may eventually lead us to the source of the Thames.

It all began last week, when we were debating what to do on our mutual day off. "The coast" had been suggested, but ultimately was postponed for a future hot and sunny day.

After much discussion we decided upon Battersea Park. You would think that Brixton to Battersea and back again would be easy, but nothing is ever easy with Jimmy and me. We had a full and frank exchange of views on how to get to Clapham Common. At one point in Abbeville Village, I said "I love you more than anyone in the world". A man passing by smirked; he knew I wasn't being soppy and sentimental.

But we got to Battersea Park with little further ado. We stopped for coffee and to watch the ducks, then I had the brilliant idea of heading to the river, which conveniently runs alongside the park. We found ourselves at the Peace Pagoda. Bizarrely, neither of us has ever actually been there.

It's always interesting, being in a park, people-watching. We saw a man performing Tai chi on a marble podium which may well exist specifically for this purpose; a couple having a romantic picnic - I guess it would have been more romantic if she had ignored the Blackberry -  and a posh late middle-aged couple who didn't care as their dog peed on the flowers (Jimmy says the acid kills the flowers; I say how  dare these people mindlessly and wantonly destroy something created for all to enjoy. They're no better than 'hoodie' vandals). 

When we left the park we continued along the river. We stopped a few times, partly so that I could take photos. That is one of the downsides of cycling. You see something, and before you have registered that it might be worth stopping, you've sped past.

The views change between each bridge. Between Albert and Battersea Bridge there is a lot of detail to take in. Modernistic buildings, a collection of boats that seem somehow to belong to a small coastal town, and views across the river to Chelsea. It was good to see a development, called Albion I think, that is modern and funky and in keeping with its setting, although there were others, no doubt where flats cost a fortune, that just look like they were assembled from flatpack with never a care about their setting.

Past Battersea Bridge, the view changes totally. A glimpse of an industrial London I am barely aware of. We cycled along this part, but I would like to return and photograph. It's a bleak landscape, could be anywhere, seems unlikely existing so close to swanky Chelsea Harbour. I didn't know then, but I do now, that the Surrey bank casts a strange shadow on the Satellite version of Google Maps

As approached the London heliport, the road seemed to run out. It's variously signed in rather quaint 50s looking-signage as 'Riverside Walk' or in more up-to-date National Trail sign as 'Thames Path'.

We realised that we would have to leave the river to get past the heliport, so decided to call it day and head inland and home (via The Nightingale). But not before Jimmy had pointed out the glucose factory, and Price's Candles, where his mother worked when she first arrived from Ireland, and reminisced about picking up the paraffin from wharves nearby, having been delivered to depot by boat.

We took up the route yesterday where we left off. In hindsight, I would say, just ignore the bit between the heliport and Putney Bridge - it ain't wurff it.

I got increasingly angrier with Wandsworth Council. Actually this anger had started long before we reached the river.  The route we took is supposedly part of the London Cycle network. They condescend to provide this information on blue signs, but it's a joke. I think green strips of road are pathetic and only marginally safer than a bus lane (with off-peak free parking) being designated a 'cycle lane'.

My attitude is sod this, it's not like anyone actually walks around here, they're too busy dangerously driving their overlarge cars. Therefore I shall cycle on the pavement, being very alert to pedestrians and slowing down to slow walking pace when pedestrians' needs dictate. I see the signs threatening fines of £100 for cycling on the pavement and just ignore them...if some jobsworth dares trying to fine me, they won't see me for dust.

The path just runs out somewhere round Wandsworth Bridge. An absence of signage and evidence of new development on the footpath makes me angry. I understand that, with the best will in the world, it may not be possible to maintain the path next to the river every single inch of the way, but I do not appreciate signs pointing to a building sight, I do not appreciate being sent all round the houses get from the river to the river. I was losing my rag on one friend's road, and if I had followed the randomly positioned signs I may well have ended up on another friend's road - but one lives in Wandsworth and one in Putney, and yet they're only four roads apart!

However, we decided to pause in Wandsworth Park despite its forbidding signs saying 'No cycling or we'll shoot you to death cos we are Wandsworth Tories and hopelessly out of touch with Boris and 'Dave' who pretend to want to encourage cycling'.

On the way to Putney Bridge, we had to dismount to squeeze through a flotilla of BMWs parked in obstruction of the cycle path outside a pub ( if I had been on my own and not with Jimmy, they'd be needing a paintjob now!).

Now, this is where I am confused. I concede that I may be going back quarter of a century, but I swear that there used to be pubs along the river at Putney. Like, proper pubs, with beer gardens where you can sit and watch the river, like at Richmond. I distinctly remember going to one with my Putney Aunt, and being distinctly shocked at her encouraging me to drink beer under-age. I did not see any riverfront pubs as such. Sure, I saw antiseptic 'developments' of glass and steel, which I would applaud if I thought they were reclaiming derelict land. But no riverside pubs!

We then went along Embankment. This is full of great big bloody signs saying it's part of the National Cycle Network, be considerate to pedestrians, and even has a token strip of green paint marking the contra-flow cycle lane. Great big 'f*** off don't cycle on our pavements or one hundred smackeroons are uz' signs, so the law-abiding us decide to cycle on the one-way, dead-end road past all sorts of boathouses. We only narrowly avoided being hit by some wanker in a four-by-four they couldn't control.

Beyond there, it's all fields. Or trees. A wooded ride, like being in the country. We relaxed on the beach for a while, laughing as Dulwich College boys fell in the water while learning to scull. 

I had a couple of happy incidents of scaring smug posh people. I think my glares are getting more scary the older I get! One was this couple whose dog decided to dash in front of me just as I approached at my specially seriously reduced 'I'm scared stupid by dogs' speed ie  walking pace. I think they were waiting for me to apologise; my glare changed their mind.

Then there was the walking group who walked five abreast, strung out across the track. Perhaps they thought 'cyclists are aggressive, why should we move over for them?' So I waited and waited, and they steadfastly refused to acknowledge this in the customary fashion - a slight nod or a twitch of a lip. If I had been a pedestrian, I would have just walked up to them and forced them to part; if they had some basic manners, they would not have hogged the whole path.

In contrast, riding along the Embankment, on the pavement, I saw a woman lifting a very small baby out of a buggy. In doing so she was walking backwards, not looking behind her.  The very last thing I wanted was a collision with someone holding a tiny babe in arms, so I moved to over to the far side and slowed almost to a halt. Then she saw me, smiled at me and stayed still: I gave a bit, she gave a bit. How it should be.

I had this bright idea we would turn off and cut across the promontory to Barnes Bridge. However, perhaps typical of our luck for the day, the turn-off (Queen Elizabeth Walk) was closed for resurfacing. So we ended up cycling all the way round the promontory, up to Hammersmith Bridge and back down to Barnes Bridge. I don't know how much that added to our journey, but when we were cycling through the wooded glen, barely able to see the river let alone any landmarks, such as, um, a bridge, it did seem in the region of a hundred miles. It probably was about that, roughly.

We were very grateful to find a pub not far from Barnes Bridge station, where we ate. The menu was extremely limited; I had warm goats cheese tart and salad - which was very very good. Simple, but everything a salad should be. It seems to be a major Jazz venue - The Bull's Head

While we were in there I checked Facebook and Twitter, where people were reporting storms and torrents around the country. We could see clouds that threatened a storm. It had been the plan all along to get a train home, so we strolled along to the station, passing houses with blue plaques for Gustav Holst and Ninette de Valois. Just as we were in the station and under-cover, the heavens opened and it teemed it down. The train came and we soon overtook the storm, finding it to be dry by the time we reached Putney, and still dry at Clapham Junction.

Clapham Junction is where I experienced extreme numptiness. Now, I thoroughly admit that reaching CJ at a few minutes to six on a week night may not have been the most intelligent thing I have done all day, but even so!

I was carrying my bike down the stairs only to find my way blocked by a bloke just standing there. He seemed to have no reason for standing there, just did it.

It's a pretty narrow staircase and was full of people -  off the train from Victoria and wanting to catch their connection - going up; going down were people who were wanting to head to Balham and The South. Pretty hectic. Ignore the fact that I was carrying a bike; ignore the fact that there may have been people with buggies or luggage, it was still a very stupid thing to do.

So, the train comes in, and I tell Jimmy to get on before me. I go to the platform edge and I'm trying to lift the bike up, indeed I'm succeeding. But we have a problem. I cannot haul myself up into the train (which is thigh-high relative to where I'm standing) and hold onto the bike. Hearing the station staff blow his whistle (because the train is ready to depart - right?) I scream at Jimmy to hold my bike as I fling myself into the carriage, almost to find myself unable to get on, blocked by my bike, which is blocked by two blokes standing in the way.

Yes, I know people  stand on trains, when they're full. There were a dozen empty seats just in the third of the carriage to my right. I got on and I got on safely. But the bikes were in people's way. If those blokes had moved, we could have put the bikes out of the aisle. But no, they had to prove just how macho they were by standing. I could kind of understand it if the train had been packed from Victoria and they were only going to Wandsworth Common. However, it came in pretty empty, and they were both still standing there when we got off at Streatham Hill. I wish I'd said something now.

I felt a few drops of rain at Streatham Hill, so we raced like the clappers home, and even had time to sit in the garden as the rain came. And then went away again.

Next time we do Barnes Bridge to Kew, which isn't particularly far, but may well include a Botanical Garden!

Day trip to Paris

Last night at 11.30 when I should have been in bed, this morning at 1.30 when I was being hyper-sensitive to normal street noise and 6.30 when my alarm went off, I really questioned my wisdom in doing this.

To be honest I still have to say it was a mad thing to do but I'm glad I did. I didn't actually have any panic attacks except for a very small one leaving the house - somewhat later than I felt I ought to have done but thanks to deserted roads my bus got to St Pancras in record quick time.

The journey was uneventful all the way to the Chatelet.

Unfortunately we (my friend and I) just missed Plácido arriving at the theatre. We arrived at the Stage Door just as he was disappearing inside.

The performance was really excellent - I shall write a considered report on the two performances attended. Plácido was in fine voice throughout - oh you know how he is, takes time to warm up, then suddenly this sound hits you and it's wow! He is extraordinary in his portrayal of Cyrano, very moving.

This isn't meant to be a review so I will move onto the curtain calls which were like a show in themselves. Standard procedure, actors and chorus followed by comprimarii and ascending up through the stars. Despite the curtain coming down and the house-lights coming on, much of the audience stayed clapping, foot-stamping etc.

People generally left their seats and moved to the front. So more curtain calls, cast bows and so on. Because it was the last performance of the run, there were various members of the creative team also. At one point the other principles etc were applauding Plácido and he was applauding them. I suppose that's his way of saying it's a team effort which is fair enough, but I don't think anyone would have thought him arrogant to have stood there and bathed in applause.

At one stage during the curtain calls he brought his young grandson on his arms. I could see Alvaro in the wings taking photos of the audience!

I also noticed that he kissed his hand and touched the stage, which I have read that is something he does nowadays on the last night in the hope that he will return.

The curtain came down and then the safety curtain. I assumed that that was that but I wasn't leaving the auditorium until most other people did. I had filled up my memory card and was hastily deleting some old pictures to create space whilst other people clapped and chanted Plácido's name. (Bonjour to the lady who said hello - did I catch your name right as Genevieve? It was so noisy!).

Finally a door opened in the safety curtain and the cast reappeared for a final time, to great cheers and waves of lurve from the large proportion of the audience that remained.

My camera recorded over 20 minutes and almost 60 photos of curtain calls (because I haven't got enough photos already to edit...!).

We went to the stage door afterwards and waited as long as we could, but not long enough. There were loads of people there waiting, but we calculated that to get the 2113 train (the last train to London) we needed to leave the Chatelet at 2015. Meeting Plácido before or after a performance is only the sugar strands on the icing on the cake, and believe me, there was plenty of cake and icing inside the theatre.

Cyrano de Bergerac will never be my favourite opera, but the final act is magical, and the third act is above average. And I love the way that Plácido gets inside the character and makes him so sympathetic. I had been a bit ambivalent about this run in Paris, because of my ambivalence about the work. I didn't go to Milan or Valencia to see him it, but the draw of Paris was too much. And I am so glad that I did!

(most of this was composed on my phone, hence the somewhat stilted nature of the writing)

Wandle Wander

I have stolen that headline, but it just seems so right.

We cycled along part of the Wandle Way today. We cycled to Earlsfield and joined it there, following it all the way to (near) Mitcham Junction from where we caught a train to Balham - which really is a gateway to the south, I'm surprised nobody's ever thought of describing it so.

It was really fun being out - over four hours, including a pint at the William Morris in Merton Abbey Mills and a coffee outside the cinema in Balham. Some of the route is extraordinarily rural - heading off through the woods, fighting off the midges (I think I swallowed a couple, and gagged a few more), wheeling through the fallen leaves.

In other places we had a strange juxtaposition of trees and a rural feel on one side, and a highly industrial urbanscape on the other. We found ourselves on National Trust property  - Morden Hall Park - which may be worth revisiting for an hour or so one day.

I feel really good after the exercise. It was the first time really we have cycled anywhere with a purpose, rather than heading fora common or park and cycling round like big kids.

I do have several criticisms of the Wandle Way. The first one is the map. It's so busy being twee and seemingly user-friendly, it's not much better than a chocolate fireguard. We didn't help ourselves by going in the 'wrong' direction but nevertheless the map should have been sufficiently easy to follow that we didn't need to keep referring to the A-Z. It's also very badly signed. Many of the signs that show it's the Wandle Way are positioned along stretches where there are no turns or junctions. Many of the turns or junctions are completely without signs, so we took a few wrong turnings. Also, sometimes where there are signs, they have been twisted round to face the wrong way.

Colliers Wood/Merton Abbey Mills was a bit a nightmare, trying to work out how to get from Wandle Park past Savacentre and on the way to the City Farm. Really grotesque arrangement of roads, designed for the car and sod the pedestrian etc.  I can't work out why there are cycle paths on the pavements near the crossings that suddenly peter out into nothingness. It's all very well putting green bikes next to the green man, but the only logical progress is to cycle on the pavement, which is technically illegal (except where marked for cycling, which it wasn't).

I was annoyed at the entrance to one of the small woods - Poulter Park. There was a very tight chicane at the entrance which was extremely difficult to manoeuvre a bike round. I also thought it would be nigh on impossible to get a pram or a twin buggy through it. Looking again at the map it might be that there is a separate entrance for cyclists, but it wasn't obvious from the signs, and, as I say, the map is more an artist's sketch than anything usable. So, sorry if we unwittingly cycled on a dedicated footpath, but it wasn't our fault.

I also found that I took very few photographs. Partly because, although woods and trees are nice to look at  and traverse, they don't make for exciting photos. And also because it would have necessitated frequent stopping which makes cycling a drag.

Despite having been serviced just two days ago, Jimmy's bike is playing up again. I didn't realise until we were cycling away from Balham, so the poor dear was a lot more knackered than me!

Fun on my bike

Buying a bike, you fill your head with all sorts of nonsense at how cheap it is. 'Less than two pound a week for a year'. Ridiculous, of course.  I have so far bought the bare minimum of peripherals - locks, pump, puncture repair-kit. Not even lights, yet, although I intend to by the time the clocks go back. And the list of desirable, bordering on essential peripherals, is endless.

However, we have saved a small fortune on days out. The intention was, and remains, to use the bikes for travelling far afield. But we are frighteningly unfit. Last weekend we went to Streatham Hill station. I was shocked at how strenuous that was (there's a clue in the name!). But we got there. Only to find an absence of trains. So we changed our plans from "Richmond" to "local".

The weather has been a bonus. Not entirely surprising for the time of year - warm, sunny and dry  -  but better than anyone could reasonably have expected, especially after a lousy summer.  We ended up in deepest darkest Streatham, which was a surprisingly pleasant ride. A couple of pints in the Pied Bull and a strenuous climb up Streatham Common allowed a long free-wheel home, well, until the last stretch, which is a slog up to the house (it's a climb from every direction, hopefully, before too much time passes, I can read this and mock myself at my almost inability to ride the final leg home!)

On Saturday we went to Clapham Common and decided to give The Windmill a miss; it was very busy, on account of the gorgeous weather. We cycled round the common and had been out only an hour when my chain came off. Now, this was a perfect example of how I have become a very  pathetic girlie. It would have taken me seconds to replace the chain if I had applied my mind, rather than whingeing in a girlie way 'Jimmy, my chain's come off...'. They get you like that, blokes. Then five minutes later, I realised that I wasn't riding right and discovered I had a puncture. On the one occasion I had failed to bring out the pump or puncture repair kit. As far as Jimmy was concerned, the day was over. I suggested tentatively that he cycled home and back. As it only took him twenty minutes, that turned out to be a good idea.

It took us ages to repair the puncture. Or, rather, to get the pump to work. I was just about sussing it out when he decided he would take over. We had a conversation along the lines of, it won't stay in the hole, pump a bit harder, so I remarked, 'it's a bit like sex, this' to which he replied 'no, this takes longer'! Anyway, puncture repaired (it was caused by a bit of broken glass; Clapham Common seems to have way too much broken glass on too many tracks), we set off, and my bike gave off a big bang, which startled dozens of people all around. Don't know why, but the entire tyre had blown. I was not happy. I had the bright idea of walking down to Evans' on Clapham High Street and they fitted a new tyre, at not inconsiderable cost - although it was obvious that it was a far better quality than the one that had originally come with the bike. At Evans' they said "You'll be in next week for a matching one on the front".

I have to say that I was a bit pissed off. Punctures are inevitable and trivial, and I've mended plenty in my time, so I didn't expect a blow-out. I don't especially want to be getting new tyres too often (although the tread is wearing down significantly on the three remaining tyres on two bikes). We cycled across the common and down to the Nightingale, which I had never been in before, I don't think I've even been past!. It seemed decadent to be sitting outdoors as if it were summer, yet with the glorious autumnal light. And then back home. Miscommunication meant that we ended up cycling along the South Circular, which wasn't nice. The cars were fine, it was the encounter with first the coach then the articulated lorry that scared me. And the hill...

Yesterday we headed out round the back roads to Wandsworth Common. Neither of us has previously set foot on Wandsworth Common, so that was pleasant. Although it's not the most exciting Common in our area - it makes Clapham Common look exciting by contrast...maybe! Actually that's unfair, we stayed this side of the Railway Line, and the maps seem to indicated that there is more interesting stuff over the railway. We had planned our own route up going, and, other than crossing Balham Hill, it was fine. We even spotted a pub that neither of us knew existed, and might actually be the closest Youngs Pub to home, The Grove, so that might well be visited sometime. And we have been inspired to plan future outings round the existence of Young's pubs, of which there are gratifyingly many in South West London. On the way back we followed the 'official' cycle routes, which were inferior to mine - as well as taking us down roads with parked cars either side, we also had the dubious pleasure of passing Sainsburys, whose customers (Sunday afternoon) were characterised by a general sense of panic and despair, coupled with bad driving.

It was just so nice to sit for a while on the edge of Tooting Common, soaking up the sunshine, and watching the other people also taking advantage of a gorgeous day.

Chopper ride

Just trying to get my photos up to date. I have just finished loading the pictures I took of our helicopter ride in April.

Find them here

As I published the photos, it struck me that while I always knew vaguely where we were, outside of Westminster Village I was very hazy on specific details. So I would be really interested if readers could fill me in where my details are vague. Or just say 'that's my house...' or whatever.

Some of the photos are wonky and I kept them like that, because we weren't always perpendicular to earth. Others have interrupting corners, which in some cases I kept, as being a lesser evil than chopping something interesting off.

Hever Castle

My advice is Don't Go

If however, you have children of Infant School age who spend most of their time cooped up in a large car and you regard any open, ironically car-free space, such as formal gardens, as being the place for your children to let off excess energy, then Hever Castle is definitely the place for you.

In fairness, the gardens are quite nice, but I don't think they are worth travelling to, especially not in preference to the numerous other gardens in southern England.

But its faults are many. I had been warned that it is commercialised, but not as much as Leeds Castle. Therefore, Leeds Castle is a complete no-no for me.
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Firstly, it isn't a castle, but is a fortified manor house. Despite its historic origins, it is mainly the product of a massive 20th century refurbishment.

They make great store of it being the childhood home of Anne Boleyn, no doubt wishing to cash in on the TV series 'The Tudors' and the book/film 'The Other Boleyn Girl'. So, they laid on some entertainment for 'Henry VIII' despite the fact that neither the series nor the book mention Henry actually visiting Hever. I doubt very much that, if he had, he and Anne Boleyn would have been sitting on chairs in the open field within touching distance of mere groundlings - I am certain they would have been ensconced within lavish tents, with dozens of flunkies and servants.

It's pretty obvious that they are only interested in visitors who arrive by car. Their website says it is a country mile from Hever station, and then leaves it to us to figure out which route to take. There are at least three, one along narrow windy undulating roads with no verges where cars thunder round bends at great speed. We thought there were no signposts, but on the way back we spotted the hints of one entirely overgrown by hedgerow. Alternatively, they say you can get a taxi from Edenbridge, but leave it up in the air whether you can get one to return. We asked for a number for a cab firm at the Henry VIII pub; we were given the number of an elderly lady's house and she gave us an alternative number, which just rang and rang.

It is a another example of how people only matter in respect of their relationship to children. The person hosting the entertainment addressed the crowd as "Boys and Girls, Mums and Dads, Grandmas and Grandads." No such thing as "Ladies and gentlemen...". No doubt there is some sound marketing reason for targeting the 5-11 demograph, but I really think if you haven't got one of those in your entourage it's a waste of time going. Unless, of course, you want to observe the bad parenting of the Yummy-Mummy Brigade.

Children running through formal gardens with no respect for the elderly and infirm, or indeed for people who had thought that a visit to a country garden might be an opportunity for quiet contemplation. And,of course, I didn't once witness one of these smug complacent inadequate parents stop and say to their brat "Ooh, look, Olivia, Ben look at that pretty flower, we have that in our garden, did you know you can put that in food, it's a herb" (and yes, they were all called Olivia and Ben, or Jordan, and yes, both Olivia and Ben are names that feature in my family).

Actually, I am sure there were plenty of parents who did just that, but they were the quiet ones, who seemed to know their children, and didn't feel it necessary to draw attention to themselves, the ones who had taught their children from an early age how to behave in public. The apogee, or nadir, came in a walled garden. Three couples were on benches or the ground, half asleep and quiet. Two more couples, ourselves included, strolled around, quietly inspecting the flowers, grateful for some escape. And then arrives the family where the children were encouraged to run around chasing each other, whilst father bawled into his mobile "We're in the Secret Garden, it's really quiet..." and two Ladies of a certain age remarked disapprovingly "They're throwing coins in the pond again..."

I remember as a child in the 70s going to Visitor Attractions and, let's be honest, being a bit bored. The highlight was the few brief minutes spent in the Adventure Playground at the end, tucked away from the main event. I don't remember being encouraged, or allowed, to treat the rest of the place as an adventure playground. Now, it seems, the entire experience is designed to be one big playground for children. The majority of the visitors seemed to be without children - Twentysomething friends or lovers, older couples who might or might not have grown up children, Ladies who Lunch and Garden. And yet the day put was spoilt because it was over-run by children, the enjoyment of the majority ruined once again by the tyranny of the weekend-only parents who believe the world revolves around the children with whom they can't communicate, for lack of practice.

I don't suppose Margaret Hodge is reading this, but the other noticeable fact was that the customer base came from a very small and elite background. Almost completely white - the only BME people I spotted were in mixed-race groups. There was a representative number of Polish people and a few Americans, but clearly this attraction needs to be radically changed to make it relevant to people other than elites. I suggest that accessibility might be a start, followed by a re-examining of what the focus ought to be. Not that great a garden, a historically inaccurate historic 'experience', or a theme park, it does none well. But it has a big car park.

I took some fairly decent photos. It did amuse me that when I found something to photograph that was a bit different from the obvious, people would look at me weird, and then take the same photo. At one point, I was convinced one couple was stalking us, to take the same photo.

My view on the Chelsea vs Manchester United match

So, you know, we were sort of there, briefly.

And how did I manage to take such a photo?

I bought this trip months ago, for Jimmy's birthday back in August. With him working in the pub, there was never the opportunity to take it. Conscious that the voucher had a nine month life, I rang up just after we got back from Madrid, saying, can we go this weekend. The reply was, no, but you have a choice of 26 April, 3 May etc. I plumped randomly for 26 April, it was several days before I realised that it would clash with the Chelsea v Manchester United match, title decider, live on the TV blah de blah..

Then, earlier this week, we started to watch the weather forecast. And we were absolutely delighted that sheer chance had allocated us a day like yesterday, warm and sunny with an excellent view.

We booked with EBG helicopters, who are at Redhill aerodrome,  fifteen minutes by taxi from Redhill station which is 37 minutes from Streatham Hill. There was us two, and another chap, along with the pilot. We took off at about one o'clock and arrived back about three quarters of an hour later. We flew North, reaching the Thames at Barnes, having seen landmarks such as Tolworth Tower and the windmill on Wimbledon Common. From Barnes we flew above the Thames, seeing Stamford Bridge, Chelsea Harbour, Battersea Power Station, the Houses of Parliament and so on (Jimmy saw more North of the River, I saw South of the River, although for some reason, I don't remember seeing the London Eye, I think I was too busy trying to get a photo of my office, like how sad is that?). We headed over to Docklands, seeing very clearly the runway at London City, before turning right at the Isle of Dogs and returning to Redhill.

Take off was very smooth as was  progressing through the sky, until we hit some unexpected turbulence. For a moment I felt a touch of motion nausea, coupled with a sense of panic that we were in serious trouble. Irrational, and anyway it only lasted a few moments; after that it never even crossed my mind even  to worry.

Ice Station Antarctica

Jimmy and I have been squabbling for some weeks that we never do anything. We keep promising to go out 'for walks' but the weather has not been in our favour of recent.

Exasperated, the other day, I said let's go to Tate Modern. (We've never been). He turned up his nose. Perhaps too heavily influenced by my nephew, to whom I also made the same suggestion some weeks back. My nephew's response was "It's crap and I'm not wasting my breath arguing when I know I'm right". Jimmy's response was "How about the Natural History Museum?" Of all the museums he could have suggested, this would have been my last choice, but it isn't always about me.

I tasked him with researching in a guidebook which bits he wanted to see. He said all of it. I said that it's quite big and it might take some time to do all of it. I had a look on the website and realised that this weekend was the last chance to see an exhibition about the Antarctic. This seemed interesting to both of us, so we went along to South Ken and bought our tickets for this special exhibition. General admission to the museum is free; to special exhibitions costs.

What a total waste of money. Our money as ticket holders and taxpayers; also of sponsors' money, but that isn't our concern.

It wasn't clear beforehand that the exhibition was aimed specifically at 7-11 year-olds. Specifically, rather thick 7-11 year olds, those that lack the ability to absorb information and ask enquiring questions. It was really a low-rent amusement arcade. Some rather 1990s computer games, and that was about it. Being somewhat curious by nature, I decided I wanted to know, how big is Antarctica? How many people work there, from how many countries, on how many bases, doing what? There was a tent erected, and I was vaguely curious as to what distinguished it from the sort of tent one uses on a camping holiday in an European summer. They had an example of the food parcels they get, but no details on what they actually contain or the logistics of getting them there.

There was a game where you could pretend to drive a smowmobile. The sort of video game you would find at motorway service centres in the 1980s. So many kids were wanting to play this that they totally ignored the genuine snowmobile sat right next to them. Until I reasoned 'it has no sign saying "Do not touch" so I will straddle it and play a game of make believe'. At which point, of course, it became everybody else's turn, and I got furious glares for hogging the thing that had suddenly become attractive. There was a game where you could pretend to be a diver and catch fish. It contained less variety of fish than my 'Magnetic Fishing Game' vintage circa 1972, less exciting graphics, and considerably less skill. If I had been curating the exhibition I would have scrapped it and replaced it with an actual video of actual fish filmed under water in the Antarctic summer. There was a cupboard of Antarctic clothing that you could put on if you wanted - and assuming that you weren't knocked out of the way by an aggressive pre-teen shoved there by their even more aggressive parent. But there was nothing about the clothing, how perhaps it might differ from similar clothing you might wear for a stroll in the Cotswolds.

There was also a video which I assumed was filmed in the Antarctic but could easily have been filmed in my garden on a cold dark night. It was on constant loop, so when a loop finished, and a whole bunch of people moved off, I thought I would sit and watch, only to be bundled out of the way by a bunch of aggressive males, passively supervised by asinine adults. (By the way I was using my walking stick). I decided to sit on the floor, because in their world, that's how it works - spoilt brats get to sit on seats, especially when it involves shoving the middle-aged woman with a stick out of the way. I'm tempted to say that if I behaved like that at that age I would have got a sharp telling off from my parents. But it isn't about then and now, because I know plenty of children of the same age now who would also be given a sharp telling off, and have been brought up not to be so thoughtless and selfish.

In fact, I found the whole visit rather depressing. It seemed that the majority of people there rarely go out in public. Whole bunches of them without a clue of how to manoeuvre in crowded spaces. The speciality seemed to be targeting the elderlies or those with babes-in-arms. There's some savage place in England where the law of the jungle, survival of the fittest, rules. Of course, the people there were entirely unrepresentative of the population of Britain. Overwhelmingly white, overwhelmingly middle-class, noticeably "comfortable" if not especially rich. Poor quality entertainment for 'elites', where clearly if you don't have a retard aged 7-11 you don't matter. And that's what our taxes are being wasted on. The mentality that 'my child is entitled to run around and treat this as a playground and if you happen to be standing actually examining the contents of a display cabinet, you are encroaching on my brat's right to slide along each display cabinet and shout and therefore you are a horrible person who shouldn't be here.' And it wasn't just me. I saw at least three older couples looking bemused as they became the next victims of the bullying. And I overheard a couple of conversations that reassured me it wasn't my imagination or me over-reacting.

We ate and made the mistake of entering South Ken station just after the museums closed, and thus were held for five minutes or more behind the barriers because of 'platform overcrowding'. Jimmy asked me if this was common. I said it happens occasionally at Victoria between five and six on a weekday, and I think it also happens regularly at Kings Cross. I later remembered it had happened at Earls Court after a concert, and I daresay it's common at anywhere there's a large number of people all heading for the Underground at the same time. It wasn't helped by the District and Circle being closed for planned engineering works.

I observed that when we got down there, the majority of people would crowd on the platform near the entrance, blocking others from entering, then we'd get on the train and people would crowd near the doors (we get off in ten stops' time and don't want to miss our station), not letting people move down the carriage where in any case every child would have a god-given right to a seat in preference to middle-aged woman with a stick, any elderly infirm or pregnant person, or anybody who had been at work all day. Lo and behold, when we got to the platform, I said we should move down, in order to be near the escalators on exit. A whole crowd bunched by the platform entrance. At subsequent stops the driver kept asking people to move down the carriage, not lean on the doors, let passengers off first and so on, which sounded odd in our half-empty carriage. I expect most of them will return to Middle England vowing never again to use public transport 'because it's over-crowded' nor ever go into a crowded place again, because people don't bow down and worship their spoilt spawn.

On the way home, we were at the bus stop in Brixton, a mother made her son stand back and let me on the bus. There was no necessity; the bus was nearly empty and there was only a dozen or so people waiting. Naturally I thanked her, and him. It's easy to spot those with class and those that are bullies (it has no connection with skin colour, household income or where you live; it has everything to do with how you behave and the example you set to your children).

Day out to Windsor

We went to Windsor a couple of years ago but they wouldn't let us into the Castle - too late in the day, or something. So we went back on Saturday. The journey, via Clapham Junction, was uneventful; when we arrived at Windsor we decided to go for a drink, but they wouldn't serve us in the pub opposite the station, the Royal something or other. Bollocks to them; they were too incompetent to observe the usual practice of serving they who are at the bar first. So we walked out. Never to return. Instead we got served in Wetherspoons and ended up in conversation with a couple. Basically, he was in a wheelchair and we were at the only table that was really accessible for a wheelchair, so I invited them to join us, largely because we were only staying for one drink. They had come down from Henley specially because it was the Queen's birthday. I didn't have a clue. They were obviously Royalists, and we had to bite our tongues. They weren't happy with film "The Queen" because Philip and the old (now deceased) cow were portrayed as preferring animals to people. Hmm. Apparently, the Queen Mother was a lovely person; on one occasion, in 1980 (my Freudian slip was originally to type that as 1908...), she mixed with ordinary people. Jimmy started telling the story of someone he knows used to chauffeur the Queen Mother. I dreaded what was coming, but, thankfully, in time, he amended the anecdote from "She was an alcoholic and you had to wear a tin-hat when she farted - often" to "Apparently, she was very polite..."

It may seem strange a couple of dyed-in-the-wool Republicans going to see Royal Residences, but I don't have a problem with that. After all,  by rights they belong to us, the people. Besides, we have inadvertently found a way to defraud the system legitimately. The State Apartments weren't open, because of it being HMQ's birthday, so we got in half price, and, on exit, we got our tickets endorsed to return again and again in the next 12 months for free.

It was quite pleasant, but, in the end, they let you see just enough so that you can continue your worship of them as gods, if that is your thing, but they don't really let us see really how the castle is. And it's like they're doing us a great favour by allowing us to peer at selected parts and buy over-priced rubbish souvenirs. The best bit was Queen Mary's Doll House. One queues in order to go round and look at this 1:12 miniature town house. And observe the glazed look of other tourists who are just ticking it off the list of 'must see'. I was looking at the display cases of some dolls and designer clothes - France and Marianne - which were presents to the queen and her sister when they were kids. Some ghastly woman behind me in the 'queue' kept shoulder-barging me. I obviously wasn't going fast enough for her. so I turned round and told her to stop shoving me. she didn't stop, so I told her again that she was perfectly free to move from my left to my right and progress beyond me. she was whizzing round, not taking anything in. Shrug

After a pint in a nice pub by the gate to the Long Walk, we went for a bit of a walk on the Long Walk. Nice of them to let us peasants traverse an eensy bit of 'their' ground, innit. We finished the evening with a cheap and cheerful meal and home by nine. I was knackered - collapsed into bed after my bath. Still, it was a really nice day out. We shall go again, in the autumn or winter. We shall also view Buck House State Apartments. Know thine enemy, I reckon...

I still haven't figured out why anybody would build a Royal Residence in the flightpath of one of the world's busiest airports.

Richmond Walk/Twickenham Question

We went for a really nice walk this afternoon. Nothing too strenuous, I can't do strenuous, and in total we were out of the house for about four hours.

But psychologically so important. Get away from the dreary depressing being inside doing very little. Get out into the light and the air, get the heart pumping and the adrenaline flowing.

Only to Richmond. It was a bit tedious walking down the shopping street, feeling pity and compassion for those poor people compelled to spend their Saturday afternoons in relentless shopping*. But we eventually got to the river, and there were a fair number of people with the same idea as us, just a nice stroll in the afternoon sunshine, mild temperatures, no one being in the slightest bit rude, obnoxious or annoying.

It's nice to be out walking, it doesn't cost the earth (literally or figuratively), and it  makes you feel good. I took a few photos, which are now queued for processing. The one below is probably one of the worst I took but it has left me puzzled. We were in Richmond and this building was on the Twickenham side of the river, but I can't work out from the A-Z or the internet what it is. This is only a section, it does spread for quite a way along the river.

* you know I'm such a snotty cow at times

Trip to the seaside

Finally, we managed to get a day where the weather forecast coincided with the weather and our diary was such that we could go out.

It was a typically G&J day out, unplanned and haphazard. Well, I had planned it weeks ago but the weather forecast had turned - wrongly - for rain. So I never considered to re-plan, and played it by ear.

The criteria were simple. Within easy reach of London by train, with a hint of coast, and somewhere to walk. We decided upon Hadleigh. Amongst other factors we would never be far from civilisation, so that if exhaustion came upon me, we would not be stranded.

The first challenge was the City of London. Go there by bus, I declared, quite forgetting that the bus does not go anywhere near the station. Without a map, I decided to rely on my phone, and got taken a delightful little route from Lothbury/Moorgate to Fenchurch Street, through a few alleys and through a deserted Leadenhall Market. I was such an idiot, I had my camera in my bag but didn't think to take it out in the market.

But I did when we were at a superb angle to the Lloyds Building and Gherkin.

An easy journey to Benfleet, two return tickets for the price the petrol would have cost to go one way. A remarkable level of civilisation on a fairly crowded train. People having conversations, a man speaking quietly into his headphoned phone. And off the train at Benfleet.

Our intention was to walk to Hadleigh Castle, but in the end we didn't. Instead, we yomped through the Hadleigh Country Park, a glorious stretch of undulation twixt river and railway. At times we were almost alone; occasionally we passed dog walkers or were overtaken by cyclists. Far in the distance some children played a game of football.

We set off from Benfleet at 1.15pm and arrived at Old Leigh at 3.00 pm. What did we do in that time? Not a great deal. No exciting tales to tell. We just walked. A latte and an omelette were followed by a couple of pints of Adnams, and then we decided to go home.

I just love that boring pointlessness. We didn't go out to discover anything, to clock up bonus points in the Heritage game. It is not the most beautiful or interesting scenery even in Essex. But the exercise and the fresh air was rejuvenating, and although we moaned about the ache of muscles unfamiliar to that particular useage, we knew that it was doing us good. We passed a very elderly couple taking a greyhound for a walk. Half an hour later an identical greyhound overtook us, accompanied by a thirty-something couple, proof that a good walk in the sea air can knock years off your age.

We did consider going to a restaurant on the seafront, but at five o'clock we were told they were not open until half past six. We found that surprising, arguably bad business. People no longer eat according to a strict timetable, and I would have thought that a restaurant situated in a mini-tourist trap would benefit from some irregularly timed diners. No doubt, locals go there all year round regardless of weather, but if I had a restaurant situated in such a location, I would want to attract daytrippers on sunny spring Saturdays.

So instead we returned to London and had a quiet stroll along deserted streets from Temple Underground to Covent Garden where we had an indifferent meal in a restaurant that that risibly claimed to be London's best Italian. If it was located in a one-horse town and I lived in that dullsville I would return, but in a West end teeming with better or cheaper restaurants I'll give it a miss in future.

Trip to Windsor

On Saturday, we went to Windsor. We went for a walk down the river, and back. A nice pint in the Royal Oak pub. A cruise on the river. An afternoon tea. Mm, scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream...Yum. Yum.

We tried to go into the castle at quarter past four, but it was closed. Bastards, I thought. We pay for the bloody thing out of our taxes, and those parasites won't even let us in on a hot hot hot mid-Saturday-afternoon in the holidays. They ought to get their heads out of their arses and stop treating us, their paymasters, as plebs. And if anyone comes out with any crap defending the Royal Parasites Family, I might as well warn you now, I'm deleting the comment.

Day at Dungeness

Because the forecast for Saturday was so hot we knew we had to get out for the day. We had originally considered going to Somerset for the weekend to explore buying a Post Office, but when I read online that the Parish in which it sits has a population of 500, Himself went right off the idea.

So we picked a place at random. Almost at random - it had to be within easy reach of London, and by preference, South of London, so we wouldn't spend all day sitting in traffic.

I selected Dungeness.  For years, it has called out to me. I was an avid reader of the books of Monica Edwards. Ostensibly Pony Books, but that wasn't really the point.  Tales of Smugglers. One book set amidst Pestilence and Plague - hence, when the 2001 Foot and Mouth outbreak began, I was already ahead of the game, because I had read all about the previous one in a Monica Edwards book.

And, of course, there was Derek Jarman. I won't pretend to be a big fan, but I always found him fascinating. And, who more than anyone, put Dungeness on the map.

And finally, the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch (Light, Steam) Railway.

Of course, it took for ever to get out of London. Congestion on the Arterial through Eltham. Resurfacing where the A20 meets the M20 at Swanley.

On the M20 we saw a frightening sight. Some poor chap in a car of 1980s vintage had broken down. Right on the junction - cars sweeping off to the left, cars zooming past to the right. He was waving frantically. Poor bloke must have been shitting himself. I suspect it may have been an electrical failure - if it had been me I would have had all lights on and flashing - he didn't even have an indicator. I've checked the BBC Kent website, and there's nothing, so, hopefully, he got out alright. About twenty minutes later I thought, should I have called 999?

When we arrived, it was lunchtime, after which we wandered on the beach, took some photos, drove down to New Romney, and caught the train in a return journey to Dungeness. The photos are here.

It was a pleasant day out, and, as always, in such situations, fascinating to people-watch. We did not encounter one obnoxious person, and Chavs were barely in evidence. I am increasingly fascinated by the Division of Choice in society. Such a trip doesn't has to be expensive. Admittedly, Dungeness is a little difficult to reach by public transport, but the countryside and coast are full of places to visit for a day trip. I found it depressing to think of all those kids stuck, bored, in some dismal backstreet pub in London or Leysdown whilst their uninterested parents booze away hundreds of pounds.

We saw people with children of all ages, giving them a change of scene, stimulating their brains, giving them some exercise and fresh air.  Is it a class difference? Is it economic? I don't know. Maybe the major class divider in this country is between those who are actively bringing up their children, and those who think the world owes them a living. Of course, the barren, such as I, just stand on the sidelines and watch. But I suspect that, on the whole, the kids who were at Dungeness - or out, anywhere - on Saturday are the ones that will do okay in the future, whereas those for whom every weekend, and day of the school holidays is spent in the pub, or watching crap telly indoors, are the ones who will just repeat the cycle.

Interestingly, the journey back took exactly an hour and forty minutes, just as the AA said it would, with no traffic delays.

The photo I didn't take

We landed in our hotel and went into Stockport town centre. I won't talk about the red retro-stylee but modernly technologed record turntable I saw, nor the £80 knee high black leather boots with ultra-slender stiletto three inch heel and padlock and chain that I refused to buy on the basis that I would never wear them.

We found a carparking space and I cursed that I had left my camera in my hotel room. Imagine the bright blue sky (with fluffy clouds). Imagine looking up at Stockport Viaduct as a Virgin train glides across. Framed beneath the arches is a now beautiful, once dark satanic, mill, and floating through the sky about to land at the airport is a gleaming white jet.

The perfect juxtaposition of old and new engineering.

But no camera.

Last Tuesday

We went to Tatton Park. Mother suggested, if we wanted to eat, we should head for the Knutsford end. Not the Rostherne or Mere end, which is where I would live if I was a footballer. Mother had explained to Jimmy that Knutsford was famous because Elizabeth Gaskell had lived there. I was quite unnerved as we drove in to see so many places - tea shops etc - named after Cranford, which is her most famous book, but in my opinion Mary Barton is the best.

We drove into the Park - the old Park, by Tatton Mere, in my opinion one of the most beautiful places ever. I'm not expecting you to agree, it's bound up with some complex childhood memories - being forced, against my will, to go out for invigorating walks on Sunday afternoons and risk missing the Top Twenty (later, Forty) on the radio. Still, the memories are positive. And, bizarrely, I was reminded of a song I have not thought about for years Forever Autumn by The Moody Blues. Many years ago, when being anxious about missing the Top Twenty I watched a flock of migrating geese and I thought:

I watch the birds fly south across the autumn sky
And one by one they disappear.
I wish that I was flying with them
Now you're not here.

One view of the mere and that song was in my head!

We walked the length of the mere back to Knutsford. It was beautiful. And incongruous. You feel that you're in the country, strangers walking their dogs and their well-swaddled children say hello. In the distance a double-barrelled shot gun echoes around. The noise of the invisible jets leaving Ringway. Then we see one, enormous, and so low we can almost touch it with our hands, and in the next blink it's above the clouds that hang over our heads. It snows, but that's okay; by the time we get to Knutsford we're cold and hungry, and the snow has long stopped.

And we find the Portofino restaurant which has a fine setting in what appears to be an old Coaching House, and serves fine food at amazingly low (Lunchtime prices) and an excellent Chianti - just the ticket. Pavarotti sings in the background

We wander around the main street of Knutsford. I have decided that I want a pair of Fuck-Me boots. When I would ever wear black suede knee-highs with a three inch sheer stiletto, I don't know. But I desire. Jimmy suggests we go in a shoe shop. In my walking boots, and wind swept, I refuse. I'm not having some snotty Cheshire shop assistant patronising me. Jimmy obviously doesn't understand. But humours me.

We walk back along the mere, now an invigorating walk in the descending frost and declining afternoon. On the way back in the car, I ponder a question which has been unresolved nearly thirty years - what is the mere in the hamlet of Mere called?

We walk round Altrincham looking for a restaurant. there are loads of them, incidentally. I fancy one called Il Pagliacci, but, bizarrely (and somewhat reminiscent of Cuba) it is shut for the holidays. In the end we decided on Francs. We return to Mother's, and get a taxi out again. Bizarrely, the taxi-driver is Tunisian, not a nationality you expect to encounter in Altrincham.

The food in Francs was gorgeous. I had Tartelette Lorraine and Bermuda Triangle. Do not hesitate - it's some years since I've eaten there, and it was superb then, and is superb now.

Weekend

Matt and Abby's wedding was wonderful. Just about as perfect a wedding as can be imagined. And it has been blogged elsewhere from here!

Once we got out of London (two hours...!) the journey to South Cave was uneventful, except for the pool of water that leaked from our under the car as we took a leak at the Little Chef in Nottinghamshire that had run out of name badges.

Good food and excellent drink at the Fox and Coney - I was on Timothy Taylor Landlord.

An attempt to get tot he petrol station/off licence had us driving instead on the motorway-like A road halfway to Leeds and back before buying a couple of bottles of wine at the pub and heading back to the hotel. We were intercepted in the car park by Charlotte and Chris wondering where we had got them (they went away happy with knowledge) and over to Pauline-and-family's cottage to borrow a corkscrew.

Breakfast and horse feeding was followed by a walk of an hour or so from South Cave to Everthorpe and back, a quick pint, and back to the hotel to change.

We arrived at the church at just the same time as various cousins, and the bridesmaids. Eleanor had clearly found herself a 'new best friend' in Grace, Abby's mate from Uni who had looked after her at the rehearsal and did so during the service.

Matt and Abby seemed quite relaxed as they got married. As they signed the register the North Ferriby Ladies Choir sang the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria and another song about Love is Like a River - not the Stevie Nicks song.  Before they started, Joseph, being a little boy turned to me and said "Cover your ears." Afterwards he had to admit they 'weren't bad'.  For many adults it was very moving.

Few photos were taken outside the church, but it was a quick rush back to Rudstone Walk for more photo taking.

The weather held off wonderfully - Jimmy and I were amongst the last handful to go into the marquee and we had to stand under the tree to finish our cigarettes.

The speeches came first - from Abby's father Alan, from Matt and from Dan, whose previous outing as best man had seen a 45-minute speech, but he admitted he had received death threats on Friday - he was timed at seven-and-a-half, plus presentations. Alan referred to the fittingness of having the reception in a tent, asking us to leave our sleeping bags at the door.

The food was excellent, it was good to see six cousins (and three partners), an uncle-in-law, father's cousin and her husband, plus various of Matt's friends I had not seen in ages - nice lads, especially the housemates from his second year, Giles, Ed, Tim and Mark.

The evening's festivities featured a big band which seemed to go down with the youngsters as well as the older folk. No one misbehaved, and I only had one argument with one cousin who manages to combine arrogant condescension with woeful ignorance and stupidity, and I have concluded that I was right to dislike him from the age of nine and charitable to make an effort in my twenties. I also received a copy of the Nottingham Evening Post property section, which was good.

We left the reception at about half twelve and crashed back at Pauline's cottage. Joseph was asleep on Pauline's lap - having carefully collated all the Little Chef name badges he had received from various cousins, and Jimmy was nodding off. Pauline said we had better go because Eleanor would never get to sleep until we did!

We saw the bride and groom off to Oban, warning them about the treacherous stairs in the Oban Inn, and then we departed. The journey was wonderful until We crossed the M25, then it was horrible as our hearts sank.  A day and a half in a beautiful part of East Yorkshire, and then a return to grotty aggressive London.

Day at the seaside

The day started too early. The alarm was too loud and the bed far too comfortable. The sky was cloudy and dull, but the forecast was not for rain. We arrived in Whitstable a bit before midday. Soon afterwards the sun came out. We walked for a bit and them came back. We sat on the beach either side of lunch. At five o'clock we caught the train home. You don't want a flat unevocative narrative. You know where to find the Whitstable photos.

Richmond to Kew

We have an ambition to go to Richmond Park. We weren't far away on Sunday. We caught the train to Richmond Station. Twenty nine minutes from Streatham Hill is excellent. I sort of misunderstood the map, so instead of going into Richmond Park, we went into the Old Deer Park and walked along the Thames Path. That would have been a lot nicer if it wasn't for the cyclists.

Yes, I know cycling's a jolly good thing, good for the environment and so on, but so's walking. They whizz along so much faster than walking pace, and because the path is generally quite narrow, we had to walk in single file.

I wouldn't have minded so much if it wasn't for the appalling manners on parade. Very few said thank you. There were some who were entirely oblivious that their selfish hogging of the path, at speed, was actually pushing us into the nettles.

I have to say it is indicative of a certain section of society who spend so much time exercising their bodies and so little their minds. I don't suppose more than one in ten of them actually observed any of the nature that surrounded them.

We spotted some steps and went down to the beach. That was so much more civilised. Apart from a little squelchiness at times it was much easier to walk along and hold a conversation without the constant harassment from cyclists. We had a much better view of river life, from wading birds to small craft to pleasure cruisers. As we walked along I commented on how deserted the beach was. Perhaps we had come down the only access to it. We decided it would be best to climb the Embankment, a steep concrete bank. There were chains attached, and Jimmy hauled himself up by them. I tried to follow, but lost my foothold. This was where the chains came into their own. Although I was falling backwards, I was able to fall in a measured way. My inability to climb at the first attempt was not because I was a pathetic girlie but because I had my camera round my neck and my rucksack on my back.

Camera? you say. Are there, perchance, photos?
Well, blow me, yes there are!

We walked all the way to Kew Green, where we stopped for lunch at the Rose and Crown. The chef's special was Brochettes of scallops and prawn on a bed of green leaves and samphire grass. We both ordered it, and when it came I was surprised to see that the scallops were wrapped in bacon. I took it to the bar and explained that there was nothing on the board that said it was in bacon; I don't eat bacon. The barman summoned someone - a manager, I guess - who said he would ask chef to make me another, without the bacon. Whilst I was waiting I went to the bar to get in another round. The manager said they were on the house. And my replacement meal came fairly promptly, with no hint of bacon.

We spent some time on the green watching a cricket match. Ah, the sound of leather on willow on a hot summer's day/ We then decided to make for Kew Pier, cracking jokes about "Queue here". We arrived on the dot of half four, when a boat was due to leave. It hadn't yet arrived , nor had the three thirty.

A boat arrived at ten to five, and almost everybody rushed to get on it. There were a dozen of us who hung back, and half a dozen who were refused entry on the first boat because it was full. There was not a seat to be had on deck. We didn't mind. We had heard the ticket selling man say that two were coming. whilst the panickers were stampeding to get on the first one, the second one arrived.

We had a choice of seats and had a leisurely cruise back to Westminster. We even saw Concorde approaching Heathrow. I took a few snaps. Although they are nothing special, nevertheless, I was so pleased with one of them I entered it for Theme Thursday.

When we returned to Westminster the fun began! We decided it would be too much hassle to get the Tube, so we would get a bus instead. Jimmy wondered how long it would be for a 159 to come, so I suggested we could get a 12 and change at Oval. Wrong! The 12 doesn't go to Oval.

We got off at the second bus stop at the Elephant, It would have been stupid to get off at the first one, by the Bakerloo Line entrance. We wanted the northern Line. But the northern Line entrance is closed, so we walked round and round the dreaded underpasses to the Bakerloo Entrance, and round and round the station to the Northern Line.

We changed to the Victoria Line at Stockwell. Only there was no train due for ten minutes and another Northern Line arrives, so we caught that to Clapham Common. We stood at the bus stop for ages before a 137 arrived. It turns right just after the common. This time it couldn't. Clapham Park Road was blocked off by a police car. so, it carried on up Clapham High Street. We expected it to take a left onto Bedford Road to head back to its route, but, no, it continued to Stockwell Station where it turned to head to Brixton. It was increasingly surreal looking at the perplexed faces of people at bus stops as a 137 sailed past, well off route. Or rather, two 137s, because in inimitable style, two had turned up together.

It was a relief to get home and crack open the rum (for him) and gin (for me)!