Gertsamtkunstwerk

Bits and Bobs

Looking through my photos, I found a good few which either were poor quality photos (blurry) of something worth photographing, or snapshots taken without much of a story to tell about the article spotted. Mostly not good enough to preserve for posterity in my photo albums, but stuff I don't want to go un-recorded.

Crab-cakes as a starter at the delightful Exhibition rooms in Crystal Palace

Followed by fish (I forget what now, I'm a bit hopeless), enticingly presented. I had this twice in December

A good selection of artisan cheeses served with rustic bread

Goats cheese and walnut salad at Streatham's Manor Arms just before Christmas

New Year's Eve starter at the Manor Arms of tea-smoked salmon and quails eggs

 

My twenty-year old artificial mini Christmas tree rejuvenated by the inspired addition of fairy lights

Arguably the world's worst park café on Streatham Common, taken on New Year's Day. 2012 or 1977, it's difficult to say

 

'Faded London' poster seen in Tooting

Pram sheds, or maybe beach huts (!) on the Peabody Estate in Westminster

Trinity Clapham Common

So many positive reviews exist of Trinity restaurant that combines fine dining with being a short bus ride away from home.

We had been thinking of this as a possibility for my (pre)-birthday meal, anyway. The previous weekend we had ended up in the boozer next door; one thing led to another, and we booked a table. On the Saturday evening it snowed, bringing much of London transport to a standstill. So we felt doubly smug at choosing to dine fine and local.

I was totally and utterly impressed by every single aspect of the experience at this restaurant. Jimmy had a quibble - he found his Terrine of Chicken, Foie Gras and Artichokes, Pickled Apples and Brioche to be quite fatty for a starter; fat combined with wine affects his digestion. But that, I think, is an inevitable consequence of choosing Foie Gras. The restaurant is not cheap, but I felt that it delivered what we paid for. In any case, more than a third of our bill was wine; future visits will probably involve less wine. And they offer a truncated menu as a £30 for 3 course lunch.

We were served an appetiser of radishes and a cod roe emulsion; this was followed by sourdough - they explained that this had been in use for 9 years. I only recently learned about sourdough, and how each batch is made from leavening taken from the previous batch - more in Wikipedia. To be honest, I'm not sure of the objective advantages, but this tasted lovely, especially when served with home-churned butter made of Jersey cream.

My starter was Charred Mackerel, Oyster Mayonnaise, Cucumber and Shrimps, which looked and tasted much better than it sounds! I particularly liked how the shrimps were wrapped in a wafer-thin sheet of cucumber.

Jimmy's main course was Slow Cooked Veal, Truffle Walnut Pesto, Black Pudding and Artichoke. I'm not sure if he's ever had veal before, but we both watched an episode of Countryfile, which explained how modern British veal is reared, with the endorsement of Animal Welfare organisations. I can't say for certain that this restaurant sources its veal this way, but I'd be surprised if it didn't.

 

I opted for Butter Poached Halibut, Crab Tortellini, Crab and Ginger Broth. I had been tempted by a bream, leeks and mussels dish but, concerned about the inclusion of bacon, I asked the waiter how integral an ingredient it was and he patiently explained. He also suggested ways it could be made differently eg for someone who didn't like the overt taste of bacon but didn't mind it being part of a sauce. Which was nice, and has given me more confidence - I noticed in Masterchef the other week, one of the previous winners ie a professional chef specifically ordered a scallop and pancetta dish without the pancetta. 

The halibut dish was just perfection. A chunky fillet that nevertheless flaked away at the slightest touch. Even the bed of julienne veg worked well, densely packed almost as a nest, and providing lots of colour. The broth was the foundation of the dish. I find crab an interesting ingredient. The white meat is so delicate, and the brown meat has a robust flavour, which couples well with the ginger - two strong flavours bouncing off each other. And the crab tortellini was just an extra indulgence!

The food was good, but I also found the service to be just right. Plenty of staff but they never intruded. No over-fussy refilling of one's glass every time you sip, one discrete 'Is everything okay?' not while you're either mid-sentence or with the fork poised at your mouth, and, best of all, an easy friendliness that stopped well short of telling you the details of their personal life, their opinion of the food, or 'you've made a good choice' - I'm sure they were confident that every dish met the same high standards, so there couldn't be a bad choice!

They have a very large wine list, which I initially found daunting. But I figured out that, faced with information overload of wines sorted by region - region of France, say, not regions of the world - the sensible thing for me, not a wine buff, would be to select one of those sold by glass & carafe. We chose a New Zealand Pinot Noir which was fruity and very nice.

We chose the same pudding: Hot Chocolate Pot - effectively, a fondant - with Salt Caramel Ice Cream. The chocolate was very chocolatey - as it should be, and the salt of the ice cream provided a counterpoint to the bitterness of the chocolate and the sweetness of the caramel. We also took the recommended pudding wine, Domaine Mas Amiel  Maury, Languedoc-Roussillon. The waiter suggested it was like port but superior. Part of me agrees, another part feels that, in being lighter, it avoided the treacly nature of port.

So, a thoroughly enjoyable meal with, really, no criticism. I would not hesitate to go back, and would recommend it to anyone who enjoys good food and good service. I had been slightly anxious about whether I would feel under-dressed, but, actually, most of the diners were in more 'comfortable' clothes than me! Maybe the snow contributed to that.

 

Boqueria Brixton

We went here on Saturday 21 January, just a very few weeks after it opened, and I think it has the potential to be a very good restaurant indeed. The decor and setting is pleasing - stupidly, I took no photos. I found the staff to be friendly, especially considering that I did have a grumpy turn, and the food was exquisite. So the fact that there was a mess-up with service won't deter me from returning. I have, however, read another review where the writer experienced a not dissimilar problem with service. Teething problems, I hope, because if it persists, it will detract significantly from a potentially superb place.

It is on Acre Lane, opposite the Grand Union (formerly Hope & Anchor) near the junction with KIngs Avenue, Clapham Park Road and Bedford Road, so neither Clapham nor Brixton, but a short hop from home (if one regards the 137/417 route as a hop!). Until  a few years ago the premises were a butcher's, and they appear to have used the space well: a bar when you enter, leading into the dining room at the back.

As an aide, but also an important observation, I am not sure Tapas works in England. My experience in Spain involves going into a bar where Tapas are served almost as a casual aside to an evening of drink and conversation, whereas my experience in England is plates called 'Tapas' being served as option or alternative to a main course. The only real difference is that 'main courses' are usually (not always) served as a complete product - protein, sauce, starch and veg, whereas a tapas dish is what it is. So, I ordered a fish dish, Jimmy ordered a meat dish and I said we'd share some patatas bravas & grilled vegetables.

First the potatoes arrived, and, ravenously, we scoffed them. Only when they were finished did Jimmy's meat, and the vegetables arrive. I did enquire about my fish dish, which, eventually came only after Jimmy had finished his meat and the grilled vegetables had gone cold. It was explained that the fish takes time to prepare/cook. I'm more inclined to believe that the order was overlooked. Perhaps they assumed we wanted to share both protein dishes, one after the other, and it was a breakdown of understanding/culture. But they conceded that they're not serving them the authentic Spanish way; in future, I shall be clearer in how we intend to construct our meal. It's misery waiting for your main dish while your partner eats his - lest it go cold, as the vegetables did. I was offered a ham croquette on the house, which doesn't exactly do it for me, and they offered to replace the gone-cold veggies, but I had visions of my fish going cold as I waited for the veg! As it was, it went a bit tepid as we were discussing the issue. 

Fortunately, the Bacalao confitado was very nice, but Jimmy pointed out to me I had a long evening ahead of me in the cinema, and this would be my only meal of the day, so I then ordered revuelto de setas y langostino. I have to say this was the most exquisite egg dish I have ever tasted, and amongst the most beautiful dishes I can recall eating - it's basically scrambled egg with mushrooms and prawns, but so very different from what that phrase conjures up. A perfect blend of flavours, each complimenting the other, and just the right form and texture, neither too greasy nor too dry.

I finished with a Tarta de Santiago, essentially an almond tart. And that, too, was beautiful - a delicate melt-in-your-mouth texture with a robust flavour of almonds.

I can't comment on the wine, because, being mid-afternoon and ahead of a long operatic cinema evening, I chose to drink apple juice, while Jimmy had bottled beer.

To conclude, the staff were very friendly, and the decor is very nicely done. I can't forget the unfortunate hitch in service, or communication, but the food was so exceptional that it would be foolish not to return, perhaps for the Arroz Negro!

 

Brixton Space

As we're trying to get out a bit more, I thought it might be a good idea to revive the practice where I write a brief review of places where we've eaten. Although this would be better with pictures, which I didn't take!

Brixton Space is a Cafe Fusion Tapas Wine Bar on Brixton Water Lane just opposite the Hobgoblin pub. It's been open a few months, and we went along on Friday evening. They had a brand new menu and didn't open until 7 that particular evening.

It's a small place, basically a single shop front with chairs and tables. Nothing fancy. I was sitting on a stool with no arms or back support so an hour and a half was about my limit. There were three other parties in the same time as us, butt even though the place was small, they didn't impinge on us.

The place is run by a Polish woman, who has taken the idea of Spanish tapas and has introduced non-Spanish elements. This is something I have wished some bars in places I've visited in Spain would do, so is entirely in line with my thinking.

The menu isn't massive. We ordered olives & feta, organic bread (from Breads Etcetera), and Mexican Toast. Jimmy ordered some meatballs in tomato sauce and I had a goat's cheese and fig tart.

Put very simply, the food was very tasty. Quite simply done, with very little fuss and palaver, just good quality ingredients, imaginatively assembled. I specifically complemented the proprietor on the side salad. It was only rocket and cherry tomatoes; I'll often ignore the ubiquitous side salad as an insult to the main dish, but these were absolutely fresh and lightly dressed. Which doesn't seem a lot to ask but doesn't always happen. 

Overall, I really liked the place, and if I lived closer I'd probably go in quite often, even if just for a snack and a glass or two of wine. I don't know how busy it gets, and what's the peak time but it was full enough for their to be an atmosphere without it being too crowded.

Labour leadership Brixton Hustings 30 June

It's not often that we get vote to for leader. I've been in the party since 1984 and have only voted in three leadership elections; this compares to six General Elections.

Before the recent General Election I had been politically inactive for quite some time, but Labour Party politics - and, I daresay, other parties, too  - have this habit of drawing you back in.

So when I heard that all the leadership contenders were to be husting in Brixton - yeah, Brixton - I was, like, try and keep me away. I actually did hesitate, because it did occur at the start of the most hectic three weeks of my life, at least since leaving the council. Which is why this blogpost is so belated!

I took a few photos of the contenders. Their relative quality reflects only where I was sitting. I could have been more assertive and taken more and better photos, but I don't think that that's very comradely. And nothing can be deduced from my voting intentions from the photos.

Diane Abbott was the most interesting. I identify the most strongly with Diane. She tends to speak first and think later, or doesn't seem frightfully concerned about how a statement will come across, if it's something that she believes and wants to say. She's also a bit rubbish when it comes to stand-up comedy. I'm surprised that, with her experience, she hasn't realised that however funny one is in informal situations with off-the-cuff quips, it doesn't necessarily work on stage in front of an audience. I feels she knows most instinctively how benefit cuts and job losses will affect ordinary people, whereas I think the blokes are more like me - we can intellectualise from observation but it's not the same.

I am happy to give Ed Miliband my second preference vote. Of the chaps he seemed the one most able to understand the need for change, not just in matters of detail but in a wholesale philosophical approach. I think he has the intellectual capacity to be Leader, although his people-skills fall short of those of say Tony Blair or Neil Kinnock, or indeed Diane Abbott or Ed Balls, but are far ahead of Gordon Brown and Ken Livingstone, for example. I also think he has the capacity to grow into the job. He doesn't come across as a Prime Minister but some people are capable of stepping into giant shoes.

I felt that Andy Burnham's heart wasn't in it. He seemed the most affected by the tremendous heat in the room - by the end he looked a lot damper than this, with which I can sympathise. I think his campaign is so overwhelmingly North West  - so it was a bit weird when he announced himself the local - Brixton-dwelling - candidate. Before the meeting I disliked him intensely, now I don't, so he may count that as a victory, if he wishes. But I can't see any reason to put him above five on my list.

I cannot properly decide between David Miliband and Ed Balls. I feel that they both have way too much baggage I want to distance myself from. Miliband is too much a Blairite, Balls is too much a Brownite. Both of them have repudiated these positions and have declared they have moved on, but I feel some discomfort at some of the Miliband followers, and I just don't trust Ed Balls. I think Balls comes across as by far the most impressive as a campaigning politician, who knows how to seize the news agenda; I fear a Balls leadership would be back to the same-old same-old Mandelsonian/Campbell/Blair/Brown obsession with ephemeral headlines, which was successful for it's time but we've moved on. As for David Miliband, I tend to like him, and I think he has the intellectual capacity to be leader and a personable character  , but I think he lacks a certain indefinable 'leadership quality'.

I think it's brilliant that it's a long drawn-out leadership campaign and that they are touring round the country. Westminster insiders and the media wanted it to be over quickly, clinical and decisively. Instead ordinary party members have had the opportunity to hear the candidates unmediated by mass media and actually ask questions. Political parties get this luxury at the start of a Parliament. Whatever is lost by a sense of leaderlessness in the past couple of months will be soon forgotten. I believe that whoever becomes leader will know - and members and voters know - that they have an undisputed mandate from the members.

There is nothing like political involvement to get members involved. For the past dozen years, the wail has always been - how do we get members involved. And I've always said that people primarily want to be involved in political discussion and education. It's difficult to campaign when you have forgotten what you're campaigning for, or that it's the rather nebulous concept of 'to win'. It gets a bit boring doing local campaigning, a lot of which isn't really party political, but about jostling for position and trying to get inward funding in one's area.

And it was stiflingly hot in the hired premises, which somehow just added to the nostalgic feeling for old-style Brixton policies!

At one point, Diane Abbott stated that she is the daughter of immigrants. I could see reactions all round - the Milibands are the sons of immigrants, and both Ed Balls and Andy Burnham (and Andy Burnham's Dad) have stressed repeatedly that they are from backgrounds far from privileged. Then later, David Miliband proclaimed himself to be 'the first member of my family born in this country', which caused Ed to react, almost - but not quite - imperceptibly, and led to quite a bit of comment on my Tweetstream. So, after the hustings, when Ed came over to talk to the person I was standing with and say hello and glad-hand me, I did ask him whether he suffered from 'second sibling syndrome'. That probably counts as one of the most stupid remarks I have made to someone in such a situation. HE said he didn't know what it was, so I explained. Cringe moment, hey...

PS It was chaired by Steve Richards from the Independent, visible in the Ed Balls photo

Clapham Common

We went there for a picnic yesterday. I don't work Fridays, and Jimmy is free between 3 and 8 so we try and do something together most weeks. We were determined to enjoy the sunshine and hit on the splendid idea of a picnic. Clapham Common was chosen because Jimmy would spend less time getting there (and back) from work, because it's handy for shops from which to buy picnic food, and because there are plenty of bars and coffee shops handy for when the temperature drops.

It has its disadvantages, too. Chiefly that being flat and surrounded by a network of busy roads, without boundary trees, it's impossible to feel you've escaped from the urban jungle. But we knew that, and adjusted our expectations accordingly.

We sat down on a bench on the edge of large open field and began to eat our 'starter'. People passed by and there was a constant hum of traffic from the roads; we were barely aware of them. We looked out across a field and laughed hilariously as a dog chased after a child's football and pushed the child (aged about 8) to the ground. Our laughter turned to "What!" when we realised that the dog was no relation to the child, but happened to be passing him as he played with a teenager, perhaps an older brother, and just randomly forced him to the ground.

As it happens, the child didn't seem very bothered; nor for that matter did the dog's owner. Didn't seem to check whether the child was all right, and didn't put the dog on a lead. They continued on their walk, approaching in our direction, but I assumed the angle they were taking would take them well out of our way. Until the dog bounded over to where we were sitting, threw itself at Jimmy and then stuck its nose into the empty prawn tray he had carefully placed on the ground to separate rubbish out from from good stuff*. The owner followed and laughing said

"Oh, she eats anything she sees..."

I think this was our cue to say "Oh gagaga itchywitchy cudgie coo what a darling dog, can I please please pretty please lick her cutey wutey stomach". We didn't.

The owner tried again mouthing some platitude which didn't include the word 'sorry'. Sharply, Jimmy told her to take it away whilst I sat motionless glaring at her (I was rewarded with the sight of her shrinking and slinking away, cowed by my fearsome glare).

When we finished our starter we walked to another field on the Common, this much closer to Northside. We chose our spot carefully. Sufficiently far away from the two men focused on their ball skills as they quietly and unostentatiously kicked a football between them; and  sufficiently far away from two other parties lying down or picnicking in the glorious afternoon sun. We weren't encroaching on anyone and no one was encroaching on us. Ideal. Well, apart from the police helicopter that hovered and circled for about 15 minutes; again, in theory an irritation, in practice something you accept as an inevitability of urban life.

Until PoodleWoman came along. I wasn't best chuffed when said Poodle took a dump barely ten feet from where we were sitting. I was even less chuffed when it immediately ran over to us and stuck its nose in our food bag. Followed by Poodle Woman herself in no great rush to extricate her dog. Indeed she stood there waiting for us to say "Oodle doodle be my baby gagagagaga ickle cuteywootey." We didn't.

Jimmy told her to take it away. She started saying something resentfully, so I told her to keep her dog under control. Scornfully, she said "I'm supposed to control where the dog goes to the toilet?" I'm sorry I didn't ask her why she wasn't scooping it up - there are bins for that purpose on the Common. Today, someone was probably playing a ball game or letting their child run around in that dog poo (by the way, dogs don't 'go to the toilet'). 

What I did say was that it had stuck its nose in our food bag. She retorted that she had every right. I told her to keep her dog on the lead. As she walked away I said "That's probably what counts for hygiene in her household, letting the dog shit anywhere even when she's preparing food. That's really disgusting. Dirty woman." I did have the satisfaction of watching her shoulders slump as she slinked away; hopefully she felt shame.

Dog poo is disgusting. Indeed any poo from any meat-eating mammal is disgusting. I don't mind horse manure and accept sheep droppings as an inevitable part of the countryside. But dog poo. Eugh. Of course dog owners have the right to exercise their dogs on the Common, I don't dispute that. But rights only exist to the extent they don't interfere with other people's rights - or, to put it bluntly, my right to stick out my arm stops just before my fist hits your face. It is disgraceful when a dog attacks a child; it's disgraceful but inevitable when a dog shits in the open grass - and it's disgusting if the owner fails to pick it up. And it's utterly intolerable that, apparently, we have to put up with other people's dirty animals going through our food. 

I do stop and think - is it something I said, is it something I am doing wrong? Am I sitting in the wrong place, breaking some local unwritten custom-and-practice?

I know we all want our own way all of the time and I have been known to sulk or throw a tantrum when I don't (less so now I'm an adult). But surely, if you use your brain you must realise that it simply isn't possible and it's extremely inconsiderate. Perhaps my problem is that I am a follower of the creed of Deferred Gratification: in other words, by acting in a way that appears to be selfless, I later reap rewards. Obviously, this works best in a fairly closed group: eg if I help someone with a problem say at work, they are likely to help me when I need them maybe two years later, or, at the very least, they speak positively of me to others; that doesn't work so well in wider society. I do firmly believe that if everybody behaved in a fairly considerate way almost all of the time, we would all benefit from society being more harmonious. But that is a big IF because I am having to compete with people who want instant gratification or pursue rational selfishness.

Ironically - and  cross-refer to my post on Streatham Common  - this touches on the theory of The Tragedy of the Commons.

* when we had finished our picnic all the rubbish went in the bin

Streatham Common

But despite the kids from hell - or rather the childminders from hell - we managed to get something out of our visit to Streatham Common.

I am still getting used to my new camera; also I knew straightaway that the light was never going to do me favours (both are just excuses!)

I love it when in the middle of somewhere built up you get a brief glimpse of something that could theoretically be somewhere completely different - this brief stretch of Streatham Common North could easily be in the country

This is me in the Rookery



This is a cherry tree (or so it said on the label!)

This is a bit of a view of the terraced garden, cunningly taken to disguise the skyscrapers of Croydon otherwise visible on the horizon through the blue haze

And this is the bottom end of a fallen tree which has been left to rot away

On Streatham Common

The plan today had been to picnic on Streatham Common. The weather was not in our favour, so instead we had a rather indifferent pub lunch. We decided to walk on the Common, anyway, even if just to avoid the horrendous traffic queues on the High Road and catch a bus home.

For those of you that don't know, Streatham Common is a fairly large piece of green space. It's not massive, but it's certainly not a pocket park. It's certainly plenty big enough for kids to run around, especially on a weekday more-or-less in school term

View Larger Map

We stopped at the café halfway up and went to drink our coffees at the outside tables. I suppose there's about a dozen tables in a fenced-in space, just enough space in between them and no space for any more.

It was fairly busy, a party of five over there, a Mum and baby there, man and dog there, Mum with two quiet sitting children, woman with a book, us, and That Lot. Specifically two women of my age and eight girls age about 7 or 8, running around, screeching, yelling at each other. Perfectly legitimate play, and of course, it's healthy for children to run around. But in totally the wrong place. I had to keep interrupting what I was saying as another brat ran past screaming down my ear-hole.

Jimmy went to the loo, as I turned round yet again to glare at the screaming kids, I realised Woman-With-A-Book was looking exasperated. She turned to me and said "Can't they shut them up, they're completely ignoring them." Emboldened I went up to the women supposedly in charge of them, and said "There's a whole great big Common, do they have run around screaming in here, when people are trying to sit down quietly?"

One of them laughed. Not quite in my face, but clearly she thought it an absolute hoot that these children she was supposedly looking after (but was in fact ignoring) were being pains. So I mimicked her laugh back in her face, and she didn't like that. However, they  decided they were going. "Than God for that!" I exclaimed in a stage whisper. "We get the message," said the other arsehole bitch. But I didn't think they had, because there was no attempt to say to the kids "This isn't the best place to be running around screaming"

In time we finished our coffees and left the café and headed for the Rookery. I love The Rookery, a delightful secret. I don't go often because it's not so close to home; sadly I didn't go often either when it was much closer.

On Been There it says:

A beautiful Victorian garden in the middle of Streatham Common. Queen Victoria visited for the now gone spa waters  Tranquil even at the height of summer, an oasis in the middle of south London.

Indeed, outside is a sign saying in big letters "This is a quiet garden" and lists the activities that aren't permitted. It doesn't actually say 'No Noisy Brats' or even 'All children should be kept on leads' but *everyone* knows that people go there to read or contemplate.

But not this lot, oh no. The ghastly women sat on a bench on the terrace and the kids ran amok screaming their heads off as they chased round, their noise echoing round the natural bowl or amphitheatre. We tried to get away from them, not entirely possible because they were so loud, and when we returned to the main drag, we saw several independent adults looking at them, in annoyance or bewilderment; something was said, and suddenly, they cleared off again. 

This makes me really angry. As I say, I do think kids should get out and run around. There's a large well-equipped children's playground, there is a large open green space, so why they hell are they doing their running around specifically in areas not designed for it.

I am sick and tired of going out to places and having what should be a relaxing walk or sit-down ruined by out-of-control, atrociously parented children. I know I am not alone in this. I only had to look at the faces of the other café customers and the body-language of the other people in the Rookery that I am very much not alone in this.

It was abundantly clear to me that the ridiculous bints supposedly in charge of these children did not have the slightest clue what the matter was. These were women who knew each other via NCT classes and were dressed very presentably in clothes from shops such as Next, M&S: almost certainly educated and seemingly fairly prosperous.

Exactly the sort of people who complain loudly at how child-unfriendly Britain is. These ghastly women have probably ended up at home moaning to their husbands (who probably don't get home until after the children have gone to bed!) at how hostile everybody is to us 'just because we've got children'.

These two women were supposed to be looking after other people's children. I am not sure whether they were doing it for pay, or as part of a reciprocal arrangement, or as a favour (perhaps the school has failed to open, unexpectedly). But they were failing in their duty. These children encouraged to behave as if the world revolves around them grow up into teenagers and then adults who retain a sense of entitlement and are utterly bewildered as the rest of the world turns against them in hostility and disgust.

I think it's extremely unfair that these people behave like this. Not surprisingly, there were several elderly people in the Rookery; don't they have as much right to their relaxation as these kids?

It's very unfair to the children whose parents do know how to parent - the two sat quietly in the  café, or the little boy walking round the gardens with his nanny. It's unfair to anybody who has gone to the Rookery specifically for its advertised 'quiet' and its reputation for tranquillity.

And, actually, it's very unfair to the children themselves. They are not being taught about boundaries, about how we co-exist in a crowded city on a small island, or about consideration for others. It's all very well being right-on and going to NCT classes, but parenting doesn't stop there. I suspect that the children get a very clear message of being marginal to the lives of the adults who couldn't care less about them, who refuse to communicate or engage with them.

 

Splishy-splashy

There is a bit of a swimming crisis in South London. Unfortunately, the epicentre is pretty close to me.

So, let us take stock.

• Streatham Pool: closed, for Health and Safety, should have been completely rebuilt years ago, but the finance was via a deal with Tesco, who have been dilatory and recalcitrant;
• Clapham Pool: closed in order to be knocked down and rebuilt;
• Brockwell Lido and Tooting Bec Lido, both outdoors and unheated, and open only to members in the winter;
• Brixton Recreation Centre: currently having the Wetside changing rooms refurbished, meaning that swimmers have to change in the cramped conditions on the 6th floor and descend by stairs to the Pool on the 4th floor, also leading to limited opening hours - although not as limited as the propagandist agitators would have you believe*

Knowing that Brixton is a bit crowded, and not especially wanting to parade around in public half-naked**, I thought I would try:

•  Queen Mother Sports Centre which is near work, but closes at 7.30pm, no good for me if I finish at 6.30
• Balham, which is a little bit out of my way: closes at 6.30 pm

I thought to myself it's always better to go to an open pool than one that is closed, for whatever reason. So I went to Brixton. And it was okay. For the first two lengths. Then the disco music started, loud, so loud that people started shouting to each other. The Aquarobics arrived and took over the entire 'recreation' lane, 40% of the pool for 10% of the users. Stupid bloody activity anyway, Aquarobics. Learn to swim, not ponce around!

And the 'music' has a beat. I don't know about you, but whenever I hear a persistent dominant beat, I have to move in time to it. It's a fairly well observed phenomenon of crowds walking/marching etc. Trouble was, it was a bit too fast for my comfort, so there I was swimming faster and faster.

And just for good measure there was a man. It wasn't really his fault; by rights he should have been in the recreational swimming area, but he was slow. But I kept getting stuck behind him. Overtaking shouldn't have been a problem, because he was that slow. But he was so splashy, and then there was such a wake from the Aquarobics class that I felt like a little boat being buffetted on the sea, conscious that if I didn't get a move on, faster than the beat of the music that was too fast for me, anyway, there'd be someone coming up behind wanting to overtake me overtaking him.

Still, I got my arse into gear, refused to believe the lies of those with an agenda, and it's so easy once you get back into the habit! And I feel good.

* someone is Twittering as 'Brixton Recreation Centre' and claiming it's only open for one hour in the morning; that isn't true. What is true is that it is limited to schools and other lesons during the rest of the day, but re-opens for general admission at 6.30, and closes, I think at 10.00 pm (but why let facts  spoil a good story!)

** it's not actually a problem, it's down the back stairs, not the main ones, and you only encounter other people parading half-naked

Why I love Brixton

It's like when you love a man; yes, you can see the flaws but you love despite, because of, regardless of them. It really is love at first sight. I think I decided in 1984 I was in love with Brixton, even though, as a streatham resident I didn't actually get selected until 1993 and didn't take up residence until 1995.

I love Brixton because it has two hundred years of crap architecture visible as you drive round the residential side road.

 I love Brixton because you sit on the bus and listen to the two women behind learning Spanish by reading Oscar Wilde's Fairy Tales with English on one page and Spanish on another. A white baby with a white Mum, sitting on Mum's back wrapped in an African-style papoose shawl, watches them absolutely entranced.

 I go to the crappy local flea-pit cinema for an HD live from NY of Rosenkavalier and bump into a member of Lambeth Labour. The tills aren't working and I tut at the half-wit who needs a calculate to work out the cost of 3 glasses of wine at £4.20 each.

I go to a backstreet pub and sit up at the bar, smoking (sssshhhhh!) while the jike box plays classic 50s Rock 'n' Roll plus (the two) Greatest Hits of Dr. Hook. Yeah, kind of random...

I pass the "West Indian Continental Grocery" and the Fairy Lights still illuminating the trees of Central Brixton. The cab-driver's music proclaims "Our God is an awesome God" - the music is shit, but, somehow I love it, because it's Brixton I love. Half one in the morning and people are still moving around on foot. Rush Common is beautiful with its thin veneer of snow - sod it, Rush Common is beautiful full stop, this long thin strip of green that gives lungs to the congested A23, makes us different from every other arterial road.

I know just about every problem that besets Brixton, the  poverty, the violence, the absence of hope. But for me, Brixton is the greatest town on earth. Above all, it's home!

Cattle troughs on the Common - 365/10

Jimmy thinks this is the best photo I took on Saturday

whereas I prefer this one

Mind you, I haven't yet edited the ones I took round the City!

These were taken on small exclave of Clapham Common, where the old-fashioned entrance to the Tube and the old public conveniences are situated.

More about the Metropolitan Drinking Fountain and Cattle Trough Association

It lives on as the Drinking Fountain Association, its work still relevant today.

Sheer utter chaos and panic!

Jimmy and I went swimming yesterday. It was very strange. We rounded the corner from Brixton Road to Brixton Station Approach and were met by flurries of snow.

Afterwards we caught the bus to Clapham. I cannot remember at what stage I became aware of the snow as being a settled thing. Perhaps there wasn't any when we initially got there. We ate in Gastro which is quirky and worthwhile. Then it began to snow. Enough for me to write my initials on the table outside. As I was putting my coat on the woman on the table next to me said something about the snow being heavy, which I replied something like, it's not too bad, it will get worse, before turning round to see a veritable snowstorm outside the window.

On the way to the Tube photos were taken, but only with my crappy phone camera

 

Further photos were taken when we got off the bus. Then when I got home I changed to my proper camera.

We settled down for a night's TV viewing; when we went to bed I noticed that my footsteps in the garden had been covered over.

I was awoken by the alarm, and then by being brought a cup of tea, and finally by a scraping noise outside. My father used to get annoyed by pensioners who misguidedly scrape away the snow thinking it will clear it, only to create a surface that will freeze over and be even more treacherous. Dear Reader, I married one...(well, not married, but you know what I mean). I was not happy, not least because it reduced the aesthetic appeal of the garden.

I realised that this is the heaviest snowfall ever since I've lived in Gert Cottage. It might have been heavier in 2003 when we were in Sharm, sitting round the pool in our swimwear laughing bout the TV pictures from back home.

I read subsequently that this is the worst in London since 1991. I remember it well. I was living in Westcliff but had been on audit to the Isle of Man. Weather conditions were perfect at Ronaldsway. sunny, dry, and mild, but we were delayed a long time because of snow at Heathrow. Eventually we were flown to Southampton - being very short haul we were given low priority in favour of long haul. I could not get a train back to Essex that night - it was, famously, 'the wrong kind of snow'.

Jimmy went out to get milk only to find that both Tesco and Happy Shopper are shut. He says people are falling down on the pavements (wrong shoes, I opine) and cars are slipping on the roads (shouldn't be in a car of you can't cope with the road conditions, I opine).

I read on the web that the London bus network is suspended  (as of 11.30 there are a small number of routes in Central London). I have a hair appointment later. I feel foolish ringing up to ask 'are you open?' yet I have tried several times with no reply - so not so foolish!

Ringing from the landline, obviously because the mobile network won't work! I have to say that I am incredibly pissed off. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not having a go at the individuals who run my hairdressers; they have presumably made a decision based upon facts not apparent to me - like an absence of buses in Streatham - but my hair is seriously in need of being done. I thought maybe I'd go swimming instead. And the website says Brixton Rec is open. But the thought of the walk down there (And even worse, back up hill) doesn't thrill me. I know it sounds ludicrous, but although I quite enjoy walking, I do not like it on the concrete pavements of London, and especially not up Brixton Hill, which is sad because I live at the top of Brixton Hill.  I'm pondering whether to cycle down to Tooting Common (purely in the service of blogging).

And I can't get a satellite signal, either, which I assume is weather-related. The pissy thing is that I can't even access the menu of programmes already saved to the Hard Drive. Well, at least I am not being forced to watch the Jeremy Kye show, unlike a friend of mine, who has illness as an excuse.

Monday Leisure

I didn't get told off in the swimming pool today, despite the fact that I got an even bigger float, shaped like a duck, and lay back to rest. That was because I did it while the Lifeguard-who-examines-her-nails  was on duty. Another woman got told off, though, by Jobsworth-Lifeguard-with-A-Whistle, and was told 'floats only in the small pool'. Okay, maybe it's a rule, but it's a stupid rule, and it's not advertised. There's a fast lane, a middle lane, a slow lane and an area clearly for 'messing about'. There were two people in the slow lane, so need for anyone to do lengths in the 'messing about' area.

Jobsworth cleared up all the toys from alongside the big pool, even the armbands that look like dumbbells that someone had been using for a bit of an non-ostentatious aqua-workout. A bunch of six pre- or barely-teens got told off for using floats in the big pool. Then for playing volleyball over the fence between the small and big pools. Then when they gathered at the deep end and took turns to jump in...just copying me - I'd warned them I make a big splash and they seemed determined to outsplash me (never succeeded...!)...he got really agitated. I got a distinct sense that the six kids, the two women in their 20s/30s, and me all got an attitude that we were going to be the naughty kids defying teacher. We didn't have a problem with the kids, no it seemed did the two women. All the small kids and parents were in the Teaching Pool. If I had found the kids annoying, I could have stayed down the shallow end or gone in the slow lane.

Afterwards, in the showers, two women were saying how much nicer they are than the showers at Clapham. Agreed. Not least the fact that each shower is in a cubicle, also that you don't look strange if you get your kit off to shower (Clapham is like Sale, too genteel, shower with one's costume on). They were however lamenting that Clapham is closing down  - it's a shame they have to do it all at once, can't they stagger it. So I said - they're knocking it down, and one of them said, no they have to keep the shell because it's listed. Oh right, okay, I said, and thought 'but even if you keep the shell you can't partially gut the inside, or maybe you can, but you end up making compromises in the re-modelling'.

But the internet says it will be knocked down. I think I like the idea of glass frontage. Although a Muslim friend pointed out to me several years ago that Peckham Splash is glass-fronted, which makes it unsuitable for Moslem women, although they do steam the glass up for Women Only sessions, but sometimes they forget. I did read somewhere that there is still one pool to be identified for 2012 training. Maybe that will be Clapham. Perhpas we can arrange for the Australian and US teams to train there, and host them in tents on Clapham Common, like the passengers from the Windrush.

After swimming we went to Halfords, where Jimmy ordered a bike. Basically, we are due to collect his 'n' hers matching bikes. How romantic...

We then went to Currys to buy a coffee machine. We saw one we liked, but it was the end of the line. They were prepared to knock £30 off, but it was incomplete - would have been a deal if we were replacing like with like. I decided instead to source it on the internet. Until I checked out the internet and discovered that the desired model wasn't so desirable after all. It uses coffee pods - which is just stupid. Further examination of the internet revealed this to be quite common. Of all the stupid ideas. Talk about limiting your choice...Jimmy says it's just an excuse to over-charge you for crap coffee. I don't suppose there'smuch in the way of Organic and/or FairTrade coffee pods. So, time to think again.

Chaos in Brixton

I have to confess to stupid naive inappropriateness.

There were scenes of chaos in the centre in Brixton this evening when I emerged from the Tube. The main crossroads was cordoned off, with heavy police presence, as well as fire engines, ambulances, a prison van and even the air ambulance.

Buses were running, but spasmodically, and packed to the gunwales, so like so many other people I decided the best thing was to walk. Up hill. It took a bit over half an hour. Would have taken less time if I hadn't paused to twit and take photos rest. The photos are just from my phone, so not great. Obviously if I had had my real camera I would have forced my way through the crowds of people gathering to stand and gawp. I would have said "Let me through, I'm one of Brixton's leading bloggers".

Fortunately it was a pleasant evening to stroll up the hill. Indeed, I had caught the bus and Tube with a colleague and we had been having that self-same conversation. I was faintly amused to notice that everyone, up or down, was walking on the left hand pavement. I don't suppose many held a realistic hope of catching a bus; there comes a point where it's barely worthwhile.

I've been home nearly an hour now. Whether it's because I'm more alert or whether it's an actual fact - plus we actually have the back door open - but there seems to have been more than average sirens.

And then I get home, fire up the PC and discover what actually happened:  Woman is killed under prison van

The Brixton getting off the bus routine

is something that has fascinated me for at least eleven years.

Brixton is the Southern end of the Victoria Line, and south of Brixton, London Underground is sparse. The Northern Line, ironically, ventures further south; my nearest Underground station is Clapham South.But the bus service is crap and walk, no thank you.

Brixton is in the hustle and bustle of the Metropolis. Vibrant and diverse, deprived and prosperous, seedy and glamorous. All bus routes converge on Brixton, many terminate. In peak times buses traverse Brixton Hill on average every minute and generally arrive in Brixton Standing Room Only. At which point, even if the bus isn't terminating, most people get off. To go to work in Brixton, to change buses, or more likely to go to the Tube station. I was told that other than the Mainline termini and the Zone 1 interchanges (Oxford Circus, Piccadilly Circus, Green Park etc), Brixton is the busiest London Underground Station.

Thousands of people disgorge.

A recipe for chaos. It's London, where everyone is rude. It's Brixton, where cultures clash, where Respec' is demanded, not earned or given, it's often violent, Darwinian, intimidating.

And yet there is this amazing system. Typically, the stairs are one-third of the way back, so two queues form, one from the rear and one from the front. Right and left. And more often than not, a lot more often than not, we take turns. Rear. Front. Right. Left. Rear. Left. A parent and child classes as one. Rear. Front. Right. Left. Sometimes it gets broken, someone jumps their turn and is glared at. Sometimes someone is too polite, lets through too many from the other side.

This is an organic system coming up from the street (well, technically, going down to the road, but a paradoxical metaphor can work, can't it?). There are no signs to suggest it - unlike the self-regulating escalator rule of 'stand on the right' - and I have never seen a reference to it in writing. Who invented it? How does it pass from one generation to the next? Eleven years I've been doing it. some of my fellow commuters were still at Primary School then, many of the schoolies were still in nappies. And yet it perpetuates, because it makes sense, because people feel comfortable with it, people sense that it is fair.

Sometimes it is too easy to find the bad in people, individuals or collectively. And yet a collective of people male and female, all ages, many ethnicities and nationalities, all classes, trades and professions, thousands upon thousands of them, year in year out, understand, obey and enforce the Brixton getting off the bus routine. I think it is quite a profound experience.

Course, having wrote this, next time I'm getting off the bus, I'll be barged and pushed by an unholy alliance of a posh black Jamaican pensioner, a male Polish chav with a disability, a gay Portuguese teenage boy, and a English male manual worker with a buggy.

Local characters

Inspired by Inspector Sands, being a Brixtonian, I could not resist...

Brixton Tube has two main ones, the woman who plays the comb. A colleague asked me what all that is about; I explained, 'she plays the comb'. Why? 'Because that's what she does'. There is the black man on a bike, whose name I know from the police but why post it? He used to cycle up and down the stretch of Brixton Road between the Tube and Kentucky Fried Rat selling TDK cassettes and muttering. Now that market has dried up, he just mutters. His muttering is virulently anti-white but he's seriously deluded rather than agitating racial hatred. Alan has moved on. I know his name because the staff at Brixton Tube used the Public Address system to ask him to stop pouring lager into the ticket machines.

The Christians come in all shapes and forms; I suspect most of the street evangelists are themselves victims of brainwashing by evangelical cults who prey on the vulnerable. There's one who paces up-and-down outside Kentucky Fried Rat, alternating out-of-tune belting-with-full-lungs snatches of some Revivalist hymn, with an increasing desperate exhortation to us to repent of our sins. There used to be a man outside the Tube who repeated ad nauseam "Repent, these are the Last Days, repent these are the Last Days." He's moved on.

In my immediate neighbourhood there's the hat woman. In winter she is never out without one of those 70s style pseudo-Russian fake fur hats. In summer, her shower cap. We also used to have the woman who murdered her husband, but sadly she has moved on to join him. Used to be a teacher.

On Streatham Hill there is the bus spotter. Often spotted outside Brixton garage, sometimes on buses. Keeps a record in his notebook of all the buses that go past. 159, 57, 137, 59, 118, 417.

There's the guy who hangs out at the Big Junction, offering to wash your windscreen (how 90s!), but he lacks squeegee or bucket. He also runs with the traffic, a look in his eyes of a petrified rabbit caught in the headlights. I've seen him running with the traffic along the A23 desperate to get out of the traffic, unable to calculate that a swiftturn to right or left would get him there, especiallyover the pedestrian crossing which happens to have a green man showing...

Then there's C. When I first moved to Streatham I immediately clocked him as the Village Idiot, and found nothing to change my view. I was really quite shocked to learn he is the partner of a LibDem ex-councillor and erstwhile Parliamentary Candidate for elsewhere, who is very nice, highly qualified, highly intelligent and conscientious. C. gets on buses, sees small children sitting quietly with parents and embarks into a rant at the parents for their audacity in bringing their foetuses into public.

Then there's the pimps, petty thieves, nutters, prostitutes and con-merchants, but less said about my friends the better..

London Life

On my bus this morning there was one remaining seat upside, inside of a man. I said "Excuse me" and he stood up to let me sit on the inside. I'd rather people didn't, but he was a good bit over six foot, so I can understand the legroom issue, although I dismiss it as a minor matter. What was bizarre was that he continued to stand for the journey from Vauxhall Bus Station over a slow moving Vauxhall Bridge (I'd hate to be on a fast-moving bridge) and along Millbank to the Tate Gallery. It has entirely flummoxed me why he was unable to sit down. Or chose not to. Let alone that he shouldn't have been standing upstairs.

In the Early Nineties, I was in a conversation with a former Lambeth Councillor (one of Ted Knight's surcharged/disqualified brigade, but that's a whole different story!) and I was, of course, a future Lambeth councillor. He was reflecting on how the Lambeth Work Ethic permeated all levels of society. He likened service in Brixton McDonalds to that in Communist Eastern Germany. I had to laugh; McDonalds in Brixton - Customer? Service?

In a total non-sequitur, there is a Tesco in the next building along from my workplace which is spectacularly bad at doing what they exist to do - take money. I have been long-changed at least twice and I am not alone. A colleague sought my advice on a dilemma today - despite buying a sandwich, a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar, he was charged for two chocolate bars and the crisps and no sandwich. He's among the most honest people I know and he was feeling guilty.

I said if Tesco paid decent wages they would get a better quality of staff; if it were a small private business of course he should go back, but he should strike a blow of civil disobedience and chip away at the edifice of Global Capitalism "But I would say that, wouldn't I?" This chap is a little hard of hearing, so my voice was raised, and about five people looked at me startled. To my consternation, I realised that I did not look like the sort of person who would be attacking the edifice of global capitalism.

On my journey home, something very unusual, especially for peak time, happened - there were no red or amber signals between Stockwell and Brixton, so the train sped the journey. The slight slope down into Brixton and the slithering to a rapid halt was the most exciting ride on public transport since I used to stand on the platform of Routemasters speeding round Trafalgar Square - before it was reconfigured and Routemasters abolished - almost as good as Chessington World of Adventures!

The woman in front of me stuck a card in the frame of each alternative advert on the escalator. I've never seen anyone do that before, despite the proliferation of stickers, cards etc I see frequently. And I've never seen anyone graffiti, or at least, not since some friends acquaintances decided to deface the back of a bus seat in about 1980, in a typically suburban-girlie way, with biros...

I waited at the bus stop for a "Round The Corner" bus, but it never came, so I got on a 'straight-to-Streatham' one instead. When I got off it was lashing it down, but bizarrely, before I got home, the sun was bright and almost warm. Yesterday, I waited in the rain for "Round the Corner" and by the time it got almost to my door, the rain had stopped.

Built environment

I have moaned on occasion about the monstrous carbuncle that is being built on my doorstep. I objected to the plans; our objections were only partly successful in that we succeeded in having some of the bulk reduced. We are currently experiencing stress as a result of the building works - having left the bedroom window a centimetre open last night I was duly awoken at three minutes past eight by intolerable noise coming from the building site. But I know that will pass eventually.

I accept that I am particularly resentful because this is an inappropriate building in an inappropriate setting. It fronts onto Streatham Place, the South Circular, but it backs onto an enclave of cottages - mine is from the 1830s, a neighbour's is from the 1780s, and there is no indication that the developers gave a stuff about respecting a rare gem in the cityscape.

I also recognise that there is a desperate need for more housing, and I do believe that where possible, it should be built on brownfield sites. Nor am I so naive that I don't understand the basics of capitalism and the economic system.

The whole process so far has been illuminating. The derisory consultation they undertook only after their initial plans had been rejected, and they realised that they were dealing with articulate educated people rather than what they had no doubt assumed, apathetic thickos. The absolute lack of communication from the company involved in developing the site, NacNiven and Cameron, and their disgrace of a project manager, Stuart Fanti, whose response to any suggestion that they act as Considerate Builders and Good Neighbours has been met with a standard response of "We are working within the law". Yes, of course, Stuart, actually you're not. Noise from the site starts at 7.15 am. A suggestion from me that the company should offer some gesture of Goodwill has been stonewalled - perhaps an offer to clean the house once a month, including the windows, the car, and the soft furnishings has been ignored.

There has never been an attempt to communicate with the local residents - all approaches have been made by us, searching on the net for their details. Naturally, they fail to respond on Saturdays, because that's not a working day, despite the fact they are happy to have noisy machinery working on site. They have deliberately positioned their noisy machinery at the rear of the site, with some lame excuse about deliveries,  demonstrating utter contempt for their neighbours.

They really do not care about the neighbourhood; once the ugly box is built, they will leave the site and move on, and it doesn't matter. They have an "artist's impression" of what the site will look like when finished, complete with twee pictures of people strolling happily on the street. All white. It's only a small point, but this is Brixton. Of no consequence but clearly indicative of the contempt in which they hold the local area. But they don't even know that they're in Brixton, choosing to describe it as Streatham. I also love the way they fail to represent the reality of the traffic congestion that creates bumper-to-bumper gridlock for two hours in the morning and evening, right outside the development. Not much point having car parking if you can't get in or out at school-run/travel-to-work time.

But that is all transitory. They describe the development as

Built, designed and finished to a high specification, Thirty Streatham Place's range of apartments will exceed your expectations

Well, I have been watching these flats being jerry-built over the past few months and even without any specialist expertise I can see that they are shonky. Since when has metal girders surrounded by breeze blocks, with a thin veneer of brickwork been high specification? As for the concrete...! Further along the South Circular the NDC is embarking on a £100 million plus scheme to demolish many blocks of flats because of the fundamental structural and safety problems presented by spalling concrete - this site from "The Concrete Centre -  the central development organisation for the UK cement and concrete industry" suggests strongly that the prevention of spalling is work in progress.

And yet they are marketing these as luxury apartments. I really can't see how they differ from the damp uninhabitable council flats that will be demolished further along the road, except that they will be selling for a third of a million. And some suckers are going to be suckered into buying them. They'll probably get 99-year leases, which won't be worth the paper they're written on, because they will have to be demolished about the time  my brick-built  freehold cottage reaches its bicentenary.  I cannot see the attraction of living in a steel-framed  concrete sarcophagus, but then I live in a properly built house.

And their website doesn't even mention the problems with the water table in the area, caused by the local underground river, the cessation of heavy water-intensive industry (the tannery and brewery) and the Artesian wells, nor the fact that rain water from, for example, my property, drains onto their site.

Hello Google.

My bus stop

Bus shelter 222, Brixton Hill, Brixton. Historical Brixton - old and new photos of Brixton, Lambeth, London, SW9 and SW2

Searching for something else, I encountered a photo of my bus stop, in 1939 and 2004. Slight error in the caption, the post box has moved a few yards to the right out of shot.

I keep meaning to explore the Urban75 website in a lot more detail.

Another view of near where I live

There's the Lost Pubs of Brixton When I was Town Hall Ward councillor I always fancied doing a pub crawl of all the pubs in my ward. I reckoned it would be Town Hall Social club (closed), Branksome Arms (yuppy flats), Hope and Anchor, Duke of Cornwall (closing or closed), Royal Oak (closed), Red Lion (now a Caribbean restaurant), Prince of Wales, Waggon and Horses (closed), Hand in Hand, Sultan, Telegraph (trendy nightclub), George IV (trendy nightclub), Windmill, White Horse (trendy nightclub), Hope (became a vodka bar, dunno what it is now, I haven't been past in years), Fridge (trendy nightclub) and Mass/Crypt (trendy nightclub, restaurant, and opera company).

That's responsible local politics for you.

Being that I'm not a trendy nightclubber, you can imagine it would be somewhat less exciting now. Besides, the ward boundaries and name changed. And I'm semi-detached from the political process; although a chance encounter with a senior local councillor the other day conformed to me that my political instincts are as finely tuned as ever...!

One Five Nine

It's become rather strange.

The 38 has died and been reborn as a bendy.

Just one bus route remains as a Routemaster.

It's a little snapshot of my life.

When I was a child and lived way oop north, we would occasionally visit relatives in Thornton Heath - or Forn Eaf, as it's more properly known.

In those days, the 159 ran from Thornton Heath Pond to St John's Wood. Past the Oval, over Westminster Bridge, round Trafalgar Square, to Madame Tussauds, and I expect, to Lords and Abbey Road Studios.

Bu the time I moved to Streatham, the 139 had been invented and the 159 was running from Streatham Garage to Baker Street. Streatham Garage's closed, so the 159 is based at Brixton Garage, confusingly situated on Streatham Hill. However, there are too many buses for Brixton Garage and they were causing congestion on the A23. So there is now an overflow Brixton Garage, on Brixton Garage, in the old LCC tramsheds

When I lived in Streatham, near St Leonard's, to get the 159 often meant the day started well. It sped up Streatham High Road, and often stopped at the lights right outside Streatham Hill station, sometimes making the difference between catching that train or having to wait as much as 19 minutes for the next one. Conversely, how irritating is it to be on a 159 that decides to change its driver and guard at Brixton Garage, when all you want to do is pop down to buy a few things in Streatham.

Anachronistically, the ticket machine on a 159 cannot distinguish between peak and off-peak, so if you get that bus, as opposed to any other, before 9.30, your Oyster Prepaid only debits the off-peak fare. It all comes out on the wash by the end of the day, though, as Oyster caps my prepay to the Travelcard rate. I no longer even monitor my Oyster; every ten days or so, I get an email to say that £20 has transferred from my bank account to my Oyster Card. Cool, or what (I got a free tenner the first time I did this...).

A certain non-Observant newspaper claimed yesterday that the demise of the 38 was the end of Routemasters in London. Lazy journalism. Pretty much par for the course.

I'm angry that we have our residential Unit Conference on the days leading up to 9 December. Yes, I'll be home by the evening. But by then it will be too late. It will be a Big Day. And I shall miss it. The 159 is, technically, my home-to-work bus, although I rarely use it as such.

I don't know if we go bendy or double-decker.

Progress must proceed. The Routemasters are narrow, probably not fuel efficient, not especially accessible, and dangerous, it seems, as people fall off the back. Their advantages in easy-boarding and speed down the roads are being eroded, rightly, with the reduction - and, in the central area, elimination - of cash fares on board. With an Oyster prepay, there is no need to pay a cash fare. With improved bus lanes, especially on the A23 and over Vauxhall Bridge, there is a distinct advantage in travelling by bus, any bus.

But the Routemasters are iconic. My Grandad used to drive one in Salford. I have three toy Routemasters on display in my home.

Just 39 days to go

Diamond Geezer blogs the 38 by Routemaster and Bendybus