Gertsamtkunstwerk

Traffic

I walked down my road yesterday morning just after nine and felt oddly disoriented. No traffic in either direction, and no parking either on the double yellows or in the 20-minute spaces. I thought maybe it was something to do with the events of last week, when people were being ticketed for parking for ten minutes in the bays, but the sexually depraved man who sells fireworks to small children and bribes traffic wardens was allowed to park on the double yellow...until the bribery was reported, a parking manager arrived and the van was towed.

I popped into Jimmy's cafe, normally heaving, but dead. Out onto Brixton Hill. Last week the traffic was stationery and bumper-to-bumper. Yesterday (and today) the occasional passing vehicle passed at thirty miles an hour.

It dawned on me. Half term.

Later, I caught the bus along Millbank. Norwegian flags flew from Millbanl Millennium Pier. Railings and traffic cones waited outside the Tate. I remembered that the King and Queen of Norway had been on Today discussing their State Visit.

Yesterday afternoon I came out of our the far side of our building after a meeting and paused to have a cigarette. I read a notice on a pay-and-display machine "This parking meter is out of order. Until it is fixed, parking is free. Please check back every two hours." Not one of those spaces contained a vehicle. On the other side of the road, every space was occupied and people queued to pay at the machine. I know it used to be the rule that if the machinery was broken, parking was suspended; it struck me as being ridiculous, petty and jobsworth. "Please check back every two hours" is a reasonable compromise. Yet no one wanted free parking!

At lunchtime I realised I had just a few pence in my purse so I went to the NatWest opposite work. Twelve people queuing for the machine inside; twenty queueing for the machine outside. So I walked down to Victoria Street, and saw queues even longer inside and out. I walked a bit and spotted a Lloyds in the gardens by Scotland Yard. One woman was just finishing her transaction. Then it was my turn.

When I had just emerged from the office and was about to cross the road, a flotilla of police motorbikes with lights flashing arrived to halt traffic at the cross-roads. We stood around with an air of slight excitement and curiosity. A conversation started, and the consensus emerged that it was "Norway". Half a dozen or so vehicles passed in convoy, two of them Rolls Royce flying flags that were definitely not Norwegian. They might have been Soviet, but I doubt it, being that the Soviet Union was dissolved quite a few years ago. They might have come from the back entrance of the Tate.

But I haven't a clue who they were.

Squirrels on crack

Squirrels on crack

I'd seen a squirrel wandering round the garden, digging in the flowerbeds...it knew what it was looking for. It was ill-looking and its eyes looked bloodshot but it kept on desperately digging...

...An RSPCA spokesman said he was unaware of squirrels taking crack in Brixton

Normality

We were on the Tube on Saturday, arriving at Leicester Square at about 4pm.

We couldn't work out why it was so crowded.

Then we remembered, it's London. The Tube is always crowded. Especially in the Central Area. Especially on Saturday afternoons.

I saw no police. No avoidance of supposedly suspicious looking Asian men (actually, not sure if I saw any supposedly suspicious looking Asian men) and no staring jumpily at stray or abandoned bags (dunno if I saw any bags).

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner

Annie wants answers

Signs to tell that you had been living in London too long - or rather ways to show that you were now actually a Londoner regardless of where you came from in the first place.

1. You say "the City" and expect everyone to know which one.

Definitely

2. You have never been to The Tower of London or Madame Tussauds but love Brighton

Not true at all, but definitely true in spirit

3. You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherds Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map.

Has an element of truth, again, in spirit rather than practice

4. Hookers and the homeless are invisible.

Yes

5. You step over people who collapse on the Tube.

Yes

6. You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multilingual.

No, can't swear in foreign

7. You've considered stabbing someone

Oh god yes. And strangling, shooting, and decapitation

8. Your door has more than three locks.

No - front door two, back door three

9. You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression.

Yeah, on the whole

10. You call an 8' x 10' plot of patchy grass a garden.

Grass? Who said anything about grass?

11. You consider Essex the "countryside".

No. I used to live there

12. You think Hyde Park is "nature".

Sort of. I don't really, but, y'know

13. You're paying £1,200 a month for a studio the size of a walk-in wardrobe and you think it's a "bargain".

No, because I bought a freehold house in a desperately unfashionable area at the bottom of the market rather than insist on living somewhere fashionable. Thankfully, my area is now borderline hot.

14. Shopping in suburban supermarkets and shopping malls gives you a severe attack of agoraphobia.

Claustrophobia and homicidal paranoia

15. You pay more each month to park your car than most people in the UK pay in rent.

I don't have a car; Himself parks his on our unadopted road, for free

16. You pay £3 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p.

Well, that question shows a lack of understanding of costings

17. You actually take fashion seriously.

Nay, nay and thrice nay

18. You have 27 different take-away menus next to your telephone.

We have about a dozen on a shelf in the kitchen

19. The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you.

No, I am widely travelled throughout the UK

20. You're suspicious of strangers who are actually nice to you.

God yes, nutcases or what!

21. Your idea of personal space is no one actually physically standing on you.

More or less

22. £50 worth of groceries fit in one plastic bag.

No, what rot. Someone's buying the wrong groceries from the wrong shop

23. You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories.

Yes, but, I have never made the mistake of getting into rogue minicabs alone, and I campaigned for the licensing of minicabs, so two of my worst cab stories involve the driver not knowing where he was going, and the rest are just about the boring offensive drivel emanating from the driver's mouth

24. You don't hear sirens anymore.

Not generally, but I did blog about the seemingly incessant sirens that followed the 21st July abortive bombings. Special circumstances, you see.

25. You've mentally blocked out all thoughts of the city's air/water quality and what it's doing to your insides.

No, but what's the point of worrying

26. You live in a building with a larger population than most towns.

No, I live in a freehold house in a once unfashionable part of town

27. Your cleaner is Portugese, your grocer is Somali, your butcher is Halal, your deli man is Israeli, your landlord is Italian, your laundry guy is Philippino, your bartender is Australian, your favourite diner owner is Greek, the watch seller on your corner is Senegalese, your last cabbie was African, your newsagent is Indian and your local English chippie owner is Turkish.

Yes to a couple, specifically. I doubt many people have "Indian" newsagents. But I do enjoy the fact that every nation on earth appears to be represented just in my immediate neighbourhood

28. You wouldn't want to live anywhere else until you get married.

What on earth does that mean?

29. You roll your eyes and say 'tsk' at the news that someone has thrown themselves under a tube train.

No, I feel compassion for the driver

30. Your day is ruined if you don't get a copy of Metro on the way to work.

I really don't think so - Metro, pile of cack, marginally better than the Sub-Standard Lite

Update from the frontline of the war against terrorism

There was a respite in sirens during the afternoon, but they seem to have started up again. No doubt it's just paranoia. I live on the junction of the A23 and the South Circular, sirens are an integral part of life, so much so that I normally blank them out.

Strange blogging silence from these parts about the shooting at Stockwell station. Other than to say that sometimes it is necessary for the ordinary citizen to hold two opposing and conflicting views simultaneously. It's easier to be opinionated and unassailably convinced. But there are complex issues, requiring the wisdom of Solomon.

There is a tradition round here for riots to follow deaths in custody.

Last time, it was mainly arseholes without a consciousness, without a political thought or motivation in their heads seizing an opportunity to go on an alcohol-and-testosterone-fuelled rampage, targeting and intimidating small businesses - shops and pubs in the main.

There have been two since I've lived here, I don't want a third thank you. December 1995 was truly frightening; July 2001 was just louts whipped up by extremist political agitators. On the former occasion I was given a lift home from a Christmas party in Oval by a most circuitous route, as rumours flew of untold damage. I passed a building blazing fiercely on Acre Lane; overnight six fire engines were parked outside my house. I was on an adrenaline rush, but not a nice one, unable to sleep for much of the night, and I was supposed to be in Southampton at half nine the next morning. When I eventually arrived closer to eleven my apologies and excuse "There was a riot in my neighbourhood last night" were met with disbelief.

There were times I was wholly inadequate as a councillor for Brixton.

Update update: And since I forgot to change draft to publish I have received an email from the Trotskyites masquerading as Brixton Stop the War advertising a vigil outside Stockwell Tube tomorrow at 6.

What's happening to my city?

Apparently there was a raid in Streatham Hill. I only found this out when looking through my site referral stats. Nothing mentioned in the Crown and Sceptre; the BBC makes passing reference.

We went into London today. The Tube was fairly quiet. I tried to rationalise it - school holidays have begun. We left home at 4.30 and got to South Ken just after five, too early for people to come home for the day or go out for the evening. Only one person got on Stockwell - clearly because there hadn't been a Northern Line train since the previous Victoria Line. District Line was packed - I got the last seat, a young Italian man offered Jimmy his seat on age grounds (I'm asserting anyway). The Prom was 98 or 99% full.

The District Line was packed coming back. Of course, it would be. No Circle Line, no Piccadilly Line into Central London. Only one empty seat, next to an Asian bearded gentleman with a suitcase. I'm trying to rationalise this one - I would have taken the seat if three tourists hadn't been stood in the way, if I wasn't with Jimmy, if I hadn't been sitting all evening, if I was going more than two stops.

Then it hit me on the Victoria Line. Nothing can explain why my carriage at 10.15 pm on a Saturday had less than half its seats taken, and no one standing. Ooh, look activity at Vauxhall. Oh wait, that's obviously the Big Gay Out moving onto the RVT.

Maybe a dozen people got off my Tube at Brixton. I have never ever ever seen Brixton Tube so empty. Brixton is the busiest Tube outside Zone 1. So where the fuck was everybody?

I keep seeing people with rucksacks with wires protruding; then I realise that they're iPods. I reckon we ought to ban iPods. Not because they're a terrorist threat but because people who wear them think they are cool for listening to music compressed to the equivalent of listening to an AM radio placed in the bedroom with almost-run-down-batteries whilst taking a shower at the other end of the house (oh heck I shall get Irate of Trendy Land flaming me now...!)

I don't like my attitude. I didn't go to last night's Prom - couldn't face the transport difficulties. I don't suppose we would have gone into London today if we didn't have tickets. Something feels not right. If this goes on I shall have to end my blogging hiatus and start posting again.

Sigh

Update: They're saying the raid was in Tulse Hill. I don't know the road, it's not on my A-Z, so I looked it up on Streetmap.com and realised where it is - must be among a lot of newbuilds that have gone up since my A-Z was published. It's only about five minutes walk from Gert Cottage, and will explain the umarked (but bues-and-twos'ed) police car that was speeding up and down Brixton Hill when we went out.

There is relentless sirens this morning. Unusual for a Sunday morning.

Terrorists in Stockwell

Man shot dead by police on Tube

My god, that's getting close to home. Sort of expect terrorism in Central London. But Stockwell...

Yesterday evening (at past my bedtime) I was pottering round the house, no music no telly and I could hear constant sirens. It's not unusual to hear sirens (there goes another) round here, being that I'm at the junction of two major A roads. It seemed more than usual, but I told myself to stop being ridiculous. I was probably being ridiculous. (Here goes another).

There is absolutely no reason to assume that I heard more sirens than normal last night; if I did the explanations could be manifold. But I'm feeling more jumpy isolated at home in semi-surburbia than I would ever feel amongst colleagues and strangers in Central London.

I got a bit jittery last night. Jimmy reckons that they're focuaing on tubes and buses now and then when everyone's paranoid about travelling they're going to hit a building. And all I can think is 'the building where I work is an obvious target'.

It's stupid; I've worked in a target building before, for an organisation whose head was an IRA target. The actual chances are remote. I'm not changing my job - I like it way too much, on balance...

Two Minutes Silence

Coming up at noon.

Depsite the risk of P45, I just want to express my disgust at Extremely Senior Management in a Certain Unmentionable Organisation who have suggested that staff should gather inside the building, rather than taking to the streets in Defiance.

Missing the point by a very way...

And I shall delete this post before Google catches up with it...

Nah, I'm keeping it. Me and my employer are both ungoogleable. Google me and you get either 'Some Like It Hot' or 'The Vicar of Dibley'. Google my employer and you get millions of solutions for carrying out paid employment from one's residence...

My city is beautiful

This morning, on the bus

Three people got on the bus on Brixton Hill. As far as I can tell, they work in Waterloo. One lives in Streatham Hill, one in Brixton Hill, and one, a Frenchman, new to London, somewhere completely different. they had met on Brixton Hill, to go somewhere. The English were explaining to the French that it's often as quick to travel by bus. It's great once you get past Brixton, now there's no congestion, it's so easy to get to London. As the man said "We all love Ken now."

Below is Ken's speech.

Reaction

Thank you for comments people. I'm afraid I didn't go round the blogroll checking - I mean, what would it mean if someone hadn't posted? That they were injured? Walking miles? Stopping off for coffee? In an office where everyone was trying -and failing - to access the internet? I did the blog rounds via the aggregator and kinja.

So thank you to everybody who has left comments here, and has also sent their messages via newsgroups etc. Just to prove that human beings are kind, caring, decent. To be honest, I feel a bit of a fraud. I had a not unpleasant stroll along the river, one of only a handful of people who realised that between Waterloo and Westminster the South Bank is significantly shorter than the North Bank (the river curves...!) I was tempted to go for a ride on the queueless Eye. And would have done if the day was clear and sunny.

I posted a message to an opera newsgroup "Tonight's Otello is cancelled - PLEASE PLEASE don't cancel tomorrow's Walkure" Someone emailed me to say my sentiments were out of place. Made me pause for thought. Then I thought, bollocks, we struggle in on overcrowded flakey transport to jobs that we, at best, tolerate for two reasons. One, to pay the bills, and, two, to fund the pleasures in life, from wine to Wagner and everything else as well.

Going round the blogs now, I am confirmed that my sentiments are not out of place. This is London. We bounce back. The bars may be quieter than normal tonight, or maybe not, as people stagger their journeys. We get knocked down, we get up again. IRA bombs, riots, nailbombs, railcrashes, storms, snow, powercuts. They don't affect us - unless we're truly unlucky.

This evening

I have been watching the TV news for quite a while. It seems superfluous to use words, and linking to news sites is pointless. As I write, they are talking about 38 deaths, and many more seriously injured, and walking wounded, the traumatised etc.

Whenever one hears of senseless unnecesaary deaths of random strangers, it creates an emotional response. When they are caused deliberately, with malice, it raises questions in my mind.

But in a way, the numbers are meaningless. From time to time, the various disasters that happen throw up a name of a vague acquaintance, or a friend of a friend, or someone one used to know - I've known that for twenty years, plane crashes, train crashes, terrorist attacks. For the friends and families of those who die, it's one. One is the number. Same as when people die in unprovoked attacks, RTAs, accidents on building sites.

For the rest of us, we feel sympathy. And then what. I'm afraid, in my immediate workplace, the main concern was 'how to get home'. I left at half three. I knew I wasn't going to get any work done. I walked to Victoria, and, actually, I was home before five, getting, I think, the first train out to my nearest suburban station.

Meanwhile, the PM is saying carry on with life as normal. People will struggle in to work tomorrow (not me, I'm a part timer, I don't work Fridays...). My main concern is getting to Heathrow on Saturday.

The pisshead I live with keeps saying "Oh, you're so brave, you're so brave..." No, not really. When I moved to the South East, and then to London, it was common for stations to close nearly every week because of bomb blasts, unexploded bombs, coded phone calls, and suspect packages. When meeting a friend in town on a Saturday, before mobiles, we'd arrange Plan B and Plan C in case we couldn't meet at the bottom of the escalators at Victoria. As recently as my first blog meet, just over two years ago, I narrowly avoided getting caught up in a suspect package alert on my way home.

This all came back on Saturday, when I wrote out pieces of paper, one for Jimmy (with my mobile number) and one for me (with his) saying where to meet if we get separated.

Before we went to Live8 we stopped for a coffee at Costa Coffee on Victoria; I saw a table outside with a weekend bag, and a Daily Mail. A bloke came out of the shop and sat down with it. Jimmy came out with our coffee and I said, in a loud voice "Trouble with days like today, you get the peasants from the sticks leaving their bags unattended - all you need is one moron like that, Victoria's closed and the day's ruined for everyone."

The Daily Mail reader glared furiously at me; another chap grabbed his rucksack from the chair he had been standing near. I hope that that peasant Daily Mail reader now realises I was only being 50% Bitch; the other 50% was Years of Experience. Frankly, if he hadn't emerged by the time Jimmy did, I would have dragged the nearest police officer away from his vital duty of holding a bride in his arms as the rest of her homeward-bound hen party took photos.

Someone I know was due to go out for drinking tonight round Aldgate. The drinking's not been cancelled, it's been relocated. By the way, her partner's a policeman.

That's what we do in London. We carry on as normal.

Group hug

Eevryone's heading off to the teapoint to watch the telly. Case of BYO chair

Tannoy Announcement

The police have asked Govt departments to ask staff to avoid public transport in Central London today - something baout making a virtue out of a necessity.

The Sec of State will address Parl at 12.30

I'm here in London, the Olympic City

Walked from Waterloo, to a constant, uninterrupted sound of sirens, police, ambulance, fire, police dogs, St John's Ambulance, ministerial Jag with police escort. What had started out as a typical London transport goes down everyone copes and treats it as a skive becomes a London full of sombre faces as everyone, like me, gets scared at the sheer volume of sirens. It was the St John's Ambulance that scared me - you expect them for events like Live8, but when it's in support of the Emergency Services. Not good.

Everyone's standing round TV screens.

Cor blimey, Twenny twelve, innit

Someone commented this morning that if we got it, we'd all have to wear white Chavsuits, like David Beckham. Yeah, we all said, knowing Paris would get it.

TO be honest, I forgot all about it, and vaguely wondered why so many people were in the tea-lounge, being a little bit noisy. Then a cheer went up, and someone commented, "We've got it?"

Walking the streets of Westminster I kept over-hearing comments like "I was really shocked, I thought Paris...!"

I heard the Red Arrows go over, but I didn't see them.

Olympic Special

diamond geezer, the London blogger is doing an Olympics Special in preparation for The Big Announcement on Wednesday.

Vauxhall Bus Station

Route master

I like Vauxhall Bus Station, it is now an integral part of my commute. Shame there are no pictures. I shall try and remedy that by the end of the week.

Out and about in Westminster Village

Jimmy and I were due to go to the Barbican last night - and we did, a review will come later.

I find certain aspects of my other half to be exasperating. He knows every backstreet short cut and turning in Central and South London for driving, and he recognises the advantage of using public transport, especially into the Central area, and especially where alcohol is concerned (and you know us, it ususally is...), but he is convinced he lacks the confidence to self-navigate around Transport for London.

If he were normal, I would have said 'meet me at the Barbican at 7pm'. If he had been vaguely normal, could have said - get the 133 to the Barbican, you'll have to guess what bus stop to get off at but it's not that far to walk. If he was approaching normal, I would definitely have said "Do come to my new office, the directions are blah-de-blah." I thought of Victoria, but how do you get to the Barbican from Victoria. Actually, I have had a helpful exchange of emails with TfL about this:

Me: I have just asked the Journey Planner to take me from Victoria to Barbican on Friday, arriving at 7pm. The answer is to travel via Kings Cross, which would be nice to avoid, if possible, because there are many announcements saying "Avoid Kings Cross". It struck me that there is no 'search option' to avoid somewhere, such as Kings Cross in the rush hour.

TfL: Thank you for your email.

You raise a valid point. At present, there is no 'avoiding...' function within Journey Planner, but I will be happy to pass your feedback on to the relevant staff for their consideration for the future.

Thank you for your suggestion.

Regards,

Transport for London

I scrunched my forehead and stuck a pen in mouth and came up with a genius solution. He gets the 159:

"You go over Westminster Bridge, past St Thomas's - you know St Thomas's - then the bus goes past the Houses of Parliament - you know the Houses of Parliament? - then it goes round Parliament Square and you get off at the first bus stop after Parliament Square and you cross over Whitehall. The Red Lion is more or less opposite the Treasury, indeed it is a Treasury local."

"I'm confused about Parliament Square..."

"Basically, it's a big roundabout, so the bus has to go round it to do a right into Whitehall."

"I get it."

So I had to find my way to Whitehall. Not difficult but I wasn't sure of the quickest route. I ended up discovering a part of hidden London that I had no idea existed. How many years have I worked in Westminster Village? Of course I've heard of Dean's Yard. But I have never previously walked through it. It's a beautiful little oasis within the precincts of Westminster Abbey. I shall return.

I got to the Red Lion and himself was moaning that it was crowded. I did point out it's Friday, it's six o'clock. Then, when he went to Gents, he discovered a cellar bar that was half empty, so we whiled away the time there. Actually, too much time, so we had to get a taxi (for my piece of mind).

Whlst we were in there Ben Bradshaw popped his head round the door looking for someone. He's currently a minister at DEFRA, but you'll have to take my word for it because their website is currently down, it seems.

In those few brief moments he struck me as being exceptionally good looking - which is not exactly news to me, by the way. I reflected on the fact that the two most handsome Government Ministers, probably the two best looking ever, are both gay, and, as it happens the first two MPs to be first-time elected as out gay. Not that looks or sexual orientation matter, the only thing that matters is "Blairite or Brownite?" and I think Ben is ultra-Blairite.

Korean State Visit

Apparently, the President of South Korea is visiting (certain of my colleagues have said 'lock up your dogs').

There are flags flying - the Palace has a big standard visible from afar.

Outside is traffic chaos. Immediately outside is parked a police tow car, and a London Ambulance Service Emergency Support Vehicle. Lots and lots of hire vans packed with police officers. And a helicopter is audible overhead.

Sixteen months to go

For the 159. I feel kind of privileged it's holding out so long. We will need to have a wake in Wetherspoons (local for the Bus Garage).

When I was a child, two aunts (and uncles) and nine cousins lived in Thornton Heath. Indeed, my very first holiday was to Forn'oneaf. My father's uncle lived in St John's Wood. The 159 ran from Croydon to St John's Wood.

Sometime in the Eighties, the 159 got a whole portion chopped off and renamed the 139. It just ran to Baker Street. And then it started at Forn'oneaf Pond. Then it got truncated to Streatham Garage, which is no longer a garage. In theory. It often stops short at Brixton Garage, which is, actually, in Streatham.

28 January 2006. But I'm sure we'll see more-and-more two door buses between then and now. And I guess it will be the right time for me to change my life.

South London Dreaming

South London Tube, if there hadn't been a serious lack of investment in the Tube over the years.

We have a Streatham boy as Mayor of London. his only serious contender lives in Streatham. The Minister for London lives in Streatham. What exactly does Streatham (and, of course, the strategically more important, and more desirable Brix'onill) need to do to get a Tube...?

via Annie Mole

Head vs Heart

The last stop

I'm a Routemaster fan. It's in the blood. My grandfather drove a Routemaster for Salford Corporation. Back in the days. Best bus route ever - he would take Coronation Street stars to filming and on the way back Manchester United players to training. Don't laugh. On a bus.

He bought me a toy Routemaster from Stretford Precinct. I loved it. It stood about six or eight inches tall, and had cogs, so that when you gave it a push it carried on driving. One day before I went to school, my mother asked if my brother could pay with my toys. I said yes, everything but my bus, which is locked in the wardrobe. I got home and she told me he had thrown my bus out of the back door and it had shattered. He wasn't tall enough to unlock the wardrobe.

About fourteen years ago he bought me a Routemaster, about 2 inches tall, Route 38. About ten years ago I got a set of six 1960s vehicles - it was a Radio Times/Radio 2/Children in Need offer. One of the six is a Routemaster. About three years ago my nephew and niece bought me four inch tall Routemaster, Route 12.

They're gone from Route 137, which goes past my house, but they're still on the 159. People always opt for the 159 rather than any other route to get them down the A23. It loads faster, spending less time at bus stops for people to fumble for change. The windows open properly with a wonderful mechanical crank handle, not like the new model buses where the windows forbid any air movement. If you're downstairs you can pull the rope to ring the bell. You can jump off at the traffic lights, which, when I lived in Streatham, often made the difference between getting or missing the train from Streatham Hill. It's great to stand on the platform as they sail round Trafalgar Square - old layout Trafalgar Square - better than a trip to Alton Towers.

But they are a relic of a bygone era. The new buses are far better for accessibility, and I have a fondness for Bendy Buses. My nephew said he saw a double decker bendy bus on the M62 the other week.

I must get a photo of 159s before they disappear. I could write half my life story based on the 159 route.

Silly Olympics a step closer

London survives cut

Hopefully, in 8 years time we will have Beach Volleyball on Horse Guards Parade, Synchronised Swimming in the Serpentine, Diving in Trafalgar, Sailing at Brixton Marina, and Archery in Hyde Park.

And football at Wembley (As if...)

I think following the debacle of Atlanta 1996 and the appalling standards of TV coverage in Los Angeles in 1984, The USA should never be allowed to stage another Olympics, and New York should, therefore, be ruled out. But I suppose money talks, and the US have better resources to fund the necessary backhanders than, say, Havana...

Pre-prandial ambulation

A stroll around Westminster Village to use my eyes and not my camera. Like playing squash without a ball.

Cutting through the churchyard at Westminster Abbey brought me to St Margaret's, the Parish Church of Parliament and burial place of William Caxton, Walter Raleigh and John Milton.

Next door is the Jewel Tower. An amazing little tower, dating back to the reign of Edward III. I have passed it hundreds of times, vaguely wondering what it is. Today was the first time I walked around its tranquil little garden and surveyed its moat.

Across the road and past the Sovereign's Entrance to the Victoria Tower Gardens, pausing to bow briefly in front of the statue of Mrs Pankhurst and the memorial to the WSPU, before walking to the river. The grand panorama of London stretched before me: the baroque splendour of the Houses of Parliament, the curiosity that is Lambeth Palace and, further up, the London Eye. A solitary seagull sat on the wall. Across the river the wall was lined with hooks for the tying of boats, fashioned as lions' heads.

In Black Rod's Garden stands a fibreglass cow, seemingly abandoned to the elements.

Back towards Parliament Square. Mark Mardell and I did one of those embarrassing street dances you have to do when tourists are crowding the pavement to get onto their coach and Mark and colleague are inconsiderately strung out across the rest of the pavement. And he gave me that look - you know the one "Yes, insignificant person, I am that bloke off the telly."

David Sheppard gave me a wry smile. Some familiar, but for the moment I forget his name, eminent law lord or some such, often on TV, gave me a second glance as he realised I was giving him a second glance.

I passed the statue of Oliver Cromwell in front of the Palace of Westminster. I must have seen it a thousand times, but it has never struck me before, what a perverse thing is British English Democracy. This man deposes the King, to become the only non-regal head of state. Regicide is committed. He dies, his ineffective son takes over. The monarchy is restored, the surviving regicidists are executed; all are condemned to a memory of shame. We maintain a monarchical system of government and erect the most fabulous statue to Oliver Cromwell, taking pride of place above all monarchs and all Prime Ministers.

I cross the road and technically almost participate in a blogmeet as Austin Mitchell crosses in the opposite direction.

And back to the office, as the car of the Norwegian Ambassador passed me. I saw India last week.

The Big Number

Attention attention attention!

It is nearly four years since the Big Number change in Uk dialling codes.

The London dialling code is 020. IT has been for four years

Don't give me a phone number and start it 0207.

I am dialling from within London, I don't need to dial 020

/rant over

A feast for the eyes

I may moan about London, but I will say that the view last night from the Terrace of the Royal Festival Hall is quite simply the most beautiful man-made sight I have ever seen. Forget the Pyramids, forget the Manhattan skyline. To stand on the South Bank and see the world's most beautiful (to me...) city displayed in all its electrically-lit splendour is almost a spiritual experience. To count the number of fellow gazers out on December evening showed the universality of the feeling. To hear two teenage boys exclaiming that it was spectacular and stunning was poetry.

The Shell Electric Storm is worth seeing, too, although probably not worth travelling to see. It is nice to be able to see a wind turbine from my desk is an added little bonus.

Counting them back in again

You kknow it's really fascinating overlooking Birdcage Walk. We stood watching the soldiers return. Band leader resplendent in red and gold tunic, the boys in their grey greatcoats. Behind the band, they carried stretchers, symbolic of the operational role played by the bandsmen in action. Behind them followed a procession of Ambassadorial cars. It's difficult to make out the flags from the 9th floor, but one definitely looked Argentinian.

Out the front for a quick smoke, RSA1 went past, flying the flag of South Africa. Only the chauffer was in it; presumably the Ambassadors are all having a sherry at The Palace. Y'know, spotting of Ambassadorial cars is proving a helluva lot more fruitful than Consecutive Number Plate Spotting - I've been waiting, in vain, for four weeks to find a thirty-one. Just yesterday, I think I spotted just about every other thirty. But not a thirty one.

I wonder which ambassador will be at tonight's concert. Two weeks ago it was South Korea, the week before that Hungary. I move in circles, y'know.

M'colleague, an ex-Army nurse was reminiscing about her early days at Chelsea. A Scots Guard was brought in after rehearsals for the State Opening. He had fainted.

Onto his bayonet.

Which penetrated his soft palate and nose.

I really must stop perpetuating the myth of London as a city of Pomp and Pageantry.

I'm probably due for a fucked up Underground episode soon.

City on fire

Taken at 1635 and 1707 today, looking West from my office crane. The latter was taken with half the Unit, it seemed, gathered round admiring the view and instructing me to get out my camera.

I spent some of lunchtime in the park. The light was fantastic; the shots, experimental candid shots of strangers were so-so. I reckon I have five half decent ones of the park.

2003, Live in the City of Light!

Yesterday

I was walking along the West corridor of the office at about half five and I glanced out of the window, where I saw the most amazing sunset...ever. The sky was exploding as the blood red sun sank below the horizon.

My camera was at home.

After work I met up with Jess, which was thoroughly enjoyable - great to see you Jess. It is beginning to dawn on me that I am perhaps the woest guide ever to London. I was rubbish with brother and sister-in-law the other week, I was rubbish with Jess, and I'm going to be rubbish with sister-and-family next week.

It's not my fault, I've only lived here twelve years...