I gaze with mounting excitement at my beloved. You're finally coming, and not a moment too soon. Through the darkness I can just about make out your firm body and sleek curves, rushing headlong towards a deafening climax. Not long now, my darling.
In my mind's eye you slide to a halt, drawing me inside and smothering me with your steaming breath. Your throbbing vibrations cause me to shake and jerk, involuntarily, like a man possessed. I wait to be enveloped in your fiery embrace. It's a recurring fantasy of mine. It's my favourite train of thought.
Our intimate affair goes back several years. I fancied you the first time I laid eyes on you. I kept details of all your comings and goings in a notebook, and your number was firmly etched on my memory. I made it my business to know exactly where you'd be and when. I used to make tracks to your secluded woodland cutting, just to catch a glimpse of you as you passed by. You never looked back, and neither did I.
And now I have my dirty way with you every weekend. I always dress up for you, because I know you like it that way, and I always use protection. There has to be plenty of foreplay, for several hours if I can wangle it, before I'm willing to perform with you in public. Every Sunday morning I'm down on my knees with the grease gun, adding extra lubrication to ease your passage. Your coupling rods always need a good rub-down, and I love to buff up your double-action pistons. You can see the smile on my face, can't you, because I know I'll have you up against the buffers before the afternoon is out.
I hate having to share you with the other guys. I feel jealous when they wipe their filthy rags all over your body, or blow your whistle, or tighten up your nuts. When I see your shiny funnel, standing tall and erect, I feel like it's spitting white especially for me.
I long for the moment when I can reach out and rub my fingers over your iron belly again. I need to see you, to feel you, and to take dirty photos of you from every conceivable position. I want to climb up on top of you, wield my mighty tool and dig deep within your tender behind. I feel an unstoppable urge to fling open your flaps and fill you with burning fire. The fuel injection I bestow will drive us forward, together, inseparable. I need to stoke you up, to power you with energy, until the pressure within is released in shuddering motion. Soon my darling, soon.
You may be getting on a bit, but you're a lot more than an old boiler to me. I love the time we spend together. When I'm with you, I'm well chuffed. May our relationship never go off the rails.
How not to win a Bloggie: I've not been trying very hard, have I? Voting's been going on for a week now, and as yet I've failed to implore you to rush over to 2008.bloggies.com and cast a vote for your favourite "best european weblog". Instead I've been waffling on about deserted railway stations, canalside walks and IKEA tealights. It's not exactly the right stuff to inspire randomly-arriving international surfers to go away and vote for me, is it?
So, just in time for the last day of voting tomorrow, I'm going to try a completely different tack. I'm going to take a leaf out of the two blogs that have ruled this category for the last few years (girl with a one track mind and my boyfriend is a twat) and write more about emotional and passionate stuff instead. Because none of the four blogs I'm competing against regularly write about love and sex. Chocolate and Arsenal, maybe, which are damned close, but not cuddly relationships and rampant shagging. So I'm evolving in order to improve my potential success criteria. A world audience of mostly-Americans won't be able to resist my new intimate blogging approach, and are absolutely bound to vote for me just like they voted for the two Zoes. Shameless I know. But don't worry, it'll only be for one day. Normal service will be resumed once voting closes. [*cough* over here *cough*]
Somewhere un-famous: Sudbury & Harrow Road station London's most useless railway station is in Brent. It has fewer paying passengers than any of the other 300-or-so stations in the capital. According to official statistics it's used by only 2500 passengers a year. It's no remote halt in the middle of a field, it's in a proper urban location on a busy high street. It's served by trains only during the weekday rush hour, and then only in one direction at a time. It has just nine trains a day - four into town in the morning and five back again in the evening. It is a sorry apology for a station and owners Chiltern Railways clearly treat it with complete indifference. It is Sudbury & Harrow Road. And yes, of course I had to pay a visit.
I wonder if it's a coincidence that the number 18 bendy bus terminates on the Harrow Road precisely outside the entrance to this forlorn station . Catch the nasty evil articulated bus from here and you could be in Marylebone in less than an hour. Wait for a train and you could be waiting for up to three days. A lone British Rail sign and a tiny purple nameplate mark the station entrance for any would-be passengers. There's no ticket office, just a "Permit to Travel" machine and a pair of freshly-installed Oyster readers . I suspect that just the one reader would have been sufficient. The bike rack has just four spaces (don't all fight at once). Turn left to enter the dark concrete passage beneath the railway embankment. In a busier station this might smell of urine and sicked-up curry, but not at Sudbury & Harrow Road. I stepped inside, and headed up the central staircase to the station proper .
There are two parallel platforms, a few metres apart, with the top of the stairs forming a small island between the two. If it's raining you can hide beneath the red arched plastic roof, or maybe take a seat on the single central bench. There's room for two, maybe three if you squeeze up close. To the right I spotted a padlocked cupboard containing "Adverse Weather Equipment", and to the left a yellow box labelled "Passenger Help Point" (singular, not plural). Oh, and also a couple of TV display screens transmitting flickering information from Chiltern HQ. These informed me that, not only were there no trains stopping today, there were also no trains running due to planned engineering work. Fantastic, I had this entire remote outpost completely to myself, with no interruptions.
I took a silent stroll from one end of the station to the other . Each platform was little more than a long wooden boardwalk, about a metre off the ground, with a spiky slatted fence rising up behind. Between the two lay a forgotten grassy trench, littered with discarded bottles, cans and the odd deflated football. A handful of thin blue lampposts broke the emptiness, on which were stuck scrappy stickers warning the occasional patron not to smoke . From Platform 1 I had a fine view down into the back gardens of Sudbury, towards rickety sheds and washing lines pegged out with damp undergarments. And down in Harrow Road were scores of people rushing around, buying this and that, rushing hither and thither, and queueing to catch a bus to somewhere else.
It's a shame that so few local residents look up to the embankment for a means of escape, but perhaps not surprising given that this station merits such a pitifully irregular service. 45 trains a week is no way to build up a regular clientèle, and so the vicious underfunded circle of transport decline continues. "The next train to London Marylebone will depart in 2500 minutes." I headed back down the stairs to the bus stop, and the station returned to timetabled hibernation. by tube: Sudbury Town by bus: 18, 92, 182, 245
Somewhere historic: Grand Union Canal [A three mile walk from Harlesden to One Tree Hill, Alperton] Whenever I explore a random borough, I always attempt to go for a long walk. Ideally a long walk that the local council has flagged on its website. Good old Brent Council provided a choice of four, each supplied by the London Ecology Unit. Excellent, I thought, I'll have one of them. So I printed out the map and instructions and prepared myself for a delightful three mile stroll along a 200 year old canal. "London Ecology Unit", eh? I should have spotted the clues before I set out.
I haven't been to Harlesden for almost 25 years, back when I was doing a summer job on the Park Royal trading estate. If you bought any Marks and Spencer clothing during the latter half of 1983, I probably helped to produce the little hole-punched swing ticket that hung from the label. So I subconsciously recognised the first part of the walk from my teenage commute. Right out of the station, round the McVities factory (mmm, Harlesden smells nice) and down onto the towpath. Then past the tied up barge and westward, towards Alperton. My printed pdf advised me to look out for a purple bellflower, some blue tufted vetch and a patch of red campion. Not a sign. All I could see was a grassy green verge with no flowering vegetation at all. I should have guessed that a guided walk produced by the London Ecology Unit would be rather heavier on flowers than on history. And that perhaps such a walk was better suited to July than January. Never mind, ever onward.
Next I was advised to enjoy the "pleasant smells" nearby, probably emanating "from the Heinz factory" on the opposite bank. Erm, there was no Heinz factory on the opposite bank, just a long row of shiny white warehouses containing various non ketchup manufacturing businesses. I was sure I remembered an oppressive grimy factory last time I was here, with big pipes and sheer grey walls. And yes, as it turns out, I was right. But the Heinz Factory closed down in 2000 and the site has since been comprehensively redeveloped. My printed walk was seriously out of date... and with good reason. The London Ecology Unit also breathed its last in 2000, absorbed into the new Greater London Authority. So, I was following a walk that was at least eight years old, and already historically obsolete. Never mind, ever onward.
Two pages of A4 description later and I'd seen almost nothing of what was being described. Just a lot of Park Royal industrial units and a few ducks. There was, however, a bit of a treat ahead as the canal passed over the North Circular Road on an aqueduct. Because aqueducts are cool. But unfortunately the view from this aqueduct was of a stream of rushing traffic and a very modern Travelodge. Even the aqueduct itself , with a magnificent Middlesex Coat of Arms lodged inbetween the twin channels, turned out to be nothing more than a 1993 replacement. There were a few highlights ahead. A couple of quietly puttering narrowboats . A modernised footbridge being well frequented by locals. An extraordinary tumbledown old shed-like building beneath a Piccadilly line rail bridge . A swan . But on the whole this was a canalside walk where the canal was the only thing worth seeing, and not the stuff to either side. Never mind, ever onward.
The walk ended away from the canal, just before the scenery got good. My printed guide apologised for the detour, but the pretty stretch beneath Horsenden Hill was in Ealing, not Brent, and therefore off limits. Instead I was diverted along a busy road and up a lesser hill on the outskirts of Alperton, with semi-screened views over west London and the City. One Tree Hill, as it was called, boasted more trees than strictly permitted under the Trade Descriptions Act . Wembley Stadium was perfectly visible from the single bench at the summit , as were the stone pinnacles of an astonishing Hindu temple under construction at the foot of the hill . This was certainly the high point of the journey, in every way, but not a true peak. It had been more an anachronistic stroll than a historic walk. Never mind. by tube: Harlesden → Alperton by bus: 224
After a long hiatus for redevelopment, it was good to stride up Wembley Way on Saturday afternoon amidst a crowd of expectant spectators. They poured from the tube station, past the hot dog stalls and the ice cream van, heading south towards the epicentre of English football. But quite a strange crowd to be attending a big match, I thought. Almost all female (with just the odd bewildered husband tagging along), most over 50 or under 15, and not a stripy scarf in sight. So I wasn't entirely surprised when we reached the twin ramps up to the stadium and they continued onward at ground level and around the corner towards Wembley Arena. To attend the matinée performance of Strictly Come Dancing Live, as it turned out. The strictly macho stadium remained mostly untroubled by visitors, bar a few of us curious souls keen to view the arched wonder up close.
The wind whipped round the elevated concrete promenade. Up on level two the bronze figure of BobbyMoore stood watching over the stadium approach, a large St George's flag fluttering limply behind behind his right shoulder . Every 15 minutes or so a group of paid-up tourists emerged from the glass doors of "Club Wembley" to stand at his feet as their guide related the tale of our glorious 1966 World Cup victory. I understand that the rest of their £15 tour included rather more exclusive locations such as the Royal Box, the changing rooms and the Wembley Stadium Tour Cafe. Plus, of course, the official shop where you can purchase a souvenir tankard, a teddy bear or a patch of turf to remember your visit. Not for me. I held back for a few minutes to attempt to take a photograph that didn't contain a shaven-headed fan gawping in excited adulation . And then I continued on my free circumnavigation of the giant glass bowl. Which was closed.
The stadium has several entrances, all of them securely fastened with impregnable shiny metal doors when no event is underway. A long list of regulations informs spectators what they can and can't bring inside . No darts, air horns or explosives (obviously). No cameras, radios or umbrellas (good grief, I wonder how many unwitting visitors get those confiscated when they attempt to attend a concert or match). And no balls. One hopes that the England football team aren't required to abide by that last one.
What you can see from the outside of the stadium is the curved glass wall that rises up several storeys into the sky , and the great white arch above. Ahh, the Wembley Arch, a simple enough idea but so magnificently realised. It rises out of the walkway on opposite sides of the stadium, bolted into the ground with a big concrete plug, and launches into the sky in a sweeping white-piped curve . You don't really get a sense of its enormity from up close, but you do get some excellent arch-y reflections in the building as you walk round the perimeter . And you get some mighty fine views out across the surrounding area, just as they can see right back towards the arch even from several miles away .
Time your visit right and you might end up sharing most of your walk only with a couple of bored-looking security guards. Or time your visit right and you might end being swept along by a crowd of jubilant spectators celebrating a glorious national victory. It's all or nothing at the New Wembley. by tube: Wembley Park by bus: 92, PR2
Somewhere retail: IKEA Wembley Because Brent Cross isn't actually in Brent. Who'd have thought. So I travelled instead to Brent Park in Neasden to visit that other retail colossus - the big blue IKEA on the North Circular Road . Me and thousands of others of northwest Londoners, all spending our Saturday in Swedish furniture purgatory. It's possibly the slowest, least efficient form of shopping anywhere on the planet, but that never seems to stop us turning up in search of yet another lampshade or cheap bookcase. Why did I go, why?
IKEA Wembley doesn't exactly welcome those who turn up by public transport. The walk from Neasden tube is long and tortuous, involving dubious road crossings and a seriously mucky footbridge. Even by bus you're directed through the murkiest, dampest corner of IKEA's multi-storey car park. Only car drivers are welcomed with bright shiny blue and yellow frontage, because only car drivers can drive away with three sets of flatpack furniture in their boot . Come on in, but only if you have two hours to spare.
At the top of the stairs there's a choice of a trolley or a big flappy yellow bag. Please, take neither. You won't need the trolley on the first floor, this level is full of furniture that can only be collected downstairs. And you don't need that bag either. The management sprinkle candle holders and coathangers amongst the fitted kitchens and bunk beds, just to tempt you, but they're all available downstairs too. The rest of us will find it much easier to negotiate our way around the tortuous winding pathway if you're not blocking the way with a huge metal basket on wheels. It's bad enough trying to walk past toddlers in pushchairs, and dithering wives uncertain quite which shade of wardrobe would look best in their bedroom, and bored shoppers sitting on every comfy sofa like they're part of the exhibit. Come on, where's the shortcut?
Don't divert into the cafe/restaurant. The queues are terrible, the table-clearing service is non-existent, and you don't really like meatballs anyway. Head back down to the ground floor, into the Market Place, to be faced by a dazzling range of cheap household goods graced by a variety of obscure foreign names. And this is where IKEA's marketing brilliance kicks in. You weren't really planning on buying very much, but look over there. You need a storage jar like that, don't you? And that mat would go nicely by the back door, and you don't have enough dinner plates, and don't those pillowcases look jolly, and all at such reasonable prices. By the time you reach the exit you'll almost certainly be carrying more "essentials" than you expected.
Next it's time to be confronted by shelf upon shelf of wood-in-a-box, as you pass through the vast interior of the flatpack cathedral. And then the pace slows, and the throng of customers ahead grows deeper, as you approach the interminable inefficiency of the checkouts. There are 38 checkouts at IKEA Wembley. On Saturday afternoon, one of the busiest times of the week, fewer than half of them were open. Be warned, they're staggered in two rows, so the queue that looks shorter may actually turn out to be longer. I waited 15 minutes in my queue while the shoppers in front slowly unloaded and paid for a motley assortment of unnecessary consumer goods. The lady behind me caved in and sent her kids off to the "Bistro" to buy 35p ice creams to keep them quiet. Their queue was longer than ours.
And then the final indignation - having to pay for your own carrier bags. Obviously it's great not to be littering the environment with unnecessary plastic landfill, but it's also an expensive pain if you've forgotten to bring sufficient receptacles with you. I'd not planned ahead before leaving the house so I ended up with a weeny 15p carrier, whereas most other people were purchasing (and filling) several 30p sacks. And I got a very funny look from the cashier, and the surrounding shoppers, when I unloaded my handful of purchases onto the conveyor belt. I'd waited just over quarter of an hour to buy almost nothing, for less than a fiver. But then you can never have enough tealights, can you? by tube: Neasden by bus: 92, 112, 206, 232, 316, PR2
Brent, at the heart of northwest London, is the only local authority in the UK to have a majority of its residents born overseas. Communities and high streets around Wembley and beyond now boast a diverse mix of cultures, religions and cuisines. It wasn't always this way. A century ago Metro-land carved a genteel domestic swathe through the heart of the area, where once were only fields and villages. Suburban semis still rule, but the place is changing fast. Yesterday I attempted to catch up.
Somewhere to begin: Brent Museum I doubt that the old Brent Museum had many visitors. It was situated in a converted stable block in the middle of an extremely busy roundabout, just off the North Circular, in the middle of Neasden. Not a location especially conducive to major tourist influx. So the council moved the entire collection, a couple of years ago, and plonked it inside the brand new Willesden Green Library. And what do you know, when I visited on Saturday morning, I was the only person there. Not one other visitor, nor even a single member of staff on duty. Now that's my kind of museum. And I was unexpectedly impressed by the contents. It's not an enormous gallery, but the curators have crammed in all sorts of aspects of Brent-ian life, as it was lived then and as it's lived now. Enough to get you interested, if not deeply satisfied. Read about the world's first speaking clock, and the old Guinness brewery, and Graham Young the schoolboy "Teacup Poisoner". See Neasden FC's Cup Final appearance commemorated on the front cover of Private Eye, and learn about the politicalhomeland of Rhodes Boyson and Ken Livingstone. There's quite a bit about the history of Wembley Stadium, as you might expect, including an actual Olympic torch from 1948. Oh, and in the "special exhibition" room nextdoor, a special exhibition about saris. No really, it was a lot more interesting than it sounds. As I would have told the curator on the way out, had they existed. by tube: Willesden Green by bus: 52, 302
Somewhere random: Chamberlayne Road Few natural events are more random than a tornado. One minute you're sitting at home in your dead ordinary terraced house, and the next the wind is ripping your roof off and hurling tiles through your bedroom window. That's what happened to the residents of Chamberlayne Road in Kensal Rise on the morning of 7th December 2006. You must remember, it was bignews, and surely not only because the tornado touched down within two miles of BBC Television Centre. So how are the residents coping now, just over a year later. Very well, by the looks of it. Most of the damaged houses look completely back to normal, although there are still a well-above-average number of roof repairs being carried out along the western side of one short section of the street. For at least the next few months the path of the tornado is still just about traceable, in scaffolding . And take a closer look at the side of the house at the junction with Whitmore Gardens . The exterior wall appears to change from new brick to old brick two-thirds of the way down, because this is the house that had its side completely ripped off by the T4 twister. The poor owner returned home after work that fateful Thursday to find a gaping hole in the side of her largest investment. But time, and insurance, heals all. A very ordinary wind whipped down Chamberlayne Road yesterday, and nobody seemed particularly concerned. by train: Kensal Rise by bus: 6, 52, 302
Somewhere pretty: Kingsbury The great majority of modern-designed homes are routine identikit boxes with limited character. But in Kingsbury, to the north of the borough, a couple of architects once went out of their way to give local residents somewhere really special to live. The aircraft industry came to this part of rural northwest London during World War 1, and workers had nowhere to live. Sir Francis Baines was commissioned to rectify the situation. He designed a compact "garden village" of 270 flats and houses, just over the road from the de Havilland works on Stag Lane, and Roe Green Village was the result. There are a variety of charming buildings, some timber-faced and others plastered, each divided up into two, three or more dwellings . The homes were cutting edge at the time, though perhaps a little small by later standards. Roads on the estate are narrow and homely, clearly not designed for the motor car, and a sense of rural community still remains. The aircraft industry has long since moved away, of course, but these houses remain an aspirational enclave for those who want to live somewhere with real character.
And then there are Ernest Trobridge's houses on Buck Lane. Oh boy. Whatever was he thinking when he created this handful of eccentric residences? Up on the hilltop, around a single crossroads, are a small cluster of striking individual castellated follies. Some merely have round towers and gothic staircases , but one is a full-on white-painted castle with battlements . John Betjeman came to pay homage to Highfort Court in his Metro-land documentary, you may remember. These bizarre creations all look like they've seen slightly better days, but it must be a joy to live in one of these houses or maisonettes today. Trobridge's other fascination was grand detached cottages, and there are a fair few of these dotted around the area too. He was a firm believer in the importance of social housing, as was Sir Francis down the road, and in modern Kingsbury it's easy to see where their special influence stops and the "ordinary" interwar semis begin. by tube: Kingsbury by bus: 204, 302
Random borough (16): Time yet again for me to take another random trip to one of London's 33boroughs. As I write I have no idea which one of the 18 remaining borough names will be revealed when I unfold the slip of paper I'm about to pick from my "special jamjar". I could pick any of London's other boroughs - inner or outer, urban or suburban, small or large, fascinating or dull. I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea, Hackney, Hillingdon, the City, Bromley, Lambeth, Tower Hamlets, Haringey or Hounslow because they're the fifteen (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already. What London delights will I get to inflict upon to my new international audience of Bloggie-voting readers? Will they be treated to the cultural highlights of somewhere central and important, like Westminster or Camden? Or will I be dispatched somewhere rather more peripheral and off-radar, like Harrow or Havering? Watch this space.
Once I've researched my randomly-chosen borough online then I'll head off and visit some of its most interesting places (assuming it has any). As usual I hope to visit somewhere famous, somewhere historic, somewhere pretty, somewhere retail, somewhere sporty and somewhere random. I might even take lots of photographs while I'm at it, if the borough's photogenic enough. Then after I've made my grand tour I'll come back tomorrow and tell you all about it. Let's see where I'm going this time...
In today's post, to protect workplace confidentiality, I shall be replacing certain sensitive words with the names of fruits and vegetables. Thank you for your continued attention.
As part of my job, it is occasionally essential to transport confidential bananas from one part of London to another. I've been transporting bananas for many years now, every now and then, as the timeline requires, from my offices in Melon to the customer's offices in Pineapple. The bananas are always securely wrapped and hermetically sealed, lest some evil interloper should attempt to steal them during the journey, or in case I accidentally leave them on the bus. My colleagues and I have been transporting bananas from Melon to Pineapple for many years now, and we've never lost a single one.
Recently our customer in Pineapple introduced a new risk management procedure called kumquat. This means that we now have to transport an extra copy of every banana, rendered electronically, in addition to our normal paper-based delivery. I first attended a meeting about kumquat way back in 2002, but it's taken until now for the upper hierarchy to finally confirm precisely which of our bananas need to be copied and when. This month, after a final bout of high level deliberation, we at last have an agreed kumquat policy and kumquat schedule. So tomorrow I have to transport my usual banana across town from Melon to Pineapple, but I also have to take an electronic banana too.
You've probably seen a lot of bad press lately about satsuma loss. It only takes one carelessly mislaid banana and millions of pounds worth of sensitive satsuma can be lost, with major national repercussions. So we've also had a new satsuma policy imposed on us, whereby all electronic bananas must now be encrypted and cabbage-protected before being transported from Melon to Pineapple. Just in case, on the off chance, to minimise risk. Because minimising risk is now more important than anything else, even sanity.
I spent most of yesterday trying to cabbage-protect my electronic banana. I could have been doing some real work, but instead I spent most of my time on the phone to the customer in Pineapple attempting to work out what they deemed acceptable cabbage protection. Not that they could tell me. "You must do this", the top level asparagus insisted. But they could offer no practical advice or IT solution explaining precisely how. Three hours after I should have gone home I was still sat at my desk, copying and recopying individual apricots, attempting to meet a pointless new deadline created by leek-pedants.
So today I'll be crossing London from Melon to Pineapple clutching my double-wrapped electronic banana. Please don't mug me. You'd not be able to unlock my electronic banana anyway, not now that it's been comprehensively cabbage-protected. Security problem solved? Well no, because I'll still be carrying the usual double-wrapped paper-based banana too. And a lost or stolen paper-based banana remains perfectly readable by any opportunistic satsuma thief, just like it's always been. Even if no opportunistic satsuma thief has ever materialised. I love the sheer futility of my job sometimes. Because the customer is always right, even when they're clearly talking lychees.
The UK government yesterday launched a multi-million pound campaign to try to cut levels of obesity across Britain. Because too many of us are fat bastards, and we're all going to die. Obviously. The new campaign contains lots of sensible ideas, most of them old favourites, and most of which chubby and would-be-chubby people will ignore. And then there's this one...
At the moment, as you've probably noticed, there are two competing approaches to presenting nutritional information on the front of packaged food. One is simple, and the other is a bit more complicated. One is favoured by the government and used by most supermarkets, and the other is favoured by sellers of nutritionally dodgy food and used by Tesco. But only one scheme can win out. And I'm quite surprised by which I prefer.
Traffic lights This is the straight-forward system, with the backing of the Food Standards Agency and the Department of Health. Pictured is the Sainsbury'sversion, which looks like a Trivial Pursuit counter (but with proper full fat cheese). Five major nutritional types are depicted, and you can tell at a glance whether you should be cramming this food down your gullet or not. Green = good; amber = occasionally; red = imminent death. Very useful for quickly identifying which of several identical ready meals is jammed full of nasty salt and killer calories, and which isn't quite so bad. But not very useful if you're colour blind. And, ludicrously, the colours have nothing to do with the actual amount of fat/salt/etc inside the packet. The numbers do, but the colours don't. The colours are based on 100g of food, whether the packet contains 100g or not. A tiny pack of ten peanuts would show up red, for example, because 100g of peanuts have a lot of calories. But a huge bucket of fizzy drink might only show amber, because a mere 100g of fizzy drink (one third of a can) isn't going to kill you. It's all a bit basic, a bit broad-brush, a bit over-simple. • All about the traffic light system
Guideline Daily Amounts And this is the complicated system, with the backing of Tesco, Kellogg's, Nestlé and other stodge-peddling multinationals. Pictured is the label from a steak and mushroom pie I ate earlier, with figures based on recommended daily consumption. There are lots of pretty traffic light colours, but oddly these are completely irrelevant. Sugar may be coloured red, but it's actually the sugar in this pie that's the least unhealthy ingredient. Look, the fat content is huge, and that's for just a quarter of the pie. Eat half of the pie and you'd be eating a day's saturated fat all in one go. I like this label because it's based on actual portion size, and the figures depicted can (and do) actively stop me from eating too large a slice. But the label also contains supposedly difficult mathematics (ie percentages), which is enough to scare off most shoppers. If half the adult population can't quickly interpret this label in a supermarket aisle, then it's not going to provide any motivation to buy the healthy option. Shame. • All about the Guideline Daily Amounts system
I fear that, in the government's new drive to enforce one single food labelling system, lowest common denominator design will win out. Labels will show less information rather than more, because more information confuses stupid people. Red, amber, or green, that's all we'll get. But it won't really be enough. When every pizza in the freezer cabinet shows red for saturated fat, who's to spot that the triple-cheese feast is the real killer. Once I've bought my amber Pringles, what's to stop me from eating the entire tube? Obesity isn't just about what the nation eats, it's about how much. Fat chance of us winning the battle.
The best five blogs in Europe(allegedly) [ooh, it's Bloggies time again] Arseblog - dissecting Europe's finest football team (ssh, pretend we never lost against Sp*rs last night) Londonist - dissecting Europe's finest capital city (churning out the very latest 24-ish hours a day) Chocolate & Zucchini - mouthwatering stylish Gallic cuisine (it's amazing what you can do with a courgette) Iceland Weather Report - Reykjavik calling (because Europe spreads even as far as the cold dark shiny bits) diamond geezer - waffling on about East London and life and stuff (bloody hell, that's me isn't it?)
ohmigod it's AMYWINEHOUSE. she has the voice of an ANGEL but she is not pure. she is always being seen with the powder and the rocks, sometimes in her car and sometimes up her nose. she is in the gutter oh yes, like a dirty woman. and she is MY NEIGHBOUR! well, sort of. i live in bow in east london and what do you know she lives IN BOW TOO! it is, like TOO EXCITING! and a scandal, obviously.
amy is an E3 girl now. she bought a pad here last month up by the river canals, and now she is never away from the place. well, it is dead convenient for the local magistrates court, innit? i was walking past the court on the bow road the other week and there was paparazzi ALL over the pavement waiting for amy to turn up. they had cameras and they had notebooks and they had those little ladders that they stand on to get a better photo of a lady's head. but there was no amy around yet. i should have waited to watch the scarlet jezebel shambling up the steps into the court to plead for her dipsy husband but instead i went home. but hey i was WELL CLOSE to fame and misery.
amy lives in these posh flats beside the river lea, on the corner where it meets the hertford canal. the area is called fish island, which is appropriate because she drinks like one LOL. amy lives inside a big modern apartment block made of shiny glass, behind a security gate which helps to keep the tabloids out. she probably has wooden floorboards and a balcony and a large open space pretending to be a loft. i bet she has a cracking time there, know what i mean. and her place directly overlooks the olympics, so she'll have a great view of the basketball stadium in 2012, but only if she's still alive and hasn't dropped DEAD of evil overdoses.
because i live in bow i could bump into amy AT ANY TIME. if i go to the corner shop i could easily find amy there buying vodka and rizlas. if i go to the mcdonalds drive-thru i could see amy lolling beside the pay window guzzling an egg mcmuffin. if i go out up the A12 after dark i might come face to face with her scrawny red bra and scruffy tattoo flesh. and if i stand on the canal towpath i might be able to sell her a bag of lemon sherbet which she will take home and snort in a crazed POWDERBINGE. so i keep my eyes peeled for a dazed blonde waif wandering the bow streets, or staring blankly through a car window with pinhole eyes. i haven't seen her yet, my e3 sister, but it can only be a MATTER OF TIME.
I still read your posts, and I still read your writings, but I don't read your blog. Don't hate me.
It's your own fault. You placed this link on your blog which allowed me to steal all your posts, both past and future, and drag them away to a viewingplatformof my ownchoosing. I've not been back since.
It might have taken me a while to find your magic button. Some people hide it away in the lower reaches of their sidebar. Some people use a textlink rather than a ripply orange icon. Others pretend they don't have a feed at all, whereas the address is often obvious when I stop and think. Wherever you conceal your import link, I can track it down and then spirit your words away. Once I have your RSS feed within my clutches, then your content is mine.
I can sit here with my RSS reader and conjure up your latest posts without you ever knowing. I can read your every word whilst leaving behind no footsteps to show I was ever there. And the entire process is nigh instant too. My blogfeed reader can spot your most recent post almost as soon as you've published it, rather than me eventually stumbling on it hours or even days later. My blog consumption is now passive rather than active - you come to me rather than me going to you.
It's quick, and it's easy. Just a steady stream of intermittent incoming posts and none of the surrounding clutter. Format-stripped text and shrunken-down images, nothing more. Never mind if you've given your template a refreshing spring clean, I'll never see it. Never mind if you've updated your blogroll or rejigged your archive, I won't notice. Never mind if you've embedded adverts all over your blog to entrap the unwary surfer, I'll be oblivious. And never mind if you're building up some really interesting comment threads at the foot of what you've written, I can't be bothered to click through and interact.
So look, I apologise. You go to all the effort of designing a perfectly configured blog template, all elegant curves and content-packed sidebar, and I ignore it. You write erudite posts laid out in some tasteful font, and I read your words in size 8 default text. You write your posts in sequence, in carefully-considered context, and I read them in disjoint chunks floating amidst random posts from other subscribers. Sorry, I'm behaving badly.
Yes, it's damned lazy of me. Yes, I should interact with you more than I do. I still feel a pang of guilt every time I read one of your posts at a distance, because I know I'm giving nothing back. I should try to remember to click through a bit more often, just to see what you're really up to. But at least I'm regularly reading every post you write, which wasn't necessarily the case in the pre-RSS era. And I'm smiling at what I read, and enjoying what I see. You win some, you lose some.
sub dostuff { gosomewhere if $fridge=empty then #shopping if $moodtakes=1 then #visitsomething if $moodtakes=2 then #visitsomethingelse takephoto(repeat) #look & #stare #gohome }
sub eveninghome { #slob & #cook & #munch #telly & #web & #snack if $opportunity>0 then hitthetown&party #bedsleep } }
On the western edge of the City of London, tucked out of sight behind Fleet Street, are two of the capital's great Inns of Court. One is the Inner Temple, the other the Middle Temple, and together with the Law Courts over the road they form the nucleus of legal London. Temple's hidden precincts are the stomping ground of barristers and other legalfolk, and have been since 1608 when King James I granted a Royal Charter to the land and buildings on this site. Which makes 2008 the 400th anniversary of the great founding event. Any excuse for a festival.
You can gain restricted public access to the Temple complex on weekdays, and some of the buildings within are open occasionally, but this is the first weekend in 400 years when the gates have been flung wide to the public. A shame that the weather's been rather drizzly, and a pity that the award winning gardens don't look anything like their best in January, but this is still an opportunity not to miss.
Middle Temple is the older of the two Inns of Court, but only because most of it wasn't destroyed by bomb damage during WW2. The main Hall is a magnificent Tudor construction, all wooden panelling and hammerbeam roof , with golden shields along each wall and stained glass ablaze in the windows. It was filled yesterday with helpful volunteers waiting to be asked questions, choral groups performing acapella Grensleeves, and wandering visitors gawping down from the gallery. Outside the hall you'll find a network of terraced rooms, gardens, courtyards and passageways, very much like an Oxbridge college, and clearly a delightful location in which to work and study. Inner Temple is slightly less special, comprising mostly postwar replacement buildings surrounding a town-hall-like main hall. But the sense of tradition and ceremonial is strong, and there are fine views across the gardens down towards the Embankment and the Thames beyond.
Temple business takes place inside countless legal chambers across the site, a few of which were open to the public yesterday for a bit of a look around. The most interesting of these were the chambers in Crown Office Row, where I joined a small group on a short tour led by a smiling QC. We were taking into the meeting rooms where barristers discuss cases with their clients behind soundproof doors, and got to meet the junior clerks who'd come in on their day off. (Hey kids, if you have a minimum of qualifications but still fancy a really well-paid job, then solicitors' clerk sounds just the ticket) On through the glass security door to glimpse the privileged world of the barristers beyond. Crammed into tiny offices with overflowing piles of red-ribbon-wrapped legal files, each representing a different courtroom case, it's not quite the glamorous world depicted in This Life.
And then, one of the highlights of the day, a chance to peer inside Temple Church. The round Norman church is a national rarity, founded by the Knights Templar in the 12th century, and was once part of a monastic compound. There are ten marble effigies at the centre of the circular nave, each depicting a knight reclining in deathly repose. These feature in chapter eighty-something of Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code, so this historic church has become a bit of an international literary tourist mecca. The church's vicar loves to speak on the subject, although the crowds who arrived to hear his talk yesterday were treated more to a sermon than a history lesson. They packed out the slightly more modern end of the church, known as the Oblong , and no doubt flocked to buy his book (only £5) on the way out.
There's one more day of the Temple Open Weekend today, should you be tempted to attend. Pick your time of arrival carefully. Temple Church doesn't open until 1pm (it being a Sunday they're holding Choral Mattins at 11:15), while Inner Temple Hall is closed for lunch (and lunch preparations) until half past three. Otherwise there's plenty to see, including theatricals, guided tours and police dog demos, from half past ten onwards. Even better, they're holding mock trials in the Royal Courts of Justice across Fleet Street, and if you (and your camera) have never been inside that great Gothic building before then you're in for a treat. Be warned, this is the first Temple Open Weekend for 400 years, and you don't know how long you might have to wait until the next.
The arrival of the New Year first footer is a special occasion in any house. The first person to cross the threshold at Hogmanay brings all the luck, good or bad, for the coming year. Who will it be? Will they bring whisky and a lump of coal? And will they be tall, dark and handsome? It's no good welcoming a short blond woman after Big Ben strikes, that won't do at all.
I'm standing ready to welcome 2008's first footer to my door. It may already be the third week of January, but this'll be the first pair of shoes to enter my flat since New Year's Day. I'm not counting my own feet, of course, because I don't believe that first footing one's own threshold is permissible under ancient tradition. Instead I've been busily preparing my flat in readiness for the first visitor I've had in ages. The hallway is freshly hoovered, the bathroom towel is hung up, and the ironing board hidden away out of sight. Oh, and the washing up is done and the kitchen sink is gleaming, because that's important. And because I always live in pristine conditions like this, honest.
There he is now, my first footer, puffing up the apartment stairs. He's had to park his vehicle in the McDonalds drive-thru car park down by the flyover, so let's hope the clampers don't get him before his time's up. My premier visitor introduces himself and walks towards my open doorway. Yes he's tall, way over six foot. Yes he's dark, especially that five o'clock stubble all over his chin. And yes he probably was handsome back when his wife fell in love with him, but a good few years have passed since. He'll do. He's the harbinger of my New Year joy, and he's brought me a special Hogmanay gift.
I direct him straight down the hallway and into the second room on the right, inside which he finds the object of his quest. "Is this it?" he asks. How many kitchen sinks does the man think I have, for heavens sake. He twists the cold tap and water slowly fills the basin, even though nobody's yet put the plug in. "Yeah, I've tried everything to unblock it," I say. "A bottle of Mr Muscle, kettlefuls of boiling water, a big pointy straightened wire coathanger, half a bag of soda crystals, unscrewing the U-bend to clear out any gunk, and even this rubber plunger. None of them worked." He laughs at my £1.29 suction cup.
And then my first footer whips out his special gift - a giant plunger. It's the size of an extra-large ice cream cornet, and a vision in blue ribbed rubber. He plonks it down over my clogged plughole and pumps vigorously, three times. Several inches of standing water gurgle rapidly down the open pipe. "Well that looks like it's sorted your problem", he says, and runs the tap again. The sink empties like a dream. I smile, partly because I'll now be able to run my washing machine without flooding the kitchen, but mostly because my landlord will end up paying this plumber's extortionate one-minute call-out bill.
My visitor is leaving. So soon? He's not even had time to notice the shine on the microwave oven, nor the freshly-scrubbed splashback tiles, nor even the elegantly arranged bowl of apples sat on the kitchen worktop. He speeds back down the dust-free hallway, across the pristine welcome mat and disappears out into the night. My first footer has indeed brought good fortune and prosperity upon the household, and my pipework is at last free from obstruction. I stand in my newly evacuated home, toying with the cold tap and admiring my underappreciated shimmering surfaces. I bet they'll all need deep-cleaning again before my second footer arrives. Happy New Year everybody.
It's exactly ten years since I last embarked upon a relationship. I didn't quite realise what I was getting into at the time, neither did I have any inkling of how it would all end up. But I like to think I learned quite a lot as a result. To which end, the rest of today's post is copied from an email I sent to a friend last year when they were considering embarking on a relationship of their own.
Somebody new in your life, eh? Congratulations. But you're "worried that your other half may not be feeling the way you do".
I can relate to this one. And I have a theory, best illustrated in this diagram.
The diagram refers to the simple question "Are you worried that your partner will bugger off and leave you single again?"
The first column refers to you thinking "no, I don't care if they disappear". The second column refers to you thinking "yes, I really don't want to lose them".
And the two rows relate to them thinking the same things. Which gives 4 possibilities.
Green You don't care if you split, they don't care if you split. This is the box for one-night stands and shags of convenience. This is the box with no future either way. No commitment, no worries.
Yellow They'd really care if you split, but you wouldn't. You know that this isn't for life, and that one day you'll leave them. You're using them, but they don't yet know it. This is the box that hurts them, not you.
Red You'd really care if you split, but deep down they wouldn't. On some unspecified date in the future they may bugger off and leave you. Your heart will be broken, but their heart was never taken in the first place. This is the box you dread.
Blue You're worried they'll leave you, but they're equally worried you'll leave them. You're both worried, but only because you don't know your fears are unfounded. This is love (or at least it's getting that way). This is the perfect box.
The big problem with love and relationships is that you know which column you're in, but you never quite know which row you're in. As a relationship develops and you get to know the other person better, you become more certain about which row it is. But you can never be 100% sure.
At the moment, with the way you're feeling about your new object of desire, you know you're in the right-hand column. Either red or blue. The situation might be blue, but you're more worried it will be red.
Assuming, however, that blue is worth having (and oh boy, yes it is), then you should go for it. Assuming you can cope with the possibility of emotional heartbreak, take the risk.
Blue *only* appears in the second column, and you're not in the second column very often. You're in the second column at the moment. If they're in the top row, well, at least you had a go. But if they're in the bottom row, then congratulations, you won the jackpot.
[And thanks for getting that idea out of my head and into print. I've believed it for quite some time now. But I got red. Somebody must get blue sometimes]
I must have left my house at eight, unlike I usually did My train, I'm certain, left me out of pocket thirty quid I must have read the morning paper going into town And having gotten through the rush hour people-jam, no doubt I must have frowned
I must have made the exhibition around a quarter after ten With ID badge to be worn, and heaps of free gifts waiting for me then I must have gone to lunch at half past twelve or so - a mug of soup, some crisps to crunch And still on top of this I'm pretty sure it never rained The day before you came
I must have grabbed my seventh goodie bag at half past three And at the time I never even noticed I was free I must have kept on striding through the business of the day Without really suffering at all - I spent my life alone, OK
At four I must have left, a complete exception to the rule No matter of routine, not done it ever since I started school The train back home again, undoubtedly I must have read the evening paper then Oh yes, I'm sure my life was well outside its usual frame The day before you came
I must have opened my front door at six o'clock or so And fired up the grill to cook some nice pork chops quite slow I'm sure I had my dinner watching something on TV There's not, I think, a single episode of Brookside that I didn't see
I must have gone to bed around a quarter after eleven I don't need lots of sleep, but I was knackered so I went to bed by then I must have written my diary, the latest mundane paragraphs or something in that style It's funny, but I had no sense of living without blame The day before you came
And turning out the light I must have yawned and snuggled up for yet another night And in my naïve state I thought tomorrow would be the same The day before you came
10:00 Bong! Familiar theme music welcomes back News At Ten after a four year break. The ITV News graphic-copter swoops along the Thames from Canary Wharf to Westminster before narrowly missing the London Eye and braking sharply in front of Big Ben. Bong! Sir Trevor McDonald stares knowingly at his audience and imparts today's most important headlines. Bong! A contrasting blonde grins rigidly at his side. Bong! Welcome back.
10:00 It's business as usual on the BBC's flagship news. Huw Edwards is pretending not to notice that ITV have sneaked back into the 10pm slot and are running head to head for the late night news audience. I don't know what's on Channel 4 at the moment, but it'll be cleaning up in the ratings. Huw rattles through tonight's rather serious headlines, topped off with a foreign news exclusive. Come on, try to look interested.
10:01 It's a Diana Exclusive, with a few snippets of interview from the doctor in Pakistan whom she fancied enough to consider marriage. Apparently. The interview is staggeringly bland and non-revealing, and padded out with all the archive footage ITV can muster. Diana's "Mr Wonderful" says nothing of consequence. Instead the entire audience is going "My god, whatever did she see in him?". Butler Paul Burrell's inquiry evidence is slightly more revealing, but goes on rather too long.
10:01 Forget Diana. John Simpson has been risking his life filming for the BBC in Zimbabwe. See how brave he is. Here he is standing in a Harare street. Here's some more secret filming, here's a bloke giving what's described as a "courageous interview", and here's John standing in the dark in a secret anonymous field. It's fine upstanding reportage from inside a dictator's lunatic stronghold, but it's not quite headline-making stuff.
10:08 News At Ten has learned about supposed tension behind the doors of Downing Street. News! At Ten! It's all regarding Northern Rock and its proposed nationalisation, or whatever might happen next. Is the PM dithering? Does he have too many ideas? Has anything actually happened? (The answer to the latter question is undoubtedly no)
10:08 The dead princess is up second, with all the latest thrilling inquiry evidence from 10 years ago. Nicholas Witchell is also standing in the dark, but rather more brazenly outside the High Court. He delights in using the word "whore", which ITV omitted. Dr Khan merits only a short sequence of library footage.
10:11 Some quickies: A murder trial opens in Ipswich, Peter Hain walks through a shopping centre, and a murdering Herts policeman is found dead. The BBC doesn't do quickies. And that's probably why ITV will eventually end up covering more news items in fewer minutes.
10:11 Nick Robinson is up next to pontificate on Peter Hain's future. There are whispers from various top secret sources and there's even an inconclusive doorstepping interview, but it's nothing more than three minutes of pure speculation.
10:12 An old lady who lived near a Hampshire prisoners' rehabilitation centre is found dead in her home. Penny Marshall leaves us in no doubt that residents would be safer if the bloody place was shut down. Obviously.
10:14 A convicted Hertfordshire policeman who went beserk with a gun really shouldn't have been let out of prison. The reporter leaves us in no doubt that it wouldn't have happened if he'd been denied bail. Obviously.
10:14 Coming up next... (what, no adverts?)
10:17 It might rain a lot tonight in Gloucestershire. But it hasn't yet.
10:15 News At Ten has travelled to "the ends of the earth" (well, Antarctica) for a special assignment to meet icy climate change scientists. Look, there they are waving on a glacier. Hello, I'm from ITV News, I'm the story here. Oh, and the ice may be melting, even though it's freezing. Cue an impressive outside broadcast live from an icy crevasse.
10:17 The BBC are wheeling out all their special correspondents tonight. Next it's Evan Davies discussing the pound's weakness against the euro. He waves his hands around in front of a big "tobogganing" graph. And holidays may cost more. See, economics news is almost relevant.
10:20 ITV's market report consists of three financial indices displayed as static graphics. There's no mention of the euro, and no attempt at explanation - ITV's target audience wouldn't be interested.
10:20 Is that missing Madeleine girl still news eight months on? A suspect's mum thinks he's innocent (obviously), and tells a reporter so in an exclusive interview. Call this news? I call it dangerously tabloid.
10:21 The new England football boss speaks exclusively to ITV, except he speaks in Italian. He walks through an airport and he has a strong chin. This is perfect inconsequential Sports News Lite. But at least it's sport.
10:23 Just two more stories to go. Murder trial opens in Ipswich (the suspect spoke only his name), and Greenpeace chase whaling ships round the Southern Ocean (I'm on board now, except it's dark and I can only see lights).
10:23 "And finally..." lucky sailors have escaped from a sinking ship off Devon. Hurrah for our brave lifeboatmen who could have died, but didn't. Wot, no kittens?
10:27 Over to your local BBC newsdesk, because we know you're hanging around for the weather forecast so you'll watch it anyway.
10:25 And that's all from Julie and from me. And we'll be back at the same time tomorrow. (Well that makes a change)
10:34 Huw wraps it up, and directs serious news junkies towards Paxman on Newsnight. Tabloid news junkies would have switched off half an hour ago.
Monday was clearly a desperately news-light day. But that was OK because ITV weren't trying to follow the news agenda, they were trying to set it. An exclusive interview here, some political speculation there, and an Antarctic safari for good measure. News At Ten seems designed as a news event, rather than reflective reportage. And whatever they're paying those two to front a few minutes of to-camera autocue work, it's far too much.
Monday was clearly a desperately news-light day. That's probably why the BBC and ITV bulletins only had four stories in common. At least much of the news covered by the BBC could be described as important, although it was still a bit inconsequential at times. And I can't say I was ever gripped. Why do we need two major news bulletins up against each other at 10pm? Give me staggered choice any night.
On Sunday evenings the world over, bloggers sit down and reflect on the most exciting event of their weekend. And then they write about it. I thought I'd attempt to maintain this tradition. I've already written about the Tudor highlight of my Saturday, so now here's the highlight of my Sunday. I've had more thrilling weekends.
It's Sunday morning, and I'm prowling the aisles of my local superstore for provisions. I have a steak and mushroom pie, I have a bottle of Mr Muscle kitchen sink unblocker, and I have two packets of new season Creme Eggs. My shopping is going well. And now I've reached the beer and crisps aisle. It's devious how they locate the two of these opposite one another. Crisp buyers are easily tempted to purchase 12-packs of booze, and alcoholics can't help but notice a whole shelf of nuts and nibbles. I've promised myself I'll not be distracted.
I want crisps. More to the point, I want one particular flavour of crisps. Not a tub of sour cream Pringles, not a jumbo 12-pack of cheesy wotsits and not a bag of lightly sea-salted kettle chips. No thanks, I want yummy Worcester Sauce flavour crisps. Their characteristic purple packet must be here somewhere - at least unless this supermarket has decided suddenly and inexplicably to remove one of my shopping favorites from their stock list. They do things like that, you know. But not today. There on the top shelf are the 6-packs of my favourite tangy crisps, and on special offer too.
Except there aren't very many 6-packs. Either side of where the Worcester Sauce crisps should be there are two great big crispy stacks, one of Prawn Cocktail and one of Smoky Bacon. If I'd wanted those flavours I'd have been laughing. But between the two is a deep canyon of crisplessness, gaping blankly backwards towards the rear of the shelf. And there, out of reach right at the back, are the last four purple 6-packs. Four for the price of three. Four packets I just have to own.
I'm very much hoping that nobody is watching as I step up on tiptoe and lean precariously towards my desired potato-based snacks. Blimey, did they use six-foot-six shelf stackers to arrange this lot back here? Only by twisting my body and not looking at what I'm doing can I grab the edge of one of the packets and edge it slowly towards me. And a second packet, just about, without quite straining myself and giving myself a hernia. But the third and fourth packets are still so far back that I don't have a hope of reaching them. Not without stepping up onto the edge of the lowest shelf, down in the own-brand section, and I'm not convinced that the plastic could take my weight without breaking. Damn.
There's never a member of staff around when you want one, is there? Normally they're standing blocking the aisle unloading a trolleyful of baked beans, or milling around after prematurely closing their checkout, but not today. I'm either going to have to troop off across the store the store to the customer service desk (AKA the lottery queue), or else try to be a little bit more resourceful myself. Erm. No wheelie step-thing to stand on. No claw handle to grab them with. No crack team of trained rodents who could scurry up and retrieve the last two packs in their teeth. Damn. Some lateral thinking is required.
So I walk round to the aisle behind - the fizzy drink zone - to see if I can reach the last two purple packets from behind. This is a desperate long shot, relying on all the Pepsi Max and Diet Coke having sold out and on the drinks shelves being narrower than those for crisps. But what do you know, the God of Snacks is on my side! Only twelve bottles of sugar-free fizz remain, right at the front of the shelf, allowing me to reach through the gap to the purple packets behind. Nearly. Hopefully.
I reach the third packet on my first stretch, whilst being extremely careful not to knock over the few intermediate plastic bottles like skittles. But the fourth packet turns out to be a much tougher proposition, and I cannot lay a finger on it. Which is extremely annoying because it's only the fourth and final packet which makes this special offer special. Come on, stretch further, stretch higher! And what do you know, it is just about possible to rest two fingers on the shiny purple surface and tweak it, and cajole it, and slide it triumphantly towards my waiting trolley.
Hurrah! I've now got my full complement of four packs (for the price of three), all by myself, despite the best intentions of the supermarket not to sell them to me. And despite looking like a complete plonker during their retrieval. I can't wait to get home and start munching.
And that really was yesterday's highlight. 24 hours of work-free Sabbath freedom and the most exciting thing I end up doing is buying crisps in a supermarket. I sometimes wonder whether everybody else is having a far more interesting and eventful Sunday than I am. This weekend, I know you were.
Back in 1543, King Henry VIII was getting on a bit and had become more than a bit of an obese lardarse. This made climbing onto a horse, let alone hunting the royal deer, rather difficult. What was Henry to do but construct a great big three-storey platform in the middle of Waltham Forest from which he could shoot at things. He called this building his Grand Standing, although it was probably more of a Grand SittingDown. Even the central staircase was built less steeply than usual to give Henry a fighting chance of being able to climb it. Out in the forest expert huntsmen tracked down deer, then penned them up, before letting them run loose across Chingford Plain past the monarch's steely gaze. One crossbow shot later and the deer would conveniently drop dead, whether the King had hit it or not. Damned fine shots, those covert royal archers. But not really proper hunting.
King Henry died a few years after the lodge was finished. It was Queen Elizabeth who later ordered that the decaying building be repaired, and that's how it came to be named after her instead. The lodge continued to be used for the 16th century equivalent of corporate hospitality, as a special hideaway where influential nobles wined and dined on the day's carnivorous spoils. The middle floor was the posh one, with lesser noblemen posted up top and the servants confined as far as possible to the lower floor. There were no glass windows at the time, this was very much a grandstand open to the elements, gaudily painted and draped with fluttering banners. Not a good place to stay the night, hence everyone having to lodge elsewhere after nightfall.
In the 17th century the building became a forest keeper's residence, with the local crown court installed on the upper floor. The Victorians insisted on slapping gallons of plaster all over the walls, semi-wrecking the place in the process, and then a tearoom moved in to cater for day-trippers from London arriving via the new-fangled steam railway. For most of the 20th century the building doubled up as a museum packed with stuffed animals and almost-thrilling historical artefacts. I think my uncle took me there once, back when I was quite little, although I don't remember the interior very clearly. So I thought I ought to go back.
No, that huge Tudorbethan mansion beside the golf course wasn't the hunting lodge, it was a rather large Victorian Harvester-type pub. So I tried the bijou limewashed buildingnextdoor, the one wth the Corporation of London sign outside. It's only open from 1 til 4 at weekends at this time of year (and attracts a mammoth seven visitors per hour, according to the tally chart on the desk inside). I'd like to thank the lady at the desk for her highly informative talk about the history of the house, and also for not commenting on my heavily mud-splattered trousers. It's damned squelchy out in Epping Forest at the moment, and I'd taken a rather ill-advised route through the woods from Buckhurst Hill to get here.
On into the kitchen/scullery, where there's a not quite convincing display of fake foods (such as fruits and spices) like what Elizabethan aristocracy would have eaten. And then up the stairs (ooh yes, very gentle) to the shooting room on the first floor. There are a couple of appropriately dressed mannequins in the near corner, as well as a box of clothes so that children (and childish adults) can attempt to dress themselves similarly. It's quite an empty room otherwise, and therefore not especially easy to imagine as the heart of the royal hunting party's festivities. At least the view from the window is pretty much as Henry might have remembered it (apart from the golf course where the deer would have been kept, that is, and a rather out-of-place suburban dwelling nextdoor).
And finally up to the top of the building, beneath a magnificent timbered roof. In fact if you like woodwork you'll really enjoy a visit to the Lodge, not just because it was assembled by master carpenters but also because a surprisingly high proportion of the exhibits and information panels are about joints and carving and superior timber-based craftsmanship. Up here on the second floor there are also a couple of stuffed deer left over from the building's more museum-y days - one just an antlered head peering beadily down over the stairs. And, of course, there are a few more displays about hunting. Seen enough? Spiral back down to the entrance, and don't think you're escaping without filling in one of the nice lady's photocopied questionnaires. It's a small price to pay for free admittance to this fascinating survivor from a long-gone era of violent excess. by train: Chingford by bus: 97, 179, 212, 313, 379, 444
Marsh Lane is just a temporary set-up while Olympic construction occurs. Sometime after 2012 every allotment holder will be relocating once more, this time back to sustainable new premises within the Olympic Park. For the best part of a decade, however, this uninspiring patch of Waltham Forest will have to do. And I doubt that this windswept space beneath the pylons will ever reclaim the sense of community cultivated back at ManorGarden. diamond geezer 05/01/08
That "uninspiring patch of Waltham Forest" was our wild life meadow. Now it is gone, and most likely forever. SteveE10 10/01/08
Bleak and characterless the allotments may be, but the Birse Civils contractor who had to help the plotholders move their possessions onto the site in November was really proud of their uninhabited perfection. "This shouldn't be allowed," he said as corrugated tin, old garden gates and dismantled greenhouses were unloaded, "the place looks really nice and they're going to ruin it with all this junk".
I hope Birse Civils are better at building nuclear power stations than allotments. After £1.5million and 10,000 tons of soil replaced, you'd expect an ideal growing environment ready for cultivation. But it's so waterlogged and poorly draining nothing wants to grow except moss and algae, and bulbs planted to cheer the place up are just rotting. There's no worms to break up the heavily compacted soil - and no way for them to get in due to the plastic barrier protecting the site from surrounding contamination. Charlie C 11/01/08
Another group of evictees are the Clays Lane residents who have been scattered to the four winds. They too have lost their community. The LDA actually said we were not a community, unlike the Travellers, who were moved as a community... Residents are considerably worse off in financial terms and some are worse off in terms of the quality and size of their new accommodation...
In evidence to the Compulsory Purchase Inquiry the LDA also claimed we were 'isolated' by our neighbouring green space, the Eastway Cycle Track, which was a sign of how desperate they were to rubbish everything to do with our estate and community to justify its demolition. Clays Lane is to be the site of the Athletes' Village and the LDA claimed this would create 9000 new homes. This has now been altered to 4,500. Either way much of the Village will be built at Stratford City and is not new housing but housing which would have been built anyway and modified. The LDA/ODA still claim it as an Olympic benefit...
But then who can be surprised by this? Our former MP, Lyn Brown, goes around telling her local party she was visiting the estate when she never came near us, the Mayor of Newham apparently said we were 'peasants' even though he also said he would come but never did. Livingstone and Higgins of the ODA failed to respond to invitations while Coe said he would come but never followed up. The media couldn't get past our human interest value so it was impossible to discuss anything of substance. That's politics! julian cheyne 09/01/08 [more here]
My 2008 National Trust handbook slipped through the letterbox yesterday. I say slipped, whereas what I really mean is dropped like a sack of potatoes from a great height. Thud. Honestly, the NT marketing department miss no opportunity to pack all of their mailshots with 'relevant' marketing collateral aimed at the Trust's typical membership. I fear that, even after being a member for 10 years, I'm still not proper target audience.
Contents of National Trust mailshot package » Handbook for Members and Visitors 2008 (the useful bit) » National Trust magazine, Spring 2008 (would look lovely stacked up by the Aga, if I had one) » Grovelly letter sort-of begging me to sign up a friend (I really don't think they'd be interested) » Scotts of Stow catalogue (anyone for an insulated gravy boat, or a quilted Paisley dressing gown?) » Insurance offer for the over 50s (drat, I can't claim my free Parker pen) » Offer to receive a free copy of Which magazine (I bet there's an expensive catch) » Holiday bondshare scheme (as recommended by Judith Chalmers and Sue Barker) » Advert for walking holidays in Austria(definitely not a Saga coach trip) » Mini NT garden catalogue (full of delphiniums, gargoyle ornaments and picnic rugs) » Brief details about Private Medical Cover (hmm, they sent me three identical leaflets) » Invitation to join the RSPB(a great way to meet birds, apparently) » A glossy sofa catalogue (alas, it seems all their sofas are too big to fit in my living room) » A National Trust car windscreen sticker (maybe one year they'll do an Oystercard wallet instead)
Most years I never get round to using my NT membership enough. I did OK in 2007, however, and waved my card at sixverydifferentfar-flungproperties (almost breaking even on the annual subscription). I ought to try harder to visit some buildings rather nearer home in 2008. There aren't many NT properties in London, so I thought I'd knock up the following list and see how many more I can check off as the year progresses.
National Trust properties in London (non-commercial buildings only) (ticked if I've already been) Carlyle's House: Chelsea townhouse and Victorian literary hub (open Wed-Sun, reopens 14 Mar) Eastbury Manor House: There's genuine history in Barking (open Mon & Tue, and 1st and 2nd Sat) Fenton House: A country house remaineth in Hampstead (open Wed-Sun, reopens 3 Mar) Ham House: Stuart mansion beside the Thames near Richmond (open Sat-Wed, reopens 31 Mar) Lindsey House: Very rarely seen Chelsea townhouse (only open on Open House weekend, 15 Sep) Osterley Park: Neo-classical mansion (and park) in Isleworth (open Wed-Sun, reopens 14 Mar) Rainham Hall: Fine Georgian house out Havering way (open Sat pm, reopens 7 Apr) Red House: William Morris's house, sort of Bexleyheath-ish (open Wed-Sat, reopens 1 Mar) Sutton House: Hackney boasts this fine Tudor townhouse (open Thu-Sun) 2 Willow Road: Ernö Goldfinger's modernist Heath hideaway (Thu-Sat, reopens 3 Mar)
Although I'd better not visit them all, or else I'll have nowhere to go when I'm 60.
In this alternate 1996 reality, life is very similar to life today. There's food, and people, and cars, and furniture, and all sorts of terribly familiar stuff. And there's electricity, and newspapers, and television, and telephones, and computers too. Scratch the surface of life in 1996 and it all looks very normal.
Except that in 1996 communication is retarded. Completely and utterly backward. There may be electricity, but two sockets in every room is all I need. There may be newspapers, but they only appear once a day. There may be television, but I can only access a fistful of terrestrial channels. There may be telephones, but I can't walk very far away from the wall without pulling out the plug. And there may be computers, but they just sit in the corner and print letters or run spreadsheets or play games.
In 1996 communication is slow and indirect. If I want to speak to someone then I have to ring their landline and hope I don't get the engaged signal, or maybe write them a letter and wait a couple of days for a response. If I want to watch television then I'd better be in front of the TV when it's on, or else make sure I've set my video recorder properly. If I want to find out what's just happened in the news then I have to be listening to the radio on the hour, or else type 101 into Ceefax and wait ages for the page to come round. If I want to pay my gas bill then my only options are to write a cheque and go outside and post it, or to troop down to my bank and wait in line until they can be bothered to serve me. And if I want to publish my thoughts and make friends online then sorry, I can't, because the internet isn't ready for me yet.
I came home from work last night and worried that it was 1996. My computer was working, but my web connection appeared to be wholly and utterly dead. No emails would download and no webpages would refresh. I couldn't read the latest headlines, nor chat away merrily to online acquaintances. I couldn't check my bank balance, nor poke the RSS feeds of the most recently-published blogs, nor anything else I currently think of as normal. I sat down in front of my blank screen and tried to remember what I used to do on my computer in 1996 that kept me so occupied and entertained. I gave up.
I then attempted to watch TV, but atmospheric conditions were poor and my Freeview channels kept pixellating. I reached for my mobile, but it was low on power and needed recharging. Erm, what else did I do to keep myself busy back in 1996? I fingered my video collection and hunted for, perhaps, a book to read. But I ended up opting for a magazine and settling down on the sofa with a sandwich instead. Suddenly 12 years seemed a very very long time ago. At least until I thought to reboot my wifi router, and 2008 came flooding back.
In 1996, 1996 felt utterly normal. In 2008, however, the normality of 1996 feels very distant, very isolating and very dull. In 2008 we take connectivity and communication totally for granted, and we're often completely lost when systems fail. But it's all an illusion anyway. By 2020 even 2008 will feel as detached as 1996 does now, in ways we can't possibly yet imagine. Bring it on?
• Why can't I sleep? Must be backtowork-itis. • I'm sure this belt used to fit me once. • I hope I turned the iron off. • Oh for goodness sake stop dawdling in front of the ticket barrier. • I wish I'd remembered my shuffly iPod thing.
• Yes I did have a good Christmas thanks. • No I did not have a good New Year thanks. • Why is my inbox full of annoying petty administrative emails? • I'll be able to help you out once I've dealt with these petty administrative emails. • It feels like business as normal, even though it clearly isn't. • I never noticed that "risk management workshop" in my calendar, honest. • I'll be able to help you out once I've dealt with these additional petty administrative emails. • But that makes no sense at all. Yes of course I'll do it. • Do I really only get three potatoes? • This chicken'll taste fine so long as I can scrape the garlic out. • No really, I will be able to help you out once I've dealt with these additional petty administrative emails. • Ha, I think you meant 15, not 17. Thank goodness I noticed. • I really do not care whether my objectives are SMART or not. • Can we move one of these essential meetings back a fortnight please? • I'll be able to help you out... erm, tomorrow, sorry.
• No I do not want a bloody free paper, thankyou. • Move inside the carriage a bit and I can squeeze in behind you. • Another pizza leaflet? That's going in the bin. • That's the 38th time you've told me that my call is important to you. • You can't charge me for a full year, and I don't care what your smallprint says. • Just to confirm, I really don't have to pay my latest gas bill? Thank you. • I'm sure a chicken slice with a sell-by date 3 days ago is perfectly edible. • How strange, that looks exactly like... • ... oh god, no, they sit next to me at work!! Retreat now. • How long have you been a confirmed pagan? (if that's not a contradiction) • I'd recommend a tumble drier, or maybe an Audi windscreen. • Damn, this is still one of those "not quite sure how it's going" things. • OK, I'll buy you the book again next year. • I bet the view from the 10th floor is fantastic. • Yes, I just happened to be in the County Records Office. I'm glad you like it. • Oh Dermot, Dermot, why have you stooped to this? • But there are no railways in the Outer Hebrides. • Do you want to go and stand in a crowd with Rosie again? • Perhaps I mix in the wrong circles. • Life's rarely as good as it could be. Or as bad.
• I'd better be able to sleep tonight. • Where did the last fortnight go? • Sigh.
The announcements are everywhere. Please, TfL urge. Please keep away from two of the busiest stations on the network. Please don't change at Bank/Monument. Please don't change trains here. Even though there's a huge great big intersection marked between Bank and Monument on every single London Underground map. Please go almost anywhere else and change there instead. Please stay away, and then we can repair our escalators in peace.
TfL have all sorts of travel advice for passengers whose journeys normally take them through B/M, some of which would take you miles and miles out of your way. Want to change to the DLR? Nah, please go to Stratford or Bow or Tower Hill instead. Want to change between the Central and Northern lines? Nah, Charing Cross is a much preferred option. Please plan ahead, TfL hope, and please plan to go very much elsewhere.
But is this nannyish redirection advice really necessary? Well, yes and no. The series of tunnels between Bank and Monument is a badly laid-out warren of narrow walkways and awkward level changes, constrained by local roads and awkwardly-placed bank vaults. Block off just one tunnel and the repercussions elsewhere can be serious. In this case there are two escalators out of action, both downward, both between the Central line and DLR platforms. Scurrying passengers are having to descend a very narrow stairway instead, which is proving fairly nightmarish in any kind of busy conditions. Let me show you on this map. The two out-of-commission escalators are between 5 and 6 and 8. [the full key to the map is back here]
It seems that TfL are once again writing their travel advice for a lowest common denominator audience. (See also "Don't use Covent Garden, get out a station early and walk") There is absolutely no reason to avoid the Bank/Monument interchange for the next couple of months, not point blank, not in its entirety. Changing between the Central and Waterloo & City lines isn't affected at all. Changing between the DLR and Northern lines is still a doddle, up/down a set of back stairs. Most other changes are perfectly OK too, as you can see from the map, because they go (or can go) nowhere near the offending escalators. During less busy periods, outside peak hours, even the narrow staircases are perfectly passable. At three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, for example, or at any time over the weekend, there's absolutely no need to avoid 5 to 6 to 8 at all. Piece of cake.
And yet TfL still insist on warning everybody away, all the time, because giving more accurate advice might be confusing for stupid people. Stupid people can only cope with simple instructions, like "Stay away", rather than the more realistic "Avoid changing at Bank/Monument during peak hours if you're intending to get to or from the DLR platforms via the Bank side, and watch out because the Northern line platforms could get rather busy. Until March." Or even "If changing between Bank and Monument, why not exit the station and walk down the street instead." Actually, that's quite good advice even when the escalators are working. In the meantime, don't let an over-simplistic warning massage scare you away. Not all the time, anyway.
I've just discovered an unexpected drawback relating to the introduction of the London Overground. It cost me £2 more to travel to Watford and back yesterday than it would have done a week ago. Which is not fair. Here's how.
As the proud owner of an annual travelcard, zones 1-3, I get two particularly useful travel perks when I travel to stations in outer London and beyond. • I only have to buy a ticket from the edge of zone 3, not from the centre of London. • I get a Gold Card, which allows me to "save 1/3 on a range of single and return National Rail tickets when travelling after 1000 Monday to Friday, or anytime at weekends and on public holidays."
A week ago, both of these conditions applied on all train journeys from London Euston to Watford Junction. I'd only have been charged for a return ticket from the edge of zone 3 to Watford (cost £4.70), and ended up paying 1/3 less than that because of my Gold Card (final cost £3.15).
Now the rule allowing me to buy a ticket from the edge of zone 3 appears to have been dropped. If I travel from Euston to Watford and back I now have to pay for the full journey (cost £7.80), not just between Zone 4 and Watford. And then I pay 1/3 less than that because of my Gold Card (final cost £5.20).
Was £3.15, now £5.20. That's a 65% fare increase. And that's criminal.
It's all because of a change of rules when the fareswent up on 2nd January. Check out the brand new tube map (sigh, it's finally online), and you might be able to read some very small print near Watford. "Watford Junction is outside Transport for London zonal area. Special fares apply." Too right they do. And those special rules no longer seem to allow any contribution from travelcards, thereby significantly raising the cost of travel for those of us with season tickets. Bastards.
As far as I can tell, this new rule only applies to Watford Junction, and to no other station. I can still travel off peak to Bedford with double discounts, or to Cambridge, or to Chelmsford, or to Southend, or to Dover, or to Gatwick, or to Windsor, or to Reading, or to High Wycombe. Just not to Watford Junction.
The arrival of the London Overground is great for Watford residents who can now use Oyster for the first time. But it's a swindle for travelcards holders heading in the opposite direction. So next time I travel to Watford Junction I shall catch the slow train to Watford High Street instead, and walk the last half mile. They're not going to catch me out again.
London's largest bird reserve is the London Wetland Centre, a vast swathe of marshy sogginess located in a bend in the Thames near Hammersmith. It's busy and it's delightful, but it'll cost you eight quid to get in. London's second largest bird reserve is rather different. It's hidden off the Lea Bridge road near Leyton, it's considerably more deserted, and entrance is free. It's the Waterworks Nature Reserve, and I can't believe I've only just noticed it exists.
Back in the late 19th century Victorian engineers built several filter beds in the Lea Valley to purify the capital's drinking water, helping to keep cholera at bay. A century later technology had moved on somewhat, and the beds were abandoned to natural colonisation. They're currently owned by the Lee Valley Regional Park Authority, who six years ago opened a series of bird hides and a visitors centre. Most of the visitors seem to be of the feathered variety, swooping in to swim and flap and feed in the reedy pools. But the occasional human turns up, as I discovered last weekend when I had the place completely and utterly to myself.
I stumbled across the nature reserve by following a footbridge across the road and railway from the allotments I mentioned yesterday. A short walk through an unexpected golf course and there was the visitors centre (and club house), with a car park full of pitchers, putters and drivers. I wandered inside, to general disinterest from the management, and took a look round the interactive exhibits in the large gallery to the rear. I think I was 30 years too old to enjoy the limited information on display, and slightly put off by the mildly hectoring tone throughout. "Children must be accompanied by an adult at all times in this area." "This screen is for adults only." "Why not have a go at weaving a willow basket. Take care not to hurt anyone with the sharp ends". Ignoring the cafe (and golfy shop) I headed back outside to explore the nature reserve proper.
Access is only via a single narrow footbridge, first passing a newly constructed nature garden. There's a small pond ("Danger, deep water!") and a benched seating area("Keep off the chalk ridge!") and a specially-constructed mini willow tunnel. There's a lot of willow about, and the next three filter beds have been almost completely colonised by it. I think you're supposed to be able to walk through one of them on a raised wooden walkway, but that was sealed off with red tape (presumably because of some unseen hazard or perilous risk). Never mind, the best part of the reserve was just round the corner, past a mini-aqueduct. This way to the hides.
The main area of filter beds is square in shape, divided up into six different radial sectors (a bit like Trivial Pursuit counters). Each has been given over to a slightly different habitat (open water, reedbeds, grassland, willow marsh, etc), providing ideal conditions for a wide variety of bird, insect and plantlife. And each of the six can be viewed from behind a giant wooden screen, which runs the full radius of the site and completely round the central wellhead area. There are hatches to lift at regularly-spaced intervals, allowing visitors to peer out across each bed and observe the waterfowl's comings and goings. I moved from window to window, watched over by a single security camera, and wholly unobstructed by twitchers with huge binoculars, vacuum flasks and lunchboxes. Alas there was just a single heron flapping around, occasionally, plus a few ducks and moorhens who'd chosen not to migrate this winter. My ornithological timing could have been better, which perhaps explained why I appeared to be the only large mammal in attendance. But there was still plenty to see, both environmentally and historically, at this most underappreciated location. by bus: 48, 55, 56
It's now been six months since the Olympic Park was sealed off, and everybody who lived and worked there was turfed out. The outcasts had to go somewhere, of course, and quite a lot of them have ended up one mile further upriver near Leyton. The new sites are tucked in beside a bleak arterial road, in the shadow of a couple of giant gasholders, nowhere with any character whatsoever. Few pedestrians ever walk down Orient Way, but plenty of traffic thunders by (most of it setting off the wholly unnecessary 30mph speed warning sign). A few lonely horses graze in a muddy field nearby, and there's also a great big £400m Eurostarmaintenance depot whacked down in the general nothingness. But I'm sure most of the relocated businesses don't mind swapping old tumbledown warehouses for shiny modern hangars. These giant tiger-striped metal boxes are a million miles away from their former premises, and all paid for out of your taxes too.
And some other Olympic evictees have ended up here too. You may remember the huge fuss kicked up by users of the Manor Garden allotments when it became clear that the Olympic Park would not contain a special area given over to runner beans. A shame really, because those 100-year-old allotments are merely destined to end up beneath a vast temporary footpath - no ultimate sporting destiny awaits. The allotment holders had to be pacified with the promise of new plots elsewhere, which didn't really keep them happy at all, but they got new plots all the same. The replacement allotments are also along Orient Way, in the corner of a well-hidden recreation ground, but accessible only up a far-distant muddy track. It's taken a lengthy planning battle to get the new allotments established, but here they are laid out for the start of the new growing season.
They're, erm, not quite as characterful as the old allotments, are they? The old allotments had charm, and personality, and vegetation. The new allotments are formed from a rectangle of freshly ploughed earth with a concrete path down the middle, divided up into equal-sized patches of empty mud. A tall green metal fence surrounds the perimeter, with tiny saplings planted all around to provide eventual privacy. Standing guard on each plot are identikit green huts, regularly spaced, each waiting for their new owner to arrive and provide a bit of individuality. A few plots show the very first signs of cultivation - a trowel, a chair, a waterbutt - but it'll be a long time before these feel like proper allotments.
Maybe that's OK, because Marsh Lane is just a temporary set-up while Olympic construction occurs. Sometime after 2012 every allotment holder will be relocating once more, this time back to sustainable new premises within the Olympic Park. For the best part of a decade, however, this uninspiring patch of Waltham Forest will have to do. And I doubt that this windswept space beneath the pylons will ever reclaim the sense of community cultivated back at Manor Garden.
Things which aren't what they used to be no. 371: the Postmark
My last Christmas card of 2007 dribbled through my letterbox yesterday morning. Ooh, I thought, I wonder who that's from, and why it's so late, and peered at the postmark. And peered at the postmark. And peered more carefully at the postmark. And gave up peering at the postmark. What is is with postmarks these days? Why are they so rubbish?
Ah, the good old days of proper postmarks. You remember. Those nice concentric circles, with the town or village around the edge and the date and time in the middle. Postmarks that actually pinpointed where and when your letter had been sent. Once upon a time the location was pretty much exact, rubber-stamped by the village postmistress or in the local neighbourhood sorting office. No scratching your head wondering where an envelope had come from, it was clear as anything for all to see, and extremely precise. No uncertainty about whether your letter had taken hours or days to arrive, the speediness of the postal service was always distinct.
And then the not quite so good days of semi-proper postmarks. Still concentric circles, but very much machine-stamped and not quite so local. Just the name of nearest big town now, enough to narrow down who'd probably sent the envelope, but nothing too precise. And sometimes semi-illegible, with half-formed red letters, which was really annoying when you were trying to check the date of postage. At least you had a chance.
And now we have really rubbish postmarks. Vague black stripy things lightly sprinkled across the corner of an envelope. A few squiggles to make sure you cant use the stamp again, and a few cryptic dots with insufficient meaning. Want to know when your envelope was sent? Sorry, you probably can't read it. The dots on my Christmas card might read 23.12, 28.12 or 29.12, but only the top half of the splotchy lines have printed. Want to know where your envelope has come from? Sorry, no can do. My Christmas card was, if I'm reading the squiggles properly, sent from "South East Anglia". That's a huge area which covers about 20 different people in my address book, and only by ripping the seal did I find out exactly who.
Postmarks now look like they've been printed by a cheap 1980s dot matrix printer nearing the end of its ribbon, rather than a nice firm rubber stamp wielded by a postmistress. A few scrappy marks for the benefit of the Royal Mail, and most definitely not for the benefit of the customer. Who cares if we can read the postmark on an envelope so long as a machine can. Who cares if we can't tell how long a letter's been in the post, so long as they eventually manage to deliver it? Modern postmarks are about being efficient, not informative. And they're most definitely not what they used to be.
Select-a-resolution(with useful web-hints) I will lose all that weight I put on over Christmas: You probably won't, you know. But it might be wortha try. I will drink less alcohol: Shock yourself by calculating how many units you consume - bet it's more than you think. (his/hers) I will save the planet: Not by yourself you won't. But Londoners can send off to Ken for a free Planet Repairs Toolkit. I will not waste my money on bottled water: Go on, be brave - tap water tastes just fine, honest. I will use locally-sourced green organisations: Try searching the London Greenmap, you might find some on there. I really will give up smoking this year: Yeah, right, we believe you, you weak-willed brown-stained wimp. I will start going to the gym: But they're all full of once-a-year wasters like you at this time of year. Just stay fat instead. I will reduce my carbon footprint: £1 p&p gets you a free pack of Top Trumps cards full of carbon-saving tips and hints. I will have sex more often: When you're 70 you won't get the chance, so make the most of rampant shagging while you can. I will spend more time with family and friends: What are you doing wasting your time online reading this? Get back to real life right now...
2008 anniversary quiz Here are 13 events celebrating an anniversary in 2008. How many can you identify? All answered in the comments box (and, now, all clickable).
a)Jan 1933 (75 years): elevation to power of a failed artist b)Feb 1958 (50 years): accidental death of eight babes c)Apr 1958 (50 years): a nuclear stroll to Berkshire d)May 1908 (100 years): left his mother shaken but not stirred e)Jun 1908 (100 years): official opening beneath the Thames f)Jun 1908 (100 years): destroyer of Siberian forests g)Jul 1908 (100 years): five rings at White City h)Aug 1958 (50 years): Wanna be starting something? i)Sept 1758 (250 years): The Admiral of Burnham Thorpe j)Oct 1908 (100 years): a tale of amphibious driving k)Dec 1508 (500 years): genius lies back and paints ceiling l)Dec 1808 (200 years): Fate knocked (three Gs and an E flat) m)Dec 1958 (50 years): pioneering bypass operation
You may, one New Year, be tempted to come to London to see the midnight fireworks. Don't bother. However much Mayor Ken may trumpet the excellence of the spectacle, however much Visit London may plead with you to attend, don't waste your time. Stay at home, party with friends and watch it all on the telly instead. Because that was the biggest pile of pants I've ever not seen.
Q. What time should I arrive for the fireworks? Experience in previous years suggests that you be at your chosen vantage point by 23:00, to avoid any last-minute rush. Note that Westminster tube station will close at 21:00, so don't leave it until the last minute, as you may be disappointed. Other nearby stations may close temporarily if they become overcrowded.
If I can get to Temple station by 22:30, I thought, that should work nicely. But no. I was forced to abandon my train at Blackfriars, along with a platform-full of drunken revellers, because the three subsequent stations were closed due to overcrowding. It took ages to escape from the platform, and then I had to negotiate the madding crowds on the Embankment. This was not easy, not least because several idiots had chosen to bring pushchairs to the event and were trying to shove their sleeping offspring through the barely penetrable throng. Never mind, it wasn't quite 11pm and I was closing fast on Waterloo Bridge.
As I watched, a temporary metal gate beneath the bridge suddenly clanged shut, blocking access to the remainder of the Embankment. The good half of the Embankment, immediately opposite the Eye, was now inaccessible. "Sorry, we're not letting anybody through any more," growled a security guard. "Not until the event is over. But there's still a decent view of the fireworks back the way you've just come. Anywhere between here and Blackfriars should do." So I turned round and headed back through a mob of people still pushing forwards, unaware that the road ahead had been closed off. There were no re-direction signs, no public announcements, no clues that they were completely wasting their time. It was like watching lab rats scurrying blindly towards an experimental dead end.
I took up position just along from Temple station, close to the river's edge. I knew that this would be a good place to watch the fireworks because the London Eye was clearly visible, and the spot was marked as an official viewing area on my official map in my official leaflet. Great, there was now 'only' an hour to wait. It turned out to be quite a wet hour, and I was worried that my view might be obscured by umbrellas wielded by wimpy boys with gelled hair. Thankfully the deluge stopped with minutes to spare. I was also stuck directly behind several 6-foot-plus blokes, one of whom had the temerity to wear a woolly hat with a floppy bit on top (a bit like the teat on the tip of a condom) which blocked my view even further. Still, at least I had a better view than the ten rows of people behind me, including the Polish youth jamming his rucksack into my side as he attempted to steady his video camera in readiness for the imminent extravaganza. Eagerly the crowd counted down the final 60 seconds of 2007.
Bong! Boom! The first fireworks of 2008 exploded from the rim of the London Eye. Oooh! Aaah! Hmmm!?! Where had the fireworks gone? A cloud of billowing black smoke had rapidly obscured our view, so utterly and so completely that only the sound of distant explosions told us that the display was still continuing. It was a bit like being in London during the Blitz - all smoke and bangs and blackout. The impenetrable darkness continued, minute after agonising minute, with only the occasional high-flying rocket trail visible above the glowing cloud. The crowd and I stood unmoved in muted disappointment. Even the Polish guy stopped filming after the first five minutes. Were we really going to see absolutely nothing at all? All that hassle to get here, all that standing around, and all for eleven minutes of invisibility. The organisers had forgotten to mention one very important additional key fact - never stand downwind of a firework display.
Bollocks. The hundred thousand of us standing on Waterloo Bridge or on the eastern half of the Embankment had a good view of the London Eye yet saw virtually no fireworks whatsoever. We'd been herded by officialdom into a viewing space which turned out to be worse than useless. Our journey to central London had been a complete waste of time, money and energy. We saw nothing. And to top off a miserable night we still had to face the nightmare journey home, creeping slowly along packed streets trying in vain to find a sideroad up which the police might eventually allow us to escape. No fun. No fun at all.
Best Fireworks In London The event, organised by the Mayor of London and Visit London, promises to be one of the best fireworks displays in Europe.
I think not. Not from where we were standing anyway. I only discovered what I'd missed when I got home and watched the whole smoky event on video (and, even then, I've seen better). So please, don't bother coming to London to see the 2009 fireworks next year. Celebrate well away from the centre of the capital, and spend your money somewhere more welcoming instead. And then, just maybe, there'll be room for me to squeeze into the proper viewing area in your place...
What's on this weekend? A.V. Roe Centenary Sunday 12 July, 2pm
A replica triplane celebrates one hundred years since Britain's first ever flight on Walthamstow Marshes.
How not to win a Bloggie: I've not been trying very hard, have I? Voting's been going on for a week now, and as yet I've failed to implore you to rush over to 2008.bloggies.com and cast a vote for your favourite "best european weblog". Instead I've been waffling on about deserted railway stations, canalside walks and IKEA tealights. It's not exactly the right stuff to inspire randomly-arriving international surfers to go away and vote for me, is it?
London's most useless railway station is in Brent. It has fewer paying passengers than any of the other 300-or-so stations in the capital. According to official statistics it's used by only 2500 passengers a year. It's no remote halt in the middle of a field, it's in a proper urban location on a busy high street. It's served by trains only during the weekday rush hour, and then only in one direction at a time. It has just nine trains a day - four into town in the morning and five back again in the evening. It is a sorry apology for a station and owners Chiltern Railways clearly treat it with complete indifference. It is Sudbury & Harrow Road. And yes, of course I had to pay a visit.
. Catch the nasty evil articulated bus from here and you could be in Marylebone in less than an hour. Wait for a train and you could be waiting for up to three days. A lone British Rail sign and a tiny purple nameplate mark the station entrance for any would-be passengers. There's no ticket office, just a "Permit to Travel" machine and a pair of freshly-installed Oyster readers
There are two parallel platforms, a few metres apart, with the top of the stairs forming a small island between the two. If it's raining you can hide beneath the red arched plastic roof, or maybe take a seat on the single central bench. There's room for two, maybe three if you squeeze up close. To the right I spotted a padlocked cupboard containing "Adverse Weather Equipment", and to the left a yellow box labelled "Passenger Help Point" (singular, not plural). Oh, and also a couple of TV display screens transmitting flickering information from Chiltern HQ. These informed me that, not only were there no trains stopping today, there were also no trains running due to planned engineering work. Fantastic, I had this entire remote outpost completely to myself, with no interruptions.
I haven't been to Harlesden for almost 25 years, back when I was doing a summer job on the Park Royal trading estate. If you bought any Marks and Spencer clothing during the latter half of 1983, I probably helped to produce the little hole-punched swing ticket that hung from the label. So I subconsciously recognised the first part of the walk from my teenage commute. Right out of the station, round the McVities factory (mmm, Harlesden smells nice) and down onto the towpath. Then past the tied up barge and westward, towards Alperton. My printed pdf advised me to look out for a purple bellflower, some blue tufted vetch and a patch of red campion. Not a sign. All I could see was a grassy green verge with no flowering vegetation at all. I should have guessed that a guided walk produced by the London Ecology Unit would be rather heavier on flowers than on history. And that perhaps such a walk was better suited to July than January. Never mind, ever onward.
Two pages of A4 description later and I'd seen almost nothing of what was being described. Just a lot of Park Royal industrial units and a few ducks. There was, however, a bit of a treat ahead as the canal passed over the North Circular Road on an aqueduct. Because aqueducts are cool. But unfortunately the view from this aqueduct was of a stream of rushing traffic and a very modern Travelodge. Even the aqueduct itself
Obviously. Where else. But I've written about Wembley Stadium several times on this blog before. Of Watkin's folly (1896), and the Empire Exhibition (1924), and the Olympic Games (1948). But I've never yet written about the revamped rebuilt stadium (2007). So here goes.
The wind whipped round the elevated concrete promenade. Up on level two the bronze figure of Bobby Moore stood watching over the stadium approach, a large St George's flag fluttering limply behind behind his right shoulder
What you can see from the outside of the stadium is the curved glass wall that rises up several storeys into the sky
Because Brent Cross isn't actually in Brent. Who'd have thought. So I travelled instead to Brent Park in Neasden to visit that other retail colossus - the big blue IKEA on the North Circular Road
Don't divert into the cafe/restaurant. The queues are terrible, the table-clearing service is non-existent, and you don't really like meatballs anyway. Head back down to the ground floor, into the Market Place, to be faced by a dazzling range of cheap household goods graced by a variety of obscure foreign names. And this is where IKEA's marketing brilliance kicks in. You weren't really planning on buying very much, but look over there. You need a storage jar like that, don't you? And that mat would go nicely by the back door, and you don't have enough dinner plates, and don't those pillowcases look jolly, and all at such reasonable prices. By the time you reach the exit you'll almost certainly be carrying more "essentials" than you expected.
I doubt that the old Brent Museum had many visitors. It was situated in a converted stable block in the middle of an extremely busy roundabout, just off the North Circular, in the middle of Neasden. Not a location especially conducive to major tourist influx. So the council moved the entire collection, a couple of years ago, and plonked it inside the brand new Willesden Green Library. And what do you know, when I visited on Saturday morning, I was the only person there. Not one other visitor, nor even a single member of staff on duty. Now that's my kind of museum. And I was unexpectedly impressed by the contents. It's not an enormous gallery, but the curators have crammed in all sorts of aspects of Brent-ian life, as it was lived then and as it's lived now. Enough to get you interested, if not deeply satisfied. Read about the world's first speaking clock, and the old Guinness brewery, and Graham Young the schoolboy "Teacup Poisoner". See Neasden FC's Cup Final appearance commemorated on the front cover of Private Eye, and learn about the political homeland of Rhodes Boyson and Ken Livingstone. There's quite a bit about the history of Wembley Stadium, as you might expect, including an actual Olympic torch from 1948. Oh, and in the "special exhibition" room nextdoor, a special exhibition about saris. No really, it was a lot more interesting than it sounds. As I would have told the curator on the way out, had they existed.
Few natural events are more random than a tornado. One minute you're sitting at home in your dead ordinary terraced house, and the next the wind is ripping your roof off and hurling tiles through your bedroom window. That's what happened to the residents of Chamberlayne Road in Kensal Rise on the morning of 7th December 2006. You must remember, it was big news, and surely not only because the tornado touched down within two miles of BBC Television Centre. So how are the residents coping now, just over a year later. Very well, by the looks of it. Most of the damaged houses look completely back to normal, although there are still a well-above-average number of roof repairs being carried out along the western side of one short section of the street. For at least the next few months the path of the tornado is still just about traceable, in scaffolding
The great majority of modern-designed homes are routine identikit boxes with limited character. But in Kingsbury, to the north of the borough, a couple of architects once went out of their way to give local residents somewhere really special to live. The aircraft industry came to this part of rural northwest London during World War 1, and workers had nowhere to live. Sir Francis Baines was commissioned to rectify the situation. He designed a compact "garden village" of 270 flats and houses, just over the road from the de Havilland works on Stag Lane, and Roe Green Village was the result. There are a variety of charming buildings, some timber-faced and others plastered, each divided up into two, three or more dwellings
And then there are Ernest Trobridge's houses on Buck Lane. Oh boy. Whatever was he thinking when he created this handful of eccentric residences? Up on the hilltop, around a single crossroads, are a small cluster of striking individual castellated follies. Some merely have round towers and gothic staircases
Random borough (16): Time yet again for me to take another random trip to one of London's 33 boroughs. As I write I have no idea which one of the 18 remaining borough names will be revealed when I unfold the slip of paper I'm about to pick from my "special jamjar". I could pick any of London's other boroughs - inner or outer, urban or suburban, small or large, fascinating or dull. I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea, Hackney, Hillingdon, the City, Bromley, Lambeth, Tower Hamlets, Haringey or Hounslow because they're the fifteen (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already. What London delights will I get to inflict upon to my new international audience of Bloggie-voting readers? Will they be treated to the cultural highlights of somewhere central and important, like Westminster or Camden? Or will I be dispatched somewhere rather more peripheral and off-radar, like Harrow or Havering? Watch this space.
This is the straight-forward system, with the backing of the Food Standards Agency and the Department of Health. Pictured is the Sainsbury's version, which looks like a Trivial Pursuit counter (but with proper full fat cheese). Five major nutritional types are depicted, and you can tell at a glance whether you should be cramming this food down your gullet or not. Green = good; amber = occasionally; red = imminent death. Very useful for quickly identifying which of several identical ready meals is jammed full of nasty salt and killer calories, and which isn't quite so bad. But not very useful if you're colour blind. And, ludicrously, the colours have nothing to do with the actual amount of fat/salt/etc inside the packet. The numbers do, but the colours don't. The colours are based on 100g of food, whether the packet contains 100g or not. A tiny pack of ten peanuts would show up red, for example, because 100g of peanuts have a lot of calories. But a huge bucket of fizzy drink might only show amber, because a mere 100g of fizzy drink (one third of a can) isn't going to kill you. It's all a bit basic, a bit broad-brush, a bit over-simple.
And this is the complicated system, with the backing of Tesco, Kellogg's, Nestlé and other stodge-peddling multinationals. Pictured is the label from a steak and mushroom pie I ate earlier, with figures based on recommended daily consumption. There are lots of pretty traffic light colours, but oddly these are completely irrelevant. Sugar may be coloured red, but it's actually the sugar in this pie that's the least unhealthy ingredient. Look, the fat content is huge, and that's for just a quarter of the pie. Eat half of the pie and you'd be eating a day's saturated fat all in one go. I like this label because it's based on actual portion size, and the figures depicted can (and do) actively stop me from eating too large a slice. But the label also contains supposedly difficult mathematics (ie percentages), which is enough to scare off most shoppers. If half the adult population can't quickly interpret this label in a supermarket aisle, then it's not going to provide any motivation to buy the healthy option. Shame.
amy lives in these posh flats beside the river lea, on the corner where it meets the hertford canal. the area is called fish island, which is appropriate because she drinks like one LOL. amy lives inside a big modern apartment block made of shiny glass, behind a security gate which helps to keep the tabloids out. she probably has wooden floorboards and a balcony and a large open space pretending to be a loft. i bet she has a cracking time there, know what i mean. and her place directly overlooks the olympics, so she'll have a great view of the basketball stadium in 2012, but only if she's still alive and hasn't dropped DEAD of evil overdoses.
on your blog which allowed me to steal all your posts, both past and future, and drag them away to a viewing platform of my own choosing. I've not been back since.
On the western edge of the City of London, tucked out of sight behind Fleet Street, are two of the capital's great Inns of Court. One is the Inner Temple, the other the Middle Temple, and together with the Law Courts over the road they form the nucleus of legal London. Temple's hidden precincts are the stomping ground of barristers and other legalfolk, and have been since 1608 when King James I granted a Royal Charter to the land and buildings on this site. Which makes 2008 the 400th anniversary of the great founding event. Any excuse for a festival.
Middle Temple is the older of the two Inns of Court, but only because most of it wasn't destroyed by bomb damage during WW2. The main Hall is a magnificent Tudor construction, all wooden panelling and hammerbeam roof
And then, one of the highlights of the day, a chance to peer inside Temple Church
The Friday puzzle: Click four blobs
Click one blob in each row,I can relate to this one.
Back in 1543, King Henry VIII was getting on a bit and had become more than a bit of an obese lardarse. This made climbing onto a horse, let alone hunting the royal deer, rather difficult. What was Henry to do but construct a great big three-storey platform in the middle of Waltham Forest from which he could shoot at things. He called this building his Grand Standing, although it was probably more of a Grand SittingDown. Even the central staircase was built less steeply than usual to give Henry a fighting chance of being able to climb it. Out in the forest expert huntsmen tracked down deer, then penned them up, before letting them run loose across Chingford Plain past the monarch's steely gaze. One crossbow shot later and the deer would conveniently drop dead, whether the King had hit it or not. Damned fine shots, those covert royal archers. But not really proper hunting.
On into the kitchen/scullery, where there's a not quite convincing display of fake foods (such as fruits and spices) like what Elizabethan aristocracy would have eaten. And then up the stairs (ooh yes, very gentle) to the shooting room on the first floor. There are a couple of appropriately dressed mannequins in the near corner, as well as a box of clothes so that children (and childish adults) can attempt to dress themselves similarly. It's quite an empty room otherwise, and therefore not especially easy to imagine as the heart of the royal hunting party's festivities. At least the view from the window is pretty much as Henry might have remembered it (apart from the golf course where the deer would have been kept, that is, and a rather out-of-place suburban dwelling nextdoor).
Olympic update
Another group of evictees are the Clays Lane residents who have been scattered to the four winds. They too have lost their community. The LDA actually said we were not a community, unlike the Travellers, who were moved as a community... Residents are considerably worse off in financial terms and some are worse off in terms of the quality and size of their new accommodation...
Please do not change trains at Bank/Monument
Blue: station entrances
London Overground update
Back in the late 19th century Victorian engineers built several filter beds in the Lea Valley to purify the capital's drinking water, helping to keep cholera at bay. A century later technology had moved on somewhat, and the beds were abandoned to natural colonisation. They're currently owned by the Lee Valley Regional Park Authority, who six years ago opened a series of bird hides and a visitors centre. Most of the visitors seem to be of the feathered variety, swooping in to swim and flap and feed in the reedy pools. But the occasional human turns up, as I discovered last weekend when I had the place completely and utterly to myself.
It's now been six months since the Olympic Park was sealed off, and everybody who lived and worked there was turfed out. The outcasts had to go somewhere, of course, and quite a lot of them have ended up one mile further upriver near Leyton. The new sites are tucked in beside a bleak arterial road, in the shadow of a couple of giant gasholders, nowhere with any character whatsoever. Few pedestrians ever walk down Orient Way, but plenty of traffic thunders by (most of it setting off the wholly unnecessary 30mph speed warning sign). A few lonely horses graze in a muddy field nearby, and there's also a great big £400m Eurostar maintenance depot whacked down in the general nothingness. But I'm sure most of the relocated businesses don't mind swapping old tumbledown warehouses for shiny modern hangars. These giant tiger-striped metal boxes are a million miles away from their former premises, and all paid for out of your taxes too.
They're, erm, not quite as characterful as the old allotments, are they? The old allotments had charm, and personality, and vegetation. The new allotments are formed from a rectangle of freshly ploughed earth with a concrete path down the middle, divided up into equal-sized patches of empty mud. A tall green metal fence surrounds the perimeter, with tiny saplings planted all around to provide eventual privacy. Standing guard on each plot are identikit green huts, regularly spaced, each waiting for their new owner to arrive and provide a bit of individuality. A few plots show the very first signs of cultivation - a trowel, a chair, a waterbutt - but it'll be a long time before these feel like proper allotments.
I took up position just along from Temple station, close to the river's edge. I knew that this would be a good place to watch the fireworks because the London Eye was clearly visible, and the spot was marked as an official viewing area on my official map in my official leaflet. Great, there was now 'only' an hour to wait. It turned out to be quite a wet hour, and I was worried that my view might be obscured by umbrellas wielded by wimpy boys with gelled hair. Thankfully the deluge stopped with minutes to spare. I was also stuck directly behind several 6-foot-plus blokes, one of whom had the temerity to wear a woolly hat with a floppy bit on top (a bit like the teat on the tip of a condom) which blocked my view even further. Still, at least I had a better view than the ten rows of people behind me, including the Polish youth jamming his rucksack into my side as he attempted to steady his video camera in readiness for the imminent extravaganza. Eagerly the crowd counted down the final 60 seconds of 2007.
Bong! Boom! The first fireworks of 2008 exploded from the rim of the London Eye. Oooh! Aaah! Hmmm!?! Where had the fireworks gone? A cloud of billowing black smoke had rapidly obscured our view, so utterly and so completely that only the sound of distant explosions told us that the display was still continuing. It was a bit like being in London during the Blitz - all smoke and bangs and blackout. The impenetrable darkness continued, minute after agonising minute, with only the occasional high-flying rocket trail visible above the glowing cloud. The crowd and I stood unmoved in muted disappointment. Even the Polish guy stopped filming after the first five minutes. Were we really going to see absolutely nothing at all? All that hassle to get here, all that standing around, and all for eleven minutes of invisibility. The organisers had forgotten to mention one very important additional key fact - never stand downwind of a firework display.
Q. Where can I go to watch the fireworks?Bollocks. The hundred thousand of us standing on Waterloo Bridge or on the eastern half of the Embankment had a good view of the London Eye yet saw virtually no fireworks whatsoever. We'd been herded by officialdom into a viewing space which turned out to be worse than useless. Our journey to central London had been a complete waste of time, money and energy. We saw nothing. And to top off a miserable night we still had to face the nightmare journey home, creeping slowly along packed streets trying in vain to find a sideroad up which the police might eventually allow us to escape. No fun. No fun at all.
