Gertsamtkunstwerk

A riverside walk

I often go out for the day, on the bike or walking. And I usually take photos. In general, I take many more photos in the summer, and I don't always get round to editing the full set until the Autumn or Winter. I am now learning at least to write about the walk, and save it as draft, until the photos are ready. But I didn't think about that back in July.

I could try and write now about a walk that happened more than six months ago, but it would just be a series of 'And then I we went there, and then we went there. And then, and then'.

We walked from Teddington to Twickenham. And, on another day, from Twickenham to Richmond.

So, instead, I give you:

Boats moored at Teddington

Lavender

Lock

Boatyard

Nymphs

 Duck on tyre

 Star and Garter

I didn't even tweet much that first day because I realised just as we were going out that my phone battery was nearly flat and I wanted to conserve it for more utilitarian purposes. On the second part of the outing, coming the weekend after the riots I only seemed to get excited by being escorted across the road by a very visible police presence!

More photos of this day out and others in the photo album London, with more detailed commentary! Also Boats and ships, Water fowl, Naked statues

Separately, I added 3 more photos to Wandle Way, one of the (many) secret treasures of wonderful South London. We cycled along it, so not really ideal for photography or tweeting! 

Wandle Way tweets:

• Cycling the Wandle Way. Coffee break at Merton Abbey Mills #lovelondon
• I suspect by the end of the day I shall be even more brown of face &arms. #easytan
• "Jimmy, my bike's broke. I need a man". Oops #gertfail
• Bike fixed now. As if by magic
• Hackbridge Station, the arse-end of the back of beyond. Only the two of us on platform but they play 'report suspicious behaviour', anyway.
• Home. The cycle ride equivalent of a ramble, a limber-up. Except for huffing and puffing up Nightingale Lane #outofcondition #wandleway

Some of my photo albums are in strict chronological order (some forward and some backward) and others reflect the order in which I uploaded the photos when I first opened this my third blog - and subsequently added to, or not. Confused? Yes, I am!

Blockers on public transport

I'm somewhat in rant mode. I had a perfectly lovely evening out yesterday and to my relief and delight, the transport to and home was swift and undelayed.

But I have a major gripe. Blockers.

I fully understand that there are people who, due to restricted mobility, or encumbered with buggies, luggage or shopping can't always progress as fast as me, and that's fine.

I caught the bus on Millbank outside Parliament. As it was full downstairs, I managed to squeeze past the standing hordes and follow another woman up the stairs. She reached the top of the stairs, and just stood there. And stood there. And stood there. I asked if there were any seats spare upstairs. Yes she said, and heaved her enormous bulk up to the top deck and let me past, obviosuly surprised that anyone would rather sit on a single seat upstairs than stand on the stairs, just because she obviously needed a double seat! 

At Covent Garden, I had the misfortune to follow a 'family' into the station. Mother father and 7-year old daughter. I'm not aggressive or a bully, and certainly understand it's horrible for small children to be crushed in such a space, so I didn't shove my way past them. But there was no one going through the ticket barriers as this couple stood admiring the view and the child just stopped to read her Lion King programme, perhaps too young to understand she was blocking the way, but too young to be allowed inot a Tube station reading without her parents supervising her. I squeezed cautiously in between them and the father glared at me, as he continued to stand aimlessly by the ticket barrier.

Into the lift, which has plenty of room. I am glared at by a chap who has seemingly left this space in order to be near the exit of the lift. Clearly ignorant about the lifts at Covent Garden, he was actually facing the back entrance, oblivious to everyone else facing forward to the exit, and was positioned to be last out. And he had the nerve to glare at me, just because I think as many people as possible should get into each lift at busy times such as this, especially when there's a reduced lift service!

Down the stairs into the platform, oh, but I have to stop because two frumpy middle-aged women have decided to stop there and wait for their friends. It didn't seem to occur to them that roughly half the people pouring down the stairs might want the SouthWest bound platform. I muttered 'Stupid place to stand' and pushed past them, to sour looks at my rudeness...like I care!

The train comes into the station. I'm right at the end of the platform, where the nearly empty front carriage stops. Nearly empty but for two twenty-something men who decide they just want to hang out of the door to take a look at the platform, oblivious of me waiting patiently to board, not having the basic intelligence/decency to move a little, to let me on.

Change at Green Park to the Victoria Line. The seats of the carriage I choose are only half full, the way to them blocked by dithery middle-aged blokes who, having got as far as Green Park, are anxious they might not get out at Victoria, and ignorant that the train goes to Brixton and so might some of the passengers. I should not have to push my way round people blocking the aisle to reach one of many empty seats. They did get off at Victoria, at the end of a once-a-year trip to London where the locals are savage and expect to be able to sit down on seats

Stockwell, where I change to the Northern Line. The train seems absolutely packed, people hanging out the doors. Until I look more closely, acres of standing room between the seats and the young trendy posh stupid Claphamers unable to move down. I overhear four of them, they really are nervous at missing their stop. They're not even sure what is their stop. Maybe the next one. Oh, wait, no, the one after. Oh we'd better stand right next to the door so we can get out. They were getting out at Clapham Common, FFS, where a lot of people get out. Sometimes half the carriage! And when they do get off (having realised they've been hugging the wrong door!), they just stand on the platform preventing anyone else from getting off.

I fully accept that I have a bit of a bad attitude in that I'm an experienced traveller on London Underground. I'm prepared to stand if needs be, I'm prepared to wait for the next lift or train if absolutely necessary. But I'm simply not prepared to be inconvenienced solely because of the selfish stupidity of people who think a bit too highly of themselves and don't see the need to consider others' needs in an overcrowded city with ramshackle infrastructure. It's not actually that difficult, if you use your eyes, watch what the majority of other people are doing, understand that people might want to get onto the platform, or the train, or into a seat.

Rant over!

River Life

Time and again I am drawn back to the River Thames. So many different ways to see it, at different times of year. I could write paragraphs of clichés about 'a great river...ever-changing yet remains the same...life-blood of a city...heartbeat of a nation'

Historically, towns - that became cities - were built by rivers (if not by the sea). It's only very recently that it's become easier to travel by water than by land. In ancient times maritime communities had excellent communications with other maritime communities.

And the Thames is the nearest river of any significance to where I live.

On one stifling hot day in April, we spent some time on the river. We started at a pub near Vauxhall, in the St. George Wharf. I can see the attraction of it, a very large place close to the river,and maybe we just got unlucky with the bar staff who didn't seem to have a clue about the product she was selling and laughed at us for asking to buy - for money - the beverages of our choice which her employer stocked to be sold, for money.

So after one drink we left the pub and went to look at the river. It's changed since then; amongst other things, they've built a pier, due to open imminently.

The tide was low and what looked like a crane on a barge was moored, seemingly left high-and-dry.

For April, the weather was stunningly gorgeous, although in the morning it was still hazy enough to shed a photogenic light on Battersea Power Station.

I also discovered that each of the arches of Vauxhall Bridge is decorated with a relief of a human figure.

We then went into Central London. It was horrendous, all the tourists converging on Westminster Bridge, many of them acting like utter morons, not even capable of crossing roads and making you wonder whether they should be allowed out unsupervised.

We waited for seeming ages for a boat. There was a problem with it being an exceptionally low tide and boats were delayed,and they were going as far as Kew, not to Hampton Court. But eventually it left, and we had a pleasant cruise in the sunshine, and I took lots of photos, some of them just to tell a story.

I like the Thames as a working river - the refuelling barges the fire rescue station in front of the headquarters of the International Maritime Organisation and, as I fondly believe, oil rigs, which will eventually make us all rich!

Then there are the derelict-pending-redevelopment Power Stations at Battersea and Lots Road in Hammersmith

There are modern developments on both banks - Norman Foster's Albion Wharf and Chelsea Harbour

We ended up in a pub in Kew called the Botanist on the Green, which turned out to be a disappointment. I started with a deep-fried cheese affair which tasted better than it looked but I followed with fish and chips. The presentation made you think they cared enough about being poncey to care about the food but this was the second attempt after I'd sent the first one back for being smothered with salt to the exclusion of all other taste. Even after complaining it still had salt, visible for the sharp-eyed I can only assume they powered on the salt to disguise the taste of food about to go off. Jimmy said I would have found his fish and seafood dish too salty, too.

When we were joined in the garden by a South-West London family from hell, we knew it was time to leave. You know the sort. Bloke sits there bellowing into his phone how he'd been playing tennis all day and been away in Moscow for several days buying vodka.Heleft and returned half an hour later carrying a new-born baby held with his arms out in front of him so that everyone could note and admire his virility. Behind him followed the wife, clearly exhausted, struggling with buggy, bags, football etc, followed by two very bored Infant School kids, who were ignored by the boastful shouting father and the exhausted mother, so they noisily kicked their football round the beer garden which was laid out for eating, not a kids' playground. I expect he had brought them to the pub as a grand gesture to save the wife from cooking. Not that I feel sorry for her. She married him, possibly just for his earning power, and she's stuck with him for several years and three children.

It was nice to be out on the river, but once again found London pubs lacking the attention to detail which would make them good, and worth recommending,or returning to.

More photos from this day,and earlier trips out round London are in my London photo album. I also have an album of Food and Drink photos.

The O2 Arena

Before I blog on the substance of last night's concert, a few observations on the venue, the O2 in Greenwich.

I had never previously been for a gig, although I did go in 2000 when it was the Millennium Dome. Like most people who actually went, I really enjoyed the Dome, unlike those sat being all sniffy without actually experiencing it. But I really didn't know what to expect.

It benefits from being outside of Central London. Like every venue - Wembley, Earl's Court, Croydon - outside Zone 1 it has the potential problem that after the event, 'everyone' wants to leave the same way, whereas in Central London everyone immediately disperses outside the theatre, joining the masses coming from other theatres, pubs and restaurants, but staggered. But we got the first tube train that came. And it was less hassle than trying to leave the Royal Opera House via Covent Garden station, especially if another theatre kicks out at the same time. 

I would not have got a seat except that a nice chap offered me his. He, like many other people, got off at Canary Wharf, for the DLR, as I had expected, so a seat wouldn't have been a problem. Anyway, the journey from Central London is fast and short. We changed at London Bridge, the journey taking less than the hour I'd usually allow to get into town.

It definitely benefits from cars being discouraged. There are parking spaces for people with Disabled badges, and a taxi rank, but the general absence of cars is a pleasure that should be more widely encouraged. There is a canopied walkway from the Tube station to the venue.

When you walk into the place, the first thing that strikes you is the vastness of the space. We wandered Entertainment Avenue looking for loos until it dawned on us there would be some beyond security/ticket check. Entertainment Avenue is packed with chain restaurants and bars, all busy. Obviously used by lots of local people as well as people attending the entertainment. Nothing special; on the other hand, if you were coming straight from work and wanted to eat, you could.

The venue was subject to the usual stupid rules I have encountered elsewhere - tops to be taken off water bottles (I put my bottle-top into Jimmy's pocket). This is to stop them being used as missiles - which worried me, as it hadn't been advertised that Katherine Jenkins would be making a special guest appearance (don't worry, she didn't). I had carefully wrapped my camera in a scarf as advised by a friend, but the security guard barely wafted his hand in my bag. Another friend suggested it depends on how paranoid the artist is - she'd practically had a cavity search for Prince.

I'm sorry but I am one of those people whose first priority on getting somewhere is to find a loo and use it. Years of appalling experiences at places that take your money and don't bother providing adequate facilities have taught me that. My heart sunk at what seemed like a long queue for the Ladies, but fortunately it was a fast moving queue (I went to different loos at the interval and joined with a handful of women to prove that loo queues move quickly when you go both sides, and even more quickly when you gingerly push the doors that appear not to be locked...to conspirational laughter all round!).

My major criticism is that the venue doesn't appear to be particularly accessible. We rode an escalator to the first floor, but in the actual arena you then have to descend lots of stairs to reach the floor. I can't imagine they don't have wheelchair access, and, in truth, it's no worse than most old theatres, but there are numerous people who have mobility problems short of actually needing a wheelchair, including the elderly man walking slowly in front of me.

The chairs are bloody uncomfortable. They do have some padding but it's so thin it might as well be a wooden bench. I think you have to be well into the performance to endure that (I was!) because I have been to boring performances in more comfortable venues where I have been in severe pain.

A major disadvantage of the 'floor' is that it is flat with no pitch (did someone mention...oh never mind). That's fine in the fourth row but I could imagine it being a pain further back. Again no different from any other multi-purpose arena - the O2 will become 'North Greenwich Arena' and host basketball and gymnastics for the Olympics. I don't think they want a sloping floor!

I thought the acoustics were excellent. Of course, I was not expecting an opera house, where one expects the singers to be heard in the rafters without amplification. The arena is four times the size of the two main London opera houses, and a third bigger than the Royal Albert Hall. Guess what, they were amplified. I simply can't guess and won't speculate on how it sounded up in the gods, but from where I was, and not needing to rely on the sound system, it sounded great after some initial whistling/feedback.

The arena wasn't full. A couple of blocks with no stage view were deliberately left empty. I would imagine that that is standard for stage performances, although they would be used for floor shows (like basketball and gymnastics). And there were various empty seats dotted around, but the auditorium was much fuller than the capacity of the Albert Hall, and cool, roomy and much more comfortable.

Although I wouldn't describe it as The Best Venue Ever, considering its size and its purpose I think it's extremely good. I wouldn't hesitate to go to another event there, as long as the artist and price justified each other.

Unfare Zoning

I work three days a week and often ponder whether it's cheaper to get a season Travelcard or to use Oyster Pay as You Go. My fuzzy thinking is, if I only work 3 days, the PAYG is cheaper.

If I do a lot of local travel (buses to Brixton, Clapham or Streatham) over the weekend, a Travelcard might save me a bit of money, but because these are often unplanned, I might also lose money, as I would if I were absent from work for sick, unplanned annual leave, or working at home or out of town. If I go to work four days, or go into town on a day off it 'probably' makes sense to get a Travelcard.

Last night I decided to apply an accountant's rigour to my fuzzy thinking. It's actually more complicated because of my occasional but not obligatory use of Zone 1 Tube stations: details below the fold for anoraks!

I originally looked to see the value of a weekly or monthly card, before I got side-tracked by the Zone issue. I work 3 days a week or between 12 and 15 days a calendar month, not including planned and unplanned absences. So, I wanted to compare the weekly or monthly travelcard to the daily cap.

Very simply, I divided the monthly cost by the Daily Peak cap. I discovered that for Zone 1-2, a Monthly card is the equivalent of 13.3 daily caps. For Zone 1-3 it's 12.3. For Zone 2 only it's the equivalent of 10.  For Zones 2-3 it's 7.9.

That astounded me! Depending on which Zones you use, a monthly travel card makes a relative saving of half as much again compared to the daily cap. One could argue the special case for Zone 1 but a 1-2 monthly is already a lot more than a 2-3 monthly.

The distortion comes from the cheap fares in the central zone compared to the suburbs. The daily cap on Zones 1-2 peak is £8; in Zones 2-3 it's £10. This can't be defended by tourism, because tourists can save by waiting til 9.30 to get public transport, no great hardship. Offpeak, Zone 1 is £6.60, 1-2 is £6.60, and Zone 2-3 is £7.30. So, season travel is more expensive in town than in the 'burbs, but daily travel more so than in the 'burbs.

One can argue for ever about how many days 'free' travel a season ticket can buy you, but it ought to be consistent across the board. The disparity between 7.9 and 13.3 is huge, and this is largely because of the seemingly totally bizarre way of setting the daily cap for each of different combinations of zones.

People accept that they have to pay a large proportion of their salary on travel costs. But I think we have a right to expect fairness and consistency, and, above all , transparency. It has taken me a certain amount of concentration to analyse this, and I'm an accountant.

At least it gives me the chance to use the word 'Byzantine'!

The anoraky details about Uncertainty of Zone!

Some London photos

Taken last Autumn

A sign on a building on Horseferry Road, not far from where I work:

Mr Fegan's Homes (Incorporated)
To the Glory of God
And for the welfare of orphan needy and erring boys, here and hereafter. The Foundation Stone of this house of mercy was laid by
The Right Hon. Lord Kinnaird
on
20th May 1912
His Compassions Fail Not

This building houses the Arts Council of England on Great Peter Street, but considering its proximity to Church House and hence to Westminster Abbey, I assume its origin is Ecclesiastical.

London Wall, slightly surprisingly just a short distance from the Barbican Centre and in the heart of the City of London. I suppose this is the moat!

I quite like this, especially the way it fans out at the top, and especially in contrast to the spalling concrete down below. I like a lot of 90s/00s architecture but worry that it might look dated by about 2030.

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!

A weird journey

I didn't think that catching a bus from opposite my office to Victoria Station to do a bit of shopping would end up feeling quite so surreal. Some of the strangeness was predictable - shoppers, day-trippers and those with suitcases outnumbered those who were ending a day's work. Many of the workers, like me, were dressed down for the day. But to compensate for the lack of a normal rush hour (three hours...), the escalators between the Victoria and District/Circle lines are currently closed for refurbishing, forcing everyone changing lines to surface and go down again.

The bus was nearly empty, only 6 of us in the seating area at the back. Suddenly, one of the 6 asked the other 5 of us whether this was the right stop for the shops - in French. Two people stared at her as if she had come from outer space.

'Aw shit,' I thought. 'It depends whether she wants Army & Navy, or Cardinal Place, or Victoria Place. Three different stops are right for the shops.' But I can't say that in French! The man on the back seat explained in French that he is only a visitor to London so didn't know. Woman on the back seat went into a long explanation about there being various shops but best stay on until the next stop (Westminster Cathedral/Cardinal Place). She wasn't even French, but had lived there for a few months which is why her French is so good. I know that London is multi-cultural, but what were the odds of that?

I did my various bits of shopping. In Boots, the man behind the counter suddenly started talking to me in Italian, just for the sheer heck of it, so - in English of course - I told him about the French woman. He agreed that it was unlikely she would have got a response, although if he had been there he would have explained to her, but she ought to have asked in English. I said I thought it was worth a go.

Coming down the escalator the woman behind was chatting on her phone. She was saying how she had been sat in Trumpington Park & Ride for half an hour because the driver had to have a half hour break by law (she seemed calmly accepting of this). She then moaned about how long it (coach, I assume) took to get to Stratford, but she later found out the M11 was closed because a whole load of pigs had escaped onto it.

Before braving the sheer madness that is Marks and Spencer Simply Food I thought I would step outside for a fag and a quick check of my Twitter Stream.

A woman stopped in front of me. She was laden down with bags and packages attached to an old-fashioned thing with wheels you used to attach to a suitcase before someone had the ingenious idea of making suitcases with wheels. The bags and parcels made her look like a bag-lady but she and her clothes were neat, clean and respectable.

She asked me for a donation to (didn't catch it, never heard of it) which buys food for the Homeless. I noted the absence of visible ID etc and declined, carried on smoking my fag and checking my Blackberry. She then announced that that would make a great picture. Somewhat huffily I did the 'I'm sorry, what are you saying?' and she explained that from a photographer's point of view, the way I was standing, and what I was doing would make a great picture. I'm still not sure whether that's a compliment or an insult!

Other than all this, actually, the journey wasn't so weird, except that people were behaving like they didn't make this same journey day after day, week after week, year after year. Who'd have thought!

Anti-Boris

With Conference season drawing to a close, and Local and General Election only 7 months away, it really is time to return to the political roots of this blog.

Even though Boris is not up for election this time - just wait until 2012 - catching up with my backlog of blogs has caused me to find three posts published consecutively:

The boy Boris meets the man Bloomberg

cc London

A week in the life of the River Thames

Signs

These signs are on the wall of a shop - the Pharmacy, as it happens - a few doors away from me.

They read 'C.P. 1877' and 'S.P. 1852'

I suspect that they are to mark the then boundaries of Clapham Parish and Streatham Parish respectively, although I have no specific proof of this. My supposition is based upon my - by no means expert - knowledge of the local area where I live.

But there could be an entirely different explanation!

Cement Mixer

Going through my photos from last Monday I was amused to see these two:

Wandsworth Bridge, 13:43

Putney Bridge 14:54

When I edited the first one, I had a passing thought that I don't seem to see many cement mixers these days. Of course it may be that there is, like, one form in South West London that has many many cement mixers. But it amused me to see similar/identical cement mixers on different bridges, more than an hour apart.

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!

Tales from the cycle trail

So, by mid-morning Saturday we had two bikes in the shed, gleaming new and raring to go. But Jimmy  wasn't feeling too good (and felt worse Sunday) plus the weather forecast was heavy rain. The actual weather on Sunday was something or other wet in the morning, dull, overcast and dry in the afternoon. But never mind. Today's another day.

Remember that it is cough years since either of us has properly been on a bike, and we are generally out of condition. Absolutely no point taking unnecessary risks. Besides, even cough years ago, I found no pleasure in cycling down busy A roads with dirty lorries and fast cars whizzing by, some in quite an intimidatory manner. So, in order just to re-familiarise myself with riding, and specifically to familiarise myself with this bike, I suggested we went to Tooting Common.

Tooting Common is very near where I live, really just at the end of my road. It's also very close to where I used to live. So that's 17+ years of living very close to Tooting Common. Whether from Tooting Bec Road or from Emmanuel Road I have always considered Tooting Common to be very boring, just expanses of grass, regularly mown, and neat paths, ideal for walking dogs and small children, but essentially boring (except for the Lido). But being flat and boring, I thought, ideal for trying out bicycles.

Of course the first thing you encounter are pathways designated 'no cycling'. I interpret that as 'use your judgement'. I imagine that on a hot Saturday afternoon, these are teeming with pedestrians, and as a pedestrian of many years' standing, aggressive cyclists are a nuisance. On a dull overhung Monday morning, they are practically deserted, a few dog walkers,  some parents (or nannies) with toddler and the odd jogger. As we got deeper onto the common, these became fewer. When we encountered pedestrians we rode at walking pace and gave them a wide berth, or we paused to let them cross first.  In any case it was more fun to leave the tarmac path and explore the mud or pebbled trails. Round the pond, just about deserted, through the trees, under railway bridges. We were both astonished. We had no idea that Tooting Common was so rural.

Obviously, it's not really rural, not in a technical sense. But when you are surrounded by nature, shielded from traffic, it's as good as, in many ways. I know people yearn to live 'in the country' for peace and quiet, but I never have - too much hassle, too much inconvenience, too far from anywhere, too great a need to conform. I much prefer visiting the countryside occasionally and enjoying the green spaces on my doorstep.

So it's a little crazy that I have never previously explored the countryside at the end of my road, two minutes from home!

There's a good Flickr Stream, which includes some excellent photos

Plácido in Beijing

I didn't watch the Closing Ceremony as it was being broadcast because I was busy travelling back from Grim-Up-North. But I had set my Sky+ to record it. Partly for Plácido and partly for the London 2012 Handover thing. Apropos the Handover, I thought it was okay, nothing remarkable, but far better than I had believed it would be based on what I had read in the newspapers. I have nothing but distaste for Boris Johnson as a politician, and I have neither faith nor trust in his abilities to govern London, especially in this unique period in London history*. However, who can totally dislike a bloke who comes up with a slogan of 'Ping-pong's Coming Home'

As for Plácido, I didn't get to fully appreciate the performance on the first time of watching because of the commentary from next to me on the sofa

He's looking better than ever, the b******. Every time I see him he looks younger. I'll have some of what he's on. Oh, that woman he's singing with is really ugly,isn't she. And he's surrounded by women, the creep. No doubt they're all vestal virgins. Oh yes,he knows how to do it, creep.

All good-natured, I stress. I did try the 'that's the same stadium that Paula (Ratcliffe) limped bravely into' but that didn't work. Paula's been dumped. It's all Rebecca Adlington now (you can imagine Jimmy's admiration for anyone who gets a pub named after her - at 19).

Seriously, I thought the performance was very pleasant, but I didn't especially go for the song. Multiple subsequent hearings haven't really improved it. Pleasant and inconsequential. It isn't an ideal setting to appreciate a performance, so it was a very poor substitute, not only for seeing him live, obviously, but also to broadcasts/DVDs of concerts, let alone operas. But he did look bloody good, despite the fact that he only had one button unfastened on the shirt.

The Flame of Love - from Hong Kong Tv, I think. Includes subtitles in English and Chinese**

And a brief news clip

Lots of stuff in online sources in many languages. One Spanish source made some reference to Madrid's bid for 2016 (he was involved in their unsuccesful bid for 2012). Australian Live News described the performance as 'bring(ing) the house down'. Some background - not really fact-checked! - at China News. And an amusing brief commentary Placido Domingo vs Ming the Merciless - Beijing Olympics Closing Ceremony BBC1 (actually it's a bloody good blog - check out the posts on Maestro; like me,they're backing Goldie with more than a nod to Sue)

* we got the 1908 Games at short notice; they were due to be in Rome, but Vesuvius erupted in 1906 and money needed to be diverted to rebuild Naples. We got 1948 after the War and it was all done in a hurry and Austerity.

** I know I am revealingmy linguistic ignorance by even writing that; I know enough to know it's wrong but insufficient to get it right...

Heritage at risk

I'm catching up with my backblog and copying Diamond Geezer, I peruse the English Heritage Risk Register for my area. There are 19 in Lambeth. Even after all these years, I tend to think instinctively about my ward, which shows 90 Acre Lane.

There are other sites that I know, such as the shelter by walled garden in Brockwell Park - see sidebar for photos! West Norwood Cemetery and Catacombs - I keep meaning to visit the cemetery for reasons other than to attend a cremation or burial, ABC cinema  - I kind of miss this fleapit

I had quite forgotten the existence of Raleigh Hall; I am amused that the gentleman's public convenience at Kennington Cross includes a horse trough - I had a brief fascination with Horse Troughs which must predate my digital camera days - but someone has been out and about photographing horsetroughs in South West London...ooh, Faded London newly added to Bloglines!

Other parts of London include Pedestrian subway under Crystal Palace Parade, Crystal Palace Low Level Station, Crystal Palace Sports Centre, Crystal Palace Park, St Pancras Chambers/Midland Grand Hotel,
Segas in Croydon (huh?), Cutty Sark, Upminster Windmill, Holland House, loads in Southwark I recognise without great interest, Battersea Park Station, Battersea Power Station (of course), Queenstown Road Station, Clapham Grand and surprisingly, none in Westminster that I have any great familiarity with.

In other parts of the country I recognise (at least vaguely) - Baguley Hall, Norton Priory, Bank Quay Transporter Bridge, and Lenton Lodge

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.

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

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).

Personalised Prime Ministerial bus stops

It is a little-known fact of British political life, and one of those "Official Secrets" that tourists are not supposed to know, but every Prime Minister is allowed his (or, indeed, her) personal bus stop on the corner of Parliament Street and Parliament Square.

We were fortunate enough at the beginning of June to witness the transition.

Tony's bus stop was there in its full glory.

When we passed, the creation of Gordon Brown's was work-in-progress

The Mayor, of course, gets two Tube Stations for his own personal use.

If I suddenly stop blogging, assume I have been marched off to the Tower for divulging this Top Secret information

Morris Dancing and Incest

You should try everything once but these, which is the attitude I adopted for Trooping the Colour.

I have started entering competitions recently. So far I have won free Barbican membership and tickets to the Trooping the Colour. The former from the Barbican, the latter from work. Me winning Trooping the Colour tickets was greeted with mirth by those that know me as a class warrior, a socialist. "And a Republican," I reminded them.  Jimmy encountered accusations of betrayal of Ireland. My attitude is along the lines of "Know Your Enemy".

The first shock was the early start - be in place by 10 am, toilets close at 10.30 (I suppose it's tantamount to treachery to relieve oneself - or worse - in the Presence). The second shock was a Dress Code. It said: Morning Suit, Lounge Suit or jacket and trousers, so I obeyed the dress code and wore a pinstripe trouser suit.

It was an interesting experience, perhaps the most interesting being observing the British Class System in play. Many people were togged up in posh frocks, WAGs mainly. Even before a mouth was opened, it was so easy to tell Officers' wives and sprogs from those of Other Ranks. We were standing in the "Inner Sentry South" - in front of the stand that was erected in front of the Downing Street Garden, opposite the Old Admiralty Buildings. I won't bore you with the details of what happened when in what order, because it's pretty much the same every year, it's shown on TV, and that would be a tedious blogpost.

I had been worried about standing,  fearing that I would have some tall person in front of me, but we were only one deep at the rope, so the view was unobstructed...well, once the massed bands had moved away! We saw the Queen, for Jimmy that was the first time ever, for me the first time in thirty years.

I feel a bit uncomfortable at the thought that I might have been unconsciously, unwittingly and unwillingly be thought to be giving my support to the illegal war in Iraq by going, but I don't think I did. It's an old ceremony, and the army even older. I am not a Pacifist, but I do think we should refrain from entering into Illegal War, in Iraq or anywhere else. But some wars, and, especially "Peacekeeping Missions" are necessary - although wars are usually evidence of the breakdown of diplomacy, not  diplomacy by other means (Clausewitz) - example, the Falklands. At the time I was, of course, virulently opposed to it, but on reflection, and after reading "Things Can Only Get Better" by what's his name, that funny chappie from Clapham Common ward, I have to agree that there was an irony in opposing war against an evil right wing dictator (and indeed not many Argentinians did...boom boom).  Incidentally, I had a decent view this evening of loads of helicopters doing a flypast of the A23. I was sitting on the top deck of a bus at Crown Point, not a bad vantage point to see ceremonial flies-past.

It was quite an experience being so very close to the soldiers and horses, such that one could almost touch them. I vaguely recalled something about facing them down until you see the whites of their eyes, but that bloke's trombone was way too scary and was coming straight at me. And the horses were kicking up the gravel as they galloped past, I withdrew a bit for that. I was also really impressed by the BBC cameraman who walked parallel to the soldiers marching, but sideways with his knees and back bent ever so awkwardly, just to get the footage.

I would recommend Trooping the Colour once, as an experience, but I wouldn't be in a hurry to return. It comes across as a rather silly little ritual, although considerably less silly live than on the TV. And I suppose all that colour and pomp and ceremony is what keeps the Tourists coming. And the officer classes get indoctrinated throughout their public school carers of the importance of loyalty to Regiment, Queen and Country, which makes them averse to contemplating change, even when on civvie street. So the Ancien Regime stays in place, no boats are rocked, and we remain a semi-democracy with an absence of accountability and where people owe their position not so much to their own endeavours as to accident of birth.

What I did today...

I made myself very very small and hid inside an army tuba*

(I'm the one in grey, holding a camera - natch - next to the woman in purple)

More, later

* it might not be a tuba; it might be one of those confusing brass instruments that looks a bit like a tuba, but, technically, isn't

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

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.

Explore!

Explore adventure area now OPEN

We did our 'Out-of-Office' volunteering on Tuesday. Thirteen of us painted and erected fences and did a spot of weeding, mulching and litter-picking in preparation for yesterday's opening of the Explore Adventure Playground at the London Wetland Centre. We were a bit concerned whether we were actually adding value but we were assured that our fence-building made a massive difference to them; otherwise they would have had to have worked all round the clock. I took loads of photos; those of my colleagues are not for the internet, but the flora and fauna ones will be edited and published in due course.

It's a lovely adventure playground, aimed at 3-11 year olds. We enjoyed exploring it and (very tentatively) trying the equipment. It's in keeping with the wetland theme and although I hesitate to tell people what to do, I would say it's an extra element for what must be an attractive day out for that age group.

I now have a backlog of 300 photos to be processed and have decided to stop fretting about them, because if I do them slowly and steadily, they will get cleared, even as I add to them. And come the autumn and winter, I shall have plenty to play with when I am taking fewer than in Spring/Summer.

London Transport

Late-ish night London is alive. When I'm out after dark I go home a convoluted route: by getting the bus from Clapham Common I avoid the slightly intimidating nature of Brixton and I get a bus almost to my door (this avoids a walk up a road where any sort of ne'er do well could be lurking behind the unbroken line of cars parked bumper-to-bumper - many people walk down the middle of the road...how cars rob us of our freedom)

On the Piccadilly line a group of Merkin teenagers were shrieking like a bunch of infant school children. Vaguely annoying but I don't suppose 'quiet' is in their armoury. Anyway they were enjoying themselves and were happy, and it was only for two stops.

On the Secret-Gert-Change-At-Green-Park-Route-Without-Walking™ my path crossed that of an elderly lame man. Being the sort of person who gives way to elderly lame, I paused; being a gentleman, he paused. Simultaneously, we both realised what the other was doing, he smiled, a smile that asked to be returned, so I returned it and he smiled more. He won, I had to go first.

On the Vic I was sat opposite a young man. Perhaps not even a man, maybe a boy. He was eating. Eating a McDonalds burger thing. For a couple of minutes I watched transfixed but revolted I could take it no more and moved seats. I composed a list of reasons why he shouldn't do that. a) it's bad manners to eat in a public non-eating space; b) it's bad manners to eat with your mouth open (but manners are an irrelevancy); it's repulsive to other people to snatch off enormous mouthfuls and chomp chomp chomp (but other people are an irrelevancy); he gave no indication of savouring the taste he was experiencing; it's not good for the digestion to eat on the hoof (it's called that because it's what animals - not humans - ); his hands were all over the burger thing and I wondered how clean his hands were - someone who has no compunction about eating on the Tube is unlikely to be scrupulous about personal hygiene. Not my problem. Still, at Stockwell, when he went left I went right.

I decided a definition of hot is when you see the train arriving before you feel the air it displaces. But I might be wrong.

Step onto the Northern Line and it reeks of beer. It's extraordinary. I've noticed this before. Strictly Northern, not Victoria.

All seats taken so I stood in the door area, with a pole to hold onto. Another woman walked down the carriage; a man offered her his seat. With a friendly smile she declined. Hmm, I thought, he's only offering her that seat because she's young, beautiful and wearing a very short skirt. Bloke opposite smirks. He's seen the short skirt, he sees that First Bloke has perfect line of vision. First Bloke offers me seat. Hmm, I thought, you're only offering me because I'm old, frumpy and wearing a very long skirt (so long that every time I moved my chair at work, it ran over my trailing skirt). I decline politely. I looked at First Bloke. Southern European or South American. Cute. I had a delightful selection on my Random Play - Kirsty MacColl's Days; Kelly Watch the Stars; and something chirpy and upbeat from the Boo Radleys. Possibly not the best selection of music to enjoy after a splendid evening at the Marriage of Figaro, but strangely they fitted my mood of being chirpy and upbeat, at the end of a busy and enjoyable day, where everything went right. If I had had a pole rather than a mere rail, there might have been the freakish sight of a plump not-yet-middle-aged woman in extra long skirt pole-dancing on the Northern Line.

Clapham Common. Tis strange. It's been reconfigured. The railings have been removed from outside the Tube, which is good. Railings are to keep mere people off the road, so as not to inconvenience cars. What I sometimes fear is that ne'erdowells will trap victim against the railings, the railings denying them the means to escape.

The bus stop has also moved closer to the Tube. This does mean that the walk from Tube to bus has been reduced. Good. However, it does tempt people like me to walkstraight out of Tube and across the road. Must remember to look, listen* and look again. the shelter hasn't been moved. Duh! What happens if it rains? Also the Countdown hasn't moved. Which is silly. Although the Countdown is not much use at Clapham Common: the 417 starts there so never shows up. Much sillier at Brixton. The one outside Kentucky Fried Rat was removed to deter the ne'erdowells and drug-dealers. Countdown also removed, so it's impossible to know when the 45 is due. The 45 is a Good Bus. It turns the corner and drops me almost outside my house, thus avoiding that walk along the road with the car-parking configured to give maximum cover to miscreants and muggers and minimum convenience to people.

Nothing happened on the bus, it just conveyed me home swiftly and safely.

I ♥ London Transport. For all it's irritations and flaws, it's the lifeblood of London and it's what makes us free.

* not easy when plugged into earphones...

Day out

We went out for the day yesterday. I took about 125 photos, which was a sensible thing to do considering it doubled my backlog of photos to edit. Not that many need much editing, but I do have a habit of taking them at a slight angle. And many photos benefit from a bit of cropping. Some benefit also from a fiddling with the brightness, especially considering I am developing a tendency to over-expose.

It took us quite a while to decide where to go. The criteria were simple enough. Water and a walk, but nothing too strenuous walk-wise. Not too far a journey from London, must be achieved by public transport. Must offer an escape from the hustle and bustle of London.

So where did we decide upon? Central London, of course! Camden Lock to Little Venice and back. And back again! I was able to tick a great many boxes in the photography list - water, boats, water foul fowl, buildings, kittens, hyenas, people - but I failed by a moment to tick the box called 'famous singers', as one chap turned to me (we were jointly witnesses of a road rage incident. Maida Vale's like that) and said "Did you see Lulu getting into the back of that car? She lives here..." Still, I'd rather file her under Tory Twat than Famous Singer. You know you make me wanna shout...

We took the canal boat return trip and then walked back the 2½ miles along the tow-path, amazed by the tranquility, enjoying the heat and the breeze, communing with people in a very 'out-in-the-country' way. There were loads of people out on the towpath, although five minutes out of Camden Lock there was no sense of over-crowding.

I am always amazed yet puzzled by the diversity of London. Sometimes when we do things, like boat trips and walks, we are confounded by the homogeneity of the participants. We met almost no African or Afro-Caribbean people and very few Asian, and on the entire towpath I don't think we saw one person who felt obliged to dress as a wannabe C-list Reality TV show participant in Heat Magazine, and the only chavs apparent were a young woman who had obviously been dragged along to sit with her bloke fishing, and this chap who insisted on following me around all day wearing an England 1966 t-shirt.

We spent a long time looking for the supposed famous bars and restaurants of Little Venice, but failed miserably, so my perma-stalker recalled that a year or two ago we had vowed to explore the Middle Eastern restaurants on Edgware Road. Almost randomly we found Maroush near Marble Arch, where we had a delightful meal. I would certainly go there again. I am very partial to Lebanese food, stuffing my face on three mezza dishes (halloumi cheese pastries, a cold chick pea soup and roast potato with veg), whilst Jimmy had roast lamb shanks - he doesn't really like the idea of sharing mezzas, or tapas for that matter). And a nice wine from the Bekaa Valley. It was quiet while we were there, between fiveish and sevenish. Reading the reviews on the net, I see that service is 'appalling' - 'we had to wait five minutes to be served', 'the waiters flirted with female customers' - puhlease if you want rushed service with a snarl and shit food go to McDonalds. Me, I prefer the Middle East. In fact I was sort of disappointed that the loos were Western Style.

We got home and watched the Argentina-Mexico game. The air was so still that despite having the back door and front window open, I ended up stripping off just to feel fresh.

Convoy

I caught the bus to Waterloo this evening, and then walked along the station concourse to get to the South Bank. I came out and was about to cross over the zebra crossing near where all the bikes are chained up, when a policeman on a bike with a flashing light hollered "Stand there, wait, don't cross.." There were two or three on my side, dozens on the other side, all heading for their trains. In the distance, I could see more flashing blue lights, and deduced they were motorcycle outriders. Probably a VIP, I thought, and sure enough, the convoy passed, about four outriders and two official looking cars. The lead car was a silver Jag, and the registration began BK. I couldn't see who was in it. Probably some VIP just stepped off the Eurostar.

What struck me was how everybody stood there docile, waiting. It made no odds to me, I was running early, but I bet there were people on the last minute for their train. Which shows that most people obey crowd-control orders from the Old Bill. Which perhaps demonstrates that society isn't, after all, going to the dogs.

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...!

The Whale

After a day of frantic struggles, the London whale dies a lonely death

Poignant

The day a whale sailed through the middle of London; and the people of the city, rather than trying to hack it to death, came in their thousands and lifted it and tried their hardest to sail it back.

Annie has it Flickr'd and Mecca has it blogged

Whale in the Thames

Concern grows for stranded whale

I expect that if I ha been in work today, I would probably have wandered down to the river to see what all the fuss is about.

Strange though, that one arm of the BBC (Online) is asking people to send in their photos, whilst, on another arm (News 24), they have wildlife experts appealing for people to stay away, especially now it's dark, and people will be using flash.

I think it's about time that the various news outlets have a serious think about asking people for their photos and footage of unfolding news. I think we are going to have more and more examples of people risking their own lives or those of others (including mammals), or hampering the efforts of the emergency or rescue services just for fifteen seconds of fame. I can see the news value of the footage from below ground on July 7th. But what really is the value of a grainy photo taken with a crappy phone-cam when it is relatively easy for a professional photographer to take a decent photograph?

Update: DG has a Tourist Guide For Whales