One of fascinating things about writing a blog is the amount of two-way communication that goes on. Some of that is public, in the comments box, where discussion and additional information can be posted for all to see. But there's another means of communication which the public doesn't see, behind the scenes, via email. I'm always impressed (and slightly surprised) when somebody I've never met sends me an email out of the blue. And I seem to have had more emails than usual recently, which is nice. Sometimes it's a question, sometimes it's an observation, sometimes it's just a brief note of appreciation, but I try to reply to them all (well, most of them anyway). So today I thought I'd say thanks, because your emails really do add a special extra dimension to writing online. And I thought I'd share with everyone just some of what you've been missing.
• Selena (thanks Selena) told me about ononemap.com, a Google Maps mashup which enables you to find sales and lettings information for properties anywhere in the country. Cor that's impressive, if only to discover how much the rent on the flat nextdoor is (ooh good, more than mine). • Elaine wondered whether Fulham Road was one of the longest streets in London. And what do you know, Wikipedia has a list of the longest streets in London. Or at least it did before anal stats geeks insisted on removing every street from the list whose precise length could not be 'appropriately referenced' and 'independently verified'. So now, officially, there are only two longest streets in London. Pedantically correct, perhaps, but utterly unnecessary. The full (deleted) list of 53 streets is here (Fulham Road comes in at 18th) and the gobsmacking discussion thread is here. • 'helen star-flaps' was trying to hunt down a special Poem on the Underground. We tracked it down eventually here (and yes, it was special). • Capitano reminded me how much more dangerous bendy buses are than Routemasters - if you're a cyclist. He says being overtaken by a bendy bus manoeuvering to pull up at a stop probably means you'll need to frantically hoist your bike onto the pavement to avoid being squashed. Now I know why I'm not a London cyclist. • Nick asked "But, how exactly do you make money from this site? I don't see any adverts." Which suggested to me that Nick hadn't been reading this site for very long. • Stroppycow advised that I might want to add a special "Blogue sans chat" badge to my blog (except that my blog very definitely hasn't been kitten-free recently). • Twenty Major noted that "since your April Fool's kitten jape all your articles are titled 'Untitled' in my News reader program thingy." Hmmm, I'd also noticed my recent titlelessness elsewhere in a couple of different blogfeeds. But is it just my blog, or is this happening to anyone else? And can I fix it, and if so how? • Three of you emailed to point out an interesting date coming up in May. Cheers - I'd rather be told three times than not find out at all. • I've also chatted recently via email to 20% of my blogroll, to someone who grew up just down the road from me, to someone who appreciated my tour down the River Fleet, to someone wishing me a happy 15000th birthday, and to someone whose missus thinks he's a geek because he reads this blog. • And Clare, thanks. And Christian, many thanks. And Kath, glad to have helped in some small way. And Peter, I've had an idea - maybe later.
Somewhere historic: Harmondsworth Harmondsworth is a small village located on flat meadowland just under a mile north of Heathrow airport. It's not historic in the sense that William the Conqueror built a castle here or that Henry VIII stopped by to cure the locals of dropsy, but it is still a very old village. St Mary's Church dates back to the 12th century and its Norman doorway is one of the finest in London. Nextdoor there's a golden-brown tithe barn, reputedly the largest in the country (although I grew up in a different village which also claimed the same thing, so I'd take that with a pinch of salt). Harmondsworth therefore boasts one scheduled ancient monument and several Grade II listed buildings, all gathered around a triangular village green with a couple of pubs and a few sweet asymmetrical cottages. Most historic. For now, anyway.
Because not even the giant Terminal 5 is expected to be enough to feed Heathrow Airport's future expansion, so a sixth terminal and a third runway will most likely be required. Original plans for the third runway (published in 2003) saw the wholesale destruction of Harmondsworth village. Church - razed. Tithe barn - relocated. Quaint village green - tarmacked. And all so that international business could expand, long distance freight traffic could increase and you and I could fly abroad more often. Tough decision. But then last year, after a major public outcry, BAA amended theirplans slightly. They still plan to build their new runway except fractionally further east, so now only the northeastern corner of the village is scheduled for demolition. Like the areas pictured below, for example.
The first picture shows part of Harmondsworth Moor - in twenty years' time thunderous aeroplanes will be taking off on the new runway across this field. The second shows one of the many existing houses under threat - this very spot will form the western end of a new taxiway. And the third shows a field immediately to the east of Hatch Lane - the new terminal 6 is destined to be plonked right here. Not good. And not good for the rest of the village left behind either. Although all of the listed buildings will survive, noise levels beside the end of the new runway will be quite unbearable. Nobody's going to want to live here beside the perimeter fence, not quite this close to an umpteen decibel blast every couple of minutes. Every house will be blighted, so when the new runway opens BAA might as well have knocked down the whole village anyway.
It was surprisingly quiet in Harmondsworth on Saturday afternoon. The graveyard around the church was deserted, apart from the odd bumblebee. The tables outside the Five Bells pub were packed with hordes of good-natured unwashed student types with sculpted hair and piercings. An old lady in a sari sat down in the bus shelter on Holloway Lane and smiled across the street. One front lawn in Hatch Lane was busy receiving its first lawnmower trim of the season. A courting couple disappeared with intent down a heavily willowed path into Bateman's Orchard. The cattle on Harmondsworth Moor just stood and watched it all. And, in the distance, the planes taking off at the airport were clearly audible but never overly intrusive. It's strange to think that this peace could be shattered so utterly and irrevocably, and all for the benefit of people who'd never think of visiting Harmondsworth otherwise. Still, it has a better future than the neighbouring village of Sipson which is still due for complete eradication if the third runway gets the go-ahead. The last village round here which suffered a similar fate had the rather quaint name of 'Heath Row'. And who remembers that nowadays? by bus: U3
Somewhere famous: Heathrow Airport The London borough of Hillingdon just happens to be home to the world's busiest international airport. Heathrow is like a city within the city, covering more than 3000 acres, employing 68000 workers and processing a greater number of passengers each year than actually live in the UK. It is at the same time both a modern miracle of efficient accessibility and a blight on the environmental living standards of almost the whole of west London. Can't live with it, can't live without it. And it's celebrating its 60th anniversary this year.
Heathrowopened in 1946, an unassuming alternative to the existing London Airport based in Croydon. Terminal facilities were provided in an army tent equipped with armchairs and chemical toilets, and a mere 60000 passengers passed through in the first year. Then came the jet age, the advance of air freight and a mushrooming in international travel and hey presto, one giant airport hub complete with one, two, three, four passenger terminals. A fifth terminal is nearing completion and should be operational in two years' time. It'll dwarf the remaining buildings (T5 could be the third largest airport in Europe in its own right), but only BA and Qantas passengers will get to check in beneath its signature glass roof. The futuristic 87m-high control tower has already opened, although it has the look of a fragile Thunderbirds model and might therefore be expected to explode and topple at any moment.
I got quite lost trying to find my way around between the terminal buildings. There are subways, gangways and slow-moving luggage everywhere. The roads are clogged not with cars but with buses and coaches, ferrying bleary-eyed foreigners to their grim boxy hotels spaced out along the northern perimeter. Suspiciously tanned aircrew wheel miniature suitcases towards unidentified buildings. Bemused families queue at sterile check-in desks in order to prove they're not terrorists. Everybody seems intent on passing through as quickly as possible, but nobody's having much luck. Welcome to the waiting zone.
Strangely the one thing that's very hard to do within the centre of the airport is to watch the planes. There are no aircraft immediately above you, merely those in the process of landing or taking off along the two parallel runways to either side. Visitors used to be able to stand on an observation deck atop the Queen's Building but that's been closed down, presumably in case an unassuming plane spotter turns out to have a surface-to-air missile hidden in their lunchbox. I discovered many displaced enthusiasts standing outside the airport perimeter in the car park close to the Renaissance Hotel. They clutched optical devices with huge lenses, wielded radio receivers which helped them listen in to control tower traffical and jabbered excitedly about percieved anomalies in the landing pattern. Every 90 seconds or so another plane thundered down the runway, its engines screeching as it picked up speed before ascending with a roar into the sun-dazzled western sky. Each passage was observed, discussed and recorded with disinterested fascination.
Beside the same car park I discovered the little-known HeathrowVisitorCentre - a small hands-on exhibition detailing the airport's aviation history. It's adequate, as far as a PR exercise goes, and provides a useful café in which some of the more ardent spotters can rest their heavy notebooks. But the view out through the grimy glass observation window was less than ideal and, while I was there at least, the place seemed to have doubled up as an adventure playground for bored mischievous toddlers. It's not the real Heathrow. I guess the only authentic way to experience the delights (or otherwise) of the airport would be to arrive with a giant suitcase, file meekly through security, drift aimlessly around between the duty free boutiques and then strap oneself down inside a Boeing. Maybe I'll try that particular option next weekend instead. by tube: Piccadilly line by train: Heathrow Express
[Part 3 tomorrow, because airports aren't all good news]
Yesterday I ended up on the western edge of London in the randomly selected borough of Hillingdon. It's a long way from the centre of town, tucked up against the fringes of Herts, Bucks and Surrey, so it took me ages to get there. And it's a vast borough, the second largest in the capital, stretching a full twelve miles from north to south, so I had my work cut out trying to travel around. Hillingdon's a very suburban borough, really quite rural in places, but with a less glamorous hinterland along the A4 corridor. The council's official list of local attractions suggested I was in for a dull old time, but actually there was plenty of interest to see. Inbetween the dull bits.
Somewhere pretty: Ruislip Lido Much of the northern swathe of Hillingdon lies within the green belt, so it's more like proper countryside than part of Western Europe's largest city. Ruislip in particular has the air of a small market town, though admittedly one populated by stockbrokers. By common consent the prettiest spot in the area is Ruislip Lido, a 150-acre lake nestling amid ancient woodlands (and the odd golf course). At first glance it looks like a place of purely natural beauty, complete with wooded banks and resident waterfowl (I was charmed by a couple of amorous crested grebes, and got quite close to a large swan). But look again. Most genuine lakes don't have a child-covered beach with proper golden sand, do they, nor a low dam blocking one end. That's because this is really an artificial lagoon, constructed in 1811 as a reservoir to feed the Grand Union Canal. The place was astonishingly popular in the 40s, 50s and 60s, the beach packed by eager kids who'd never even seen the sea, let alone the Mediterranean. Today the crowds have passed and the sailing club and water skiiers have dispersed, but Ruislip Lido remains a much cherished spot for local people to pass a couple of hours. The tarmac path around the edge of the lido is just long enough to make you think you've done some valuable exercise. Alternatively it's the perfect length for walking the dog, or for jogging round (once) or for taking your toddler out for a ride on their mini tricycle before they get bored. And there's a proper miniature railway right around the lake too, with trains departing from 'Ruislip Lido' station for 'Woody Bay' every 40 minutes, although I arrived too early in the day to see them in operation. No doubt the place is packed with divorced dads on Sunday afternoons, maybe topping off their visit with a meal at the Harvester-style restaurant next to the big car park. All still just the right side of charming, but I hope bird flu paranoia doesn't keep the crowds away in the future. by bus: H13 by train: Woody Bay
Somewhere retail: UxbridgeHigh Street I must confess that Uxbridge doesn't normally spring to mind when I think of London's great retail centres. But the Hillingdon council website assured me that Uxbridge was home to not one but two marvellous shopping centres. And, as you may have noticed by the lack of photo in the report above, I'd managed to leave home without my camera's memory stick so I was in urgent need of a replacement purchase. So I went. Good old Dixons in the Chimes Centre had a memory stick for a bargain price, plus they were only too happy to fetch a pair of scissors so that I could rip open the ludicrously well sealed plastic packaging and start taking photos again. Elsewhere in the two-level mall the families and youth of Hillingdon were partaking of their Saturday shopping fix. Some ripped jeans and glitzy gold chains for the younger consumers, perhaps, or a restful muffin and coffee for the more mature purchaser. I had to fend off a particularly keen woman trying to get me to switch my electricity supplier, twice, and carefully avoided the gangly pierced alternative types signing up at the bottom of the escalator for the Ministry of Paintball. Across the street the Pavilions Shopping Centre proved to be just as large, but slightly more downmarket. There were a few faux market stalls clustered round a central staircase (now I know where to come for all my mobility scooter needs) and several not quite brand-name stores (like Secrets, Purelife, and Popiandy's cafe). Outside a few large traditional stores lived on, like Randalls furniture & carpets store (the family business of the local MP), but shopping in Uxbridge is generally as 'clone town' an experience as you might expect. I didn't stay long. by tube: Uxbridge by bus: anything starting with a 'U'
Somewhere sporty: Hayes FC I suppose, given that I was exploring the heartland of deepest Middlesex, that I should have visited somewhere cricket related. But the MCC are based some distance away and only deigned to play a single one day match at the Uxbridge Cricket Club last year, so I decided against. I was very tempted to write an in-depth report from a local bowling green, this seeming to be the official sport of Hillingdon borough, but thankfully the season doesn't seem to be properly underway yet. So instead I hunted down a top local football team, Hayes FC, from the Nationwide Southern Conference no less, Although maybe not for much longer. The team are languishing in the relegation zone at the moment, so yesterday's match against Lewes was a crucial points-gathering exercise. I tracked down their mid-suburban Church Road ground a couple of hours before kickoff to view the first stirrings of pre-match preparation. The huge car park was still nigh empty, bar the odd souped-up motor or white van. A shaven headed bloke in a suit arrived and lugged a heavy kitbag through the side entrance towards the changing rooms. The groundsman stood by the red-painted turnstiles and waited. Local residents walked, or drove, past without giving the old part-time stadium a second glance. It came as no surprise later to discover that official attendance at the thrilling two-all draw had been only 167. I hope the club survives potential relegation to the Isthmian League - it's a long way down. by bus: 195, H98
Somewhere random: Yiewsley Rearrange all of London's placenames into alphabetical order and Hillingdon boasts the last name on the list - Yiewsley. Which seemed a good enough reason to visit. This small town owes its existence to two great 19th century endeavours, the Great Western Railway and the Grand Union Canal. I arrived via the former (happy 200th birthday - today! - to chief engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel) and went for a short walk up the towpath of the latter. The flooded gravel pits of the Colne Valley are really rather scenic, but alas much of this stretch of the canal skirted several warehouses and a patch of post-industrial wasteland instead. A giggly gang of four schoolboys hung from the ironwork off the footbridge leading to the Slough Arm of the canal, and proud barge owners sat looking out from their improvised gardens on the banks of the Packet Boat Marina. Yiewsley High Street, running parallel, was a different world. A long string of shops ran down to the station, featuring such retail delights as Sweet Dreams discount bed showroom, Dades electrical store and Gordon's - one of those slightly musty independent ladies fashion outlets that exist only in suburban parades. Architecturally the only point of note was brick-built St Matthew's Church, designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott who was also responsible for the gothic excesses of St Pancras Station. And a warning to any reader tempted to book into the 'Heathrow Guest House' prior to a flight out of the country. You might be expecting a homely hotel close to the airport, whereas what you're really getting is a block of first-floor rooms above an opticians, a bakery and a unisex salon. In Yiewsley. You can do better. by train: West Drayton
Random borough (9): It's time once again for me to take another random trip to one of London's 33 boroughs (I only do this once every three months, honest). Eight down, 25 to go. As I write I have no idea which name will be on the folded slip of paper I'm about to pick from the special jamjar that sits on the floor beside my computer. I could pick any of London's remaining boroughs - inner or outer, urban or suburban, tiny or vast, fascinating or dull. I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea or Hackney because they're the eight (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already. I've been 'lucky' with my last few selections - all fairly central, compact and packed with sights of interest. Maybe today I'll end up somewhere rather more distant, sprawling and commonplace. And I have yet to venture anywhere out west, or anywhere out east - surely today's the day? Or maybe not.
Once I've researched my randomly-chosen borough online I'll then head off and visit some of its most interesting places, assuming it has any. I hope (as usual) to visit somewhere famous, somewhere historic, somewhere pretty, somewhere retail, somewhere sporty and somewhere random. I'll probably take lotsofphotographs while I'm at it. I hope it's somewhere easy to travel, given that over half of London's tube lines are undergoing engineering work this weekend. 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...
The great unwashed: It's been a week now since I last had hot running water in my flat. I luxuriated in a lovely long hot bath last Saturday, but when I came to run a bath on Monday morning only cold water was forthcoming. My boiler's always been a little temperamental, sometimes refusing point blank to fire for a couple of days or maybe just spluttering weakly a few times before finally igniting. This week, however, there's barely a flicker of life and no chance whatsoever of even an inch of hot water. It's been a great excuse for leaving my washing up piled up, but no so good on the personal hygiene front. I don't have a shower so I've had to make do with a kettleful of boiling water in the sink instead and a bit of strategic scrubbing. My grandparents would have thought nothing of it, but I'm starting to feel just fractionally unclean after going 168 hours without a full body immersion. And please don't suggest I take a trip to a swimming pool, thanks - they are the devil's places, and I'd rather stink. Which hopefully I don't. My letting agent assures me that the necessary 'replacement part' should be available on Monday, at which point a nice man should come round to fix everything, so hopefully I've only got another 60 skin-crawling hours to go. Obviously the very last thing I should be doing in these circumstances is spending today walking the London suburbs and working up a sweat. Damn. My apologies to anybody I might sit next to on the train later.
The Waterloo & City line has been shut down this week for a major facelift. The 'Drain' is more than 100 years old, so it's about time that all the trains, tracks and other infrastructure were completely overhauled. The line's completely cut off from the rest of the tube network, which is why over the weekend all the carriages had to be hauled out of their tunnelusing a big crane. Come September the line will be reopened - faster, cleaner and with lovely new teal-coloured upholstery on every train. But until then 40000 commuters are going to have to find an alternative way to get from Waterloo to Bank. Here's Transport for London's recommendation...
That's not quite the direct trip which commuters are used to. In fact, and I'd like to take issue with TfL on this, their replacement route is considerably longer than necessary. It looks quite sensible on the tube map but, as we all know, the tube map isn't a true representation of reality. For a start TfL's route starts by heading in completely the wrong direction - northwest. Then there's a surprisingly high number of stations on the Circle line section of the journey, slowing everything down. And finally the route requires you to use one of the best disguised inefficiencies on the entire network - the Bank/Monument 'escalator link'. Bank and Monument may look like neighbouring stations on the map but in reality they're nearly half a kilometre apart, joined by a deep subway canyon requiring a descent into the bowels of the City. Look, here's a helpful 3D cutaway diagram. The twisting labyrinth between Monument and Bank takes at least five minutes to negotiate, as those following TfL's instructions will find to their cost.
So I thought I'd do some adding up to try to find the fastest way from Waterloo to Bank now that the Waterloo and City line is out of action. Here's the maths:
Original route (currently closed)
Waterloo & City (4 minutes) = 4 minutes (1 station, 1.5 miles)
Alternative route 1 (change at Embankment - TfL preferred)
Bakerloo/Northern (1 minute) + change (3 minutes) + District/Circle (8 minutes) + walk from Monument to Bank (5 minutes) = 17 minutes (7 stations, 2.2 miles)
Alternative route 2 (change at Tottenham Court Road)
Northern (6 minutes) + change (3 minutes) + Central (7 minutes) = 16 minutes (8 stations, 3.1 miles)
Alternative route 4 (change at London Bridge)
Jubilee (4 minutes) + change (3 minutes) + Northern (2 minutes) = 9 minutes (3 stations, 1.5 miles)
Hmmm. It seems that there are three routes which are quicker than TfL's suggested diversion. Travelling via Tottenham Court Road means passing through more stations, but is quicker. Travelling southeast via Elephant and Castle involves heading in completely the wrong direction, but is quicker. But it's the alternative route via London Bridge which really stands out. It's only 1½ miles long. It passes through just three stations. And it takes less than ten minutes. It's glaringly better, quicker, faster and more direct than TfL's preferred route. OK, so the Jubilee line may be scarily sardine-like during the rush hour, but even so. Surely TfL should be encouraging displaced commuters to take the tube via London Bridge, rather than a sinuous alternative which takes almost twice as long. I wonder why they're keeping so quiet?
fivemorelinks • In case you've just arrived here from Time Out, my bendy bus rants are here, here and especially here. If you've not just arrived here from Time Out, ihatebendybuses.org.uk is here. • What would a map of the world look like if the area of each country was proportional to its population, its birth rate or its number of outbound tourists? Worldmapper can show you these, and 53 more. • Apparently it's possible to create a giant Creme Egg out of 22 smaller ones. Jonny demonstrates how. I'm tempted. • Since the weekend I've had nearly 4000 visitors from UK Bloggies winner girl with a one-track mind (not quite worksafe). No doubt these voyeurs were only lured into clicking here because the link was labelled 'Pussy'. Maybe I can tempt them additionally into viewing this Screw, this Beaver and this Hump. • Alternatively, if you're really missing Saturday's cute kittens, try the virtual web 2.0 environment at catster.com. More than 65000 cats have so far signed up to reveal all about their lives, some even with their own blog. Be very afraid.
fivelinks • Want to check out how much the house nextdoor sold for? Houseprices.com allows you to type in any UK postcode and snoop financially on your neighbours (damn - the flat I rent in London is probably worth three times the flat I own in Bedford) • Why have you never heard of the Leamington Spa Lifeboat Museum before? Check the disclaimer, and Who knows? • For chartgeeks (in this special download-dominant week, and every week), here's James Masterson's legendary Top 40 singles commentary (and here's James's blog) • If Derelict London is the forgotten side of London, then Forgotten NY is the derelict side of New York (and it's marvellous). • Generate text-images from almost any picture you have on your computer at text-image.com. It reminds me of the ASCII art that used to be printed out by mainframe computers onto rolls of stripy paper thirty years ago, only rather more swish and colourful.
Tony Blair gave a big speech at City Hall yesterday pledging to regenerate London, and East London in particular, in time for the Olympics in 2012. Hurrah. He and Mayor Ken are keen to leave behind a legacy of urban improvement, lest their political epitaph might read that they presided over a financial sporting fiasco of Dome-sized proportions. They urgently need the Olympics to be a catalyst, not an albatross. As a (very) local resident I'm obviously delighted to see that so much time, money and effort is about to be showered onto the surrounding community. So naturally I leapt upon the chance to read a copy of "Building On Success", the newly-launched 50-page glossy brochure in which all these challenges and initiatives are lovingly outlined. Precisely how will my local neighbourhood be improved during the next six years?
Well, I've had a read, and I'm none the wiser. The brochure tells me nothing new. It's just a catalogue of existing political initiatives, from Empty Dwelling Management Orders to Skills Academies and from Neighbourhood Renewal Funds to Community Cohesion Pathfinder Programmes. Buzzphrases such as 'key challenges' and 'pan-London choice' are scattered throughout. It's just more of the same, only with sillier names. 'Unemployment', for example, has been rebranded 'worklessness'. And, in what can only be described as an example of proofreadinglessness, chapter 4 has accidentally been entitled "A stonger, safer, greener city" in giant green letters. Oops. This ill-thought-out document reeks of well-meaning strategic nothingness. I am stongly underwhelmed.
Perhaps most disturbingly of all, as part of this initiative the Prime Minister now appears to be attempting to piggyback on the success of an existing website - pledgebank.com. This is the site where concerned citizens offer to carry out some social obligation, just so long as a target number of other people sign up too. Recent pledges have included contributing money to an orphanage in Uganda (target of 10 signees reached) and writing to the Environment Secretary calling for a levy on outdoor patio heaters (24 people have signed up, 76 more needed). And now there's now a (genuine) pledge from the Prime Minister...
So far only Ken Livingstone and Tessa Jowell have followed suit. I wonder who else (if anyone) will be loaning their time to this special community cause? It would be great if this noble enterprise worked out, but somehow it smacks of a PR stunt to me. What East London really needs is genuine action, not worthy words. And don't tell the PM, but the most successful pledge on the site is "I will refuse to register for an ID card and will donate £10 to a legal defence fund but only if 10,000 other people will also make this same pledge") which is 1365 people over target. I doubt Tony will beat that.
I wandered down to the site of the Olympic Stadium over the weekend (it's only a 15 minute walk, it's not far). The crumpled cardboard box in my photograph marks what will one day be the southwestern grandstand, and those warehouses in the near distance stand in what will eventually be the central arena. But nothing physical appears to have happened around here since the award of the Games was announced. Local businesses are still operational. Tall incinerators still belch cooking oil and waste into the skies. An ethnic ragbag of workers still emerge from rundown factories (at four o'clock precisely) to carry home their minimum wages. Boy racers still drive at speed along deserted Marshgate Lane. Disaffected kids still ride their trailbikes round (and round) a bumpy circuit of overgrown hillocks. Unwanted sofas still litter the pavement beneath an overhead sewer pipe. Pylons still stalk the horizon. Herons still soar high above the industrial landscape. Leafless branches still dip down to touch silently flowing rivers. But not for much longer. This Summer's probably your last chance to visit the Lower Lea Valley as it is now, as it used to be, before the construction companies move in and erase the lot. Let's hope, for East London's sake, that their destruction won't be in vain.
Websites which used to be quite good but are now pants:Friends Reunited
"Married Sally, who I started going out with between finishing 'A' Levels and leaving school. Just celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. Spent the last 16 years in the bathroom industry."
Yesterday's post about my schooldays inspired me to take another look at Friends Reunited. Like most of the rest of you I signed up five years ago, eager to find out what my classmates had been up to. And how fascinating it was to discover that the class stud had settled down and become an accountant, that the quiet silent lad now had an exotic tropical wife, and that the spotty geek had married a baby factory and was now the proud father of seven. Logging on helped to answer a few salient questions, settle a few scores and provide closure. And all this without the need to disclose anything about my life in the process, or to actually communicate with any of these former acquaintances at all. Brilliant idea for a website. Perfect.
"Now Chief Operating Officer, SiTC Property Enterprises Limited, having worked for 13 years in various City institutions. Living Leatherhead, Surrey, married with one daughter and one son. Anyone wanting to invest in property should drop me a line!"
But when I logged into Friends Reunited again yesterday (hang on, I know I wrote that password down somewhere) I discovered that the site was now pants. Which seemed odd, given that ITV had been willing to fork out £120m to acquire it last December. They must have thought they were buying a ready-made database of millions of inter-connected citizens, presumably hoping we'd all interact in our droves whilst at the same time being tempted by online ads for Coronation Street and Midsomer Murders. I suspect they've since discovered they were wrong. Friends Reunited may have been wild and swinging in its 2001/2 heyday but that's not the case today. Nobody's added their name to my yeargroup at my old school for months, for example. Satisfying curiosity about your classmates is something you really only need to do once. Nigel the investment banker with three kids isn't suddenly going to become Trisha the post-op transexual (and, even if he has, he's hardly going to bother telling his old school friends about it). Friends Reunited is a website whose time has been, and passed. These days the tumbleweed blowing across the site is tangible. And desperation has set in.
"Just had twins, Vicki and Alexander, so sleep deprivation rules, married to Karen with a 6 year old daughter, Leoni, one black Great Dane who's over 120lbs and growing, all living in Phoenix, Arizona, USA following 2½ years in Hong Kong"
Not content with just cataloguing schools, Friends Reunited has diversified into colleges, workplaces, streets, and even Army platoons. The surest sign of desperation must be the latest "Duke of Edinburgh Awards" category, presumably for those who'd like to rekindle nights spent on Dartmoor huddled up inside damp sleeping bags. Alas most of these offshoots remain desperately underpopulated, whereas the key selling point of the original site was that huge numbers of people you used to care about signed up. So FR's webmasters have resorted to ever more desperate measures to increase interaction on the site. All the interesting information has been buried several layers down. Try to discover whether a long-lost acquaintance has written any notes and a holding page now suggests you might like to enter some more information about yourself first. At every turn you're asked to consider upgrading, or contributing to a mothballed forum, or cajoling some offsite mate into signing up themselves. Album after album of school photos lies empty, and the occasional plaintive cry for a reunion goes unheard. Maybe they ought to diversify into Old People's Homes before rigor mortis sets in. This isn't the hoped for ITV2.0, it's pants. Shame.
"Michael hasn't added pictures yet. Why not contact him/her to find out what they look like now."
Websites which used to be quite good but are now pants: any more suggestions?
If we counted time in a different way, say in 100s, then today would be a very special milestone for me. But we don't, we count in 365s and 31s, so it's just another day. Another day of getting up, going to work, battling against petty bureaucracy and coming home again. Although, if you look back over my life, that isn't 'just another day' at all. In my earliest years 'just another day' would have involved gurgling around in nappies. Soon afterwards it would have meant seven hours at school and home again for tea. And even though I've been working now for two decades, the nature of that work (and of the daily commute) has changed no end. There's no such thing as 'just another day', just temporary ordinariness.
I've kept a daily diary since I was pre-pubescent, so I thought I'd take this special opportunity today to look back and see what Day 5000 and Day 10000 were like, just to see how my life has changed. I wonder what ordinary used to be.
Day 5000: Thursday 16th November 1978 (age 13, Watford) Yes, as I suspected, this was a very ordinary school day. Starting with double English (a mysterious lady visitor sat at the back of the classroom and frowned), then French (some comprehension exercises about the Paris metro), History (our teacher was away and so let us spend the whole lesson colouring in a map of the American Union) and double Science (a test, oh joy). At lunchtime we celebrated a classmate's birthday by buying giant 99s from the ice cream van parked opportunely outside the school gates (only 30p, and dripping with hundreds and thousands and artificial raspberry sauce). In the afternoon there was Maths and RE before a particularly tedious orchestra practice. And then it was off home to do my History homework and watch the Bionic Woman on the telly.
All perfectly normal for me back then, but utterly alien today. I haven't conjugated a French verb or sat a Science test in decades. Nobody cooks my tea for me any more. Jaime Summers and her bionic hearing have long since been relegated to televisual nostalgia. But most tellingly of all I'm no longer in touch with any of my former classmates, and yet at the time it would have been hard to comprehend spending my lunchtimes with anybody else. All my teenage problems and issues, so important at the time, have long since faded into insignificance. How easily we move on. And thank goodness we do.
Day 10000: Saturday 25th July 1992 (age 27, Bedford) Here's the opposite. A day so abnormal that I'd almost forgotten how sociable I occasionally am. Maybe being a summer Saturday was to blame, but this was utterly atypical of my life at the time, honest. I woke up in one bed and went to sleep in another, neither of them my own (and no, nothing like that happened). I spent most of the day out of the house, with other people. I observed the couple nextdoor welcoming a mysterious pair with obviously dodgy 'swinging' intentions. I attended a party and met several people I could almost have counted as friends (no, really - absolutely unheard of). You might just remember this particular Saturday - it was the date of the opening ceremony for the Barcelona Olympics. But I remember it most clearly as the day I decided once and for all that, yes, I really would go and get myself fitted with contact lenses. If lots of the people I was spending the day with could wear them then surely so could I. And by Day 10003 I was. Bit of a turning point really.
Again my life isn't like that any more. Early 90s Bedford feels so very very far away now. I'm no longer in touch with any of those temporary friends either, although I did accidentally bump into two of them at the seaside a couple of years back, which was nice. My life, my acquaintances and my day-to-day concerns have moved on a long way during the last 5000 days. Today only feels 'ordinary' because it's a bit like last Monday, whereas in fact it's utterly dissimilar to the majority of Mondays I've ever lived through. And all for the better for it too, I think. Hmm, I wonder what normal will feel like in another 5000 days time...
Day 20000: Wednesday 11th December 2019 (age 54, somewhere) I don't think I want to know.
Not yet anyway.
[you can check your own 'useless dates related to your birthday'here]
There are some great independent booksellers in London. There are fewer than there used to be, partly thanks to the continuing advance of ferociously commercial chains like Waterstones and the convenience of online outlets like Amazon. But there's nothing quite like browsing around a 'proper' bookshop, even if you end up paying a little extra for the privilege. Below are three of my favourite independent London bookshops, reviewed in 50 words or less. Feel free to add another...
London's best independent bookshops • Foyles (113-119 Charing Cross Road): A towering family business that's somehow survived a century of eccentric business practices. I could never find anything before they rearranged the ludicrous "by-publisher" cataloguing system, but the modernised store is rather more rational. And still huge. And still refreshingly quirky. • Hatchards (187 Piccadilly): Possibly London's poshest bookshop, purveyors of showy hardbacks to the aristocracy, but still with a charming homely touch. Climbing the winding central staircase is like exploring a giant five-storey townhouse, peering inquisitively into library after library. And their carrier bags are well smart. • Daunt (83 Marylebone High Street): A proper Edwardian bookshop with long oak galleries, emerald lampshades and elegant skylights. At the front are the latest hard- and paperbacks, while to the rear the emphasis is on first- and second-hand geographical (all arranged by country). A true retro traveller's treasure trove. (and) • Housmans (5 Caledonian Road): recommended by The Girl • London Review Bookshop (14 Bury Place): recommended by anne and Disgruntled • Gay's The Word (66 Marchmont Street): recommended by Nigel • Newham Bookshop (745-747 Barking Road): recommended by Ems • Crockatt & Powell (119-120 Lower Marsh): recommended by P
Name my kitten I'm going to have a new kitten!!! Mummy cat and Daddy cat have been busy recently. I can tell by the smug, self-satisfied and slightly perverted looks on their faces. I'm expecting Mummy cat to go into labour and start screaming and yelping from the bushes at the bottom of the garden any day now. And then I bet Daddy cat will go and dump the placenta on my kitchen floor, because Daddy cat is like that. I can't wait! And new kitten will need a name. A lovely kitteny name. I love giving names to kittens. I might call it Smudge or Tigger or Cleo or Brandy or Abby or or Mittens or Candy or Felix or Oscar or Pebbles. What do you think I should call it? Go on, tell me! Even though I'm probably going to call it Smudge anyway because that's well cute. Or maybe Brian.
Three top tips for keeping kittens 1) If you're going away on holiday, you can keep your kitten amused and entertained by locking it in the cupboard under the stairs with a ball of string and a ping pong ball. 2) Kittens don't like water. You can prove this by dropping your kitten into a swimming pool. But you can only do this once. 3) Somewhere around the age of nine months, kittens stop being cute and cuddly and grow up into cats. They get big and straggly and independent and then they're no fun any more. This is the time to stop feeding them in the hope that they'll go and live with a neighbour, and then you can go and buy a new kitten instead.
Froggy kitten Oh my god. I found a kitten on the internet and it looks like a frog. Can you believe that. A kitten. That looks like a frog. A big green frog. Just like a frog. First of all I thought it was a real frog. Yes it was that convincing. It had this big green head and huge eyes. Big staring froggy eyes. And green froggy feet, just like a frog. It looked just like a frog. And then I looked a bit closer and I saw that it wasn't a frog at all. Oh my god! It was a kitten. A kitten dressed up as a frog. A kitten wearing a green hat made out of felt which just happened to look like a frog. The frog's eyes were perched on top of the kitten's head like a hat. And the frog's legs were sticking out of the kitten's neck. And the kitten's head was poking out of the frog's mouth! ROFL. That is so funny. That is so clever. It's a froggy costume for a kitten. And it looks just like a frog. How brilliant is that. I can't believe I fell for it. It looked so much like a frog. but it was really a kitten. I so want a costume like that for my kitten. If only I could read Japanese.
Scene 1: The date is March 31st 2010. Doris Wilkins is walking to the shops to spend her pension. A police officer helps her across the road. Doris: Ooh thank you kind sir. Police officer: That's no problem Mrs er.... what's your name, madam? Doris: It's Doris. Doris Wilkins. Police officer: Can you prove that, madam? Doris: What do you mean, prove it? I've always been Doris ever since I was born. My name's Doris Wilkins and I live over there at number 37. Police officer: I'm sorry madam, but that's not good enough any more. Do you have an ID card? Doris: No I don't. I don't need a passport these days, I only ever go as far as Penzance for the bingo now. Police officer: I'm sorry madam, but I'm going to have to insist that you get yourself an ID card. We can't be too careful you know, what with terrorists on the loose, illegal immigrants in every port and benefit cheats at every turn. Doris: But I don't need an ID card, I know who I am already. I don't have dementia or anything. Police officer: I'm sorry madam, but you need to apply for one as soon as possible. We can't have ambiguous unidentified citizens walking the streets, can we? Imagine the threat to society that you're creating. Doris: You're joking, obviously. Police officer: Not at all madam. The Government voted this in four years ago. Don't worry, you can apply online. Doris: My nephew has that interweb thing, but he lives in Newcastle. Police officer: Don't worry madam, I have a pile of paper forms here. Just fill one in and pop along to your local passport office, will you?
Scene 2: The date is April 1st 2010. Doris Wilkins has been waiting at her local passport office for several hours. An Identity Confirmation Officer summons her to the admin booth. Clerk: Bore Da! Doris: Don't you talk your funny Welsh at me young lady. Do you know how long it's taken me to get here from Cornwall? Clerk: I'm sorry madam, but Newport is your closest 'Identity and Passport Office'. Now, could you just stare into this camera while I take your photograph? Doris: But I haven't had my hair done since last week, and I look a mess. Clerk: Never mind, madam. And make sure you don't smile. Our multi-million pound computer system can't cope properly if you smile. Doris: I'm not bloody smiling after that train journey. Clerk: Thank you. Now if I could just take your fingerprints... Doris: What do you mean, fingerprints? Who do you think I am, some evil criminal? Clerk: Well I can't be certain yet, madam. You haven't been verified. Doris: This is a diabolical liberty, this is. I was in the RAF in the war, you know. Clerk: Maybe you were, madam. Now, can I have your payment please? That'll be 133 euros with a biometric passport, or 43 euros without. Doris: What's that in old money? Anyway, I don't have any cash left, I spent it all on that rip-off of a Virgin train service trying to get here. Clerk: Never mind madam, we can deduct the requisite payment from your pension. Now, the only other thing I need is to see some verification of your identity. We need to be able to prove that you are who you say you are before we can issue you with your card. Doris: I've got my bingo membership certificate here if that helps. Clerk: I'm sorry madam, we'll need something better than that. Do you have an ID card?
Hello children everywhere. Do you have a Blue Peter badge? Oh good. They're lovely aren't they? Big and white and rubbery with a lovely ship on the front. But is yours a genuine Blue Peter badge obtained through the correct channels? We hope so. Because we've heard that certain naughtypeople have been obtaining Blue Peter badges by nefarious means like buying and selling them on eBay. Honestly! And then going along to major UK attractions like Hampton Court and Edinburgh Zoo and demanding free admission. Tut. We're very disappointed with you all.
There are several official ways to obtain a genuine Blue Peter badge:
• Write us a letter, preferably in wax crayon so it reassures us that you're six years old. Tell us about your rabbit, or write a poem about raindrops, or outline an idea you've had to save the planet by recycling bottletops. You can even apply online these days, just in case you've forgotten how to hold a pen.
• Enter one of our exciting competitions (for bike safety or something equally worthy) and win a prize. A picture of a puppy painted in non-lifelike primary colours usually swings it.
• Do something really really brave, like setting fire to your house and then single-handedly rescuing a small kitten by fighting through the flames. We can give you a gold Blue Peter badge for that (and your kitten might get one too).
However, we've been made aware of several unofficial ways to obtain a genuine Blue Peter badge:
• Bid for an unwanted badge on eBay. Pah! We send these badges out for free, and you're flogging them on the internet for up to £70. How could you? It's little more than online prostitution.
• Mug a small child at knifepoint as they approach the gates of Blenheim Palace proudly wearing their competition winner's badge. • Trash the Blue Peter Garden by breaking in overnight and throwing the tortoise into the goldfish pond, then sending an schmaltzy email to the programme saying "I woz shocked it is awful I hope you catch the bastards wot dunnit".
And we've been disturbed to hear of several ways to create a fake Blue Peter badge:
• Make your own badge using a cereal packet, a squeezy bottle, a safety pin and some sticky-back plastic. Everybody has some sticky-back plastic lying around in a drawer at the back of the garage, don't they? But make sure you ask an adult to help you with the safety pin.
• Find yourself a small boat, preferably one with billowy sails, and stick it to a large piece of MDF. It might fool the myopic bloke at the Warwick Castle ticket kiosk if you're lucky.
• Get a qualified tattooist to ink the Blue Peter ship onto your lapel (n.b. logo may not appear genuine when you reach pensionable age).
It's become clear to us that this appalling situation cannot continue. We've taken firm action and have withdrawn all privileges for Blue Peter badgeholders forthwith. Yes we know the Easter holidays are coming up but bad luck, you're all now going to have to pay full price to get into Legoland and Woburn Safari Park. Serves you right.
Obviously the long term solution is to introduce Blue Peter ID cards. Every time a child sends us a letter we'll ask them to attach full biometric details including a strand of their hair and a passport sized photo showing distinguishing facial features. Initially this will be optional, but from 2007 BPID cards will be issued to every child in the country alongside the annual television license. Rest assured that this is in no way an invasion of children's privacy. Neither is this an over-bureaucratic over-reaction to a minor security issue. This is about stopping greedy middle-class families from gaining free admittance to the London Eye. This is about freedom. And later on this is about us selling all your information to the Home Office. They're stilltrying to create a national identity database by stealth, but here's one we made earlier.
Yesterday I offered you this Deal or No Deal situation (lifted from Monday's show) and asked what you'd do. [£5] [£50] [£100] [£750] [£5000] [£20000] [£35000] [£250000]
180 of you responded, thanks. Here are the results: Banker's Offer £3500: 7% deal, 93% no deal Banker's Offer £7000: 24% deal, 76% no deal Banker's Offer £17000: 66% deal, 34% no deal Banker's Offer £33000: 91% deal, 9% no deal
Only a handful of you would cave in and deal at £3500. A quarter of you would be willing to accept £7000. Two thirds of you would be happy to walk away with £17000. And almost all of you would accept £33000 and continue no further. By the looks of it, the knife-edge Banker's offer which would split you down the middle comes in at just over £10000. Which is very interesting. And very wrong of you.
Look at those eight amounts of money again. Two of them are very big but one, the quarter of a million, is absolutely huge. Numerically, the £250000 box dominates the list. It's worth more than four times as much as all the other boxes put together. Receiving a cheque for that amount of money would transform your life... and there's a one in eight chance that the £250000 is in your box. Those may not sound like great odds, but when before in your life has anybody ever offered you a one in eight chance of winning quarter of a million pounds. Nobody ever will again. Isn't it worth the risk?
Well maybe not. Every Deal or No Deal player has a certain notional amount of money they'd not be prepared to throw away. An amount which would make a big difference to their life and pay off a debt or three. An amount they'd not be prepared to gamble with, because the promise of 'cash-in-hand' is much stronger the risk of the unknown. Once the Banker's offer hits this magic amount then contestants cave in and stop. For some it's as little as £3500. For many (as we've seen) it's about £10000. Most people succumb once the offer rises into five figures. And that's great news for the Banker, because it means that (on average) people stop too early. Much too early.
Consider those boxes again. The eight amounts of money add up to a massive £310000. Divide that total by eight and your average expected winnings are approximately £39000. If the Banker was being perfectly fair, he should be offering you £39000 to stop. But he doesn't need to, because he knows that you have no concept of theoretical probability and you'll stop for less. Much less in fact. Most of you would stop for £17000, which is less than half what you deserve. Almost all of you would stop for £33000, and even that's below the statistical average. In reality, on Monday's Deal or No Deal, the Banker offered a paltry £7000 in this situation. And that's less than 20% of the expected winnings. Pitiful. Monday's contestant carried on, but according to my survey a quarter of you would have stopped, swindled.
And there's more to your delusion. Here again is the position the game is at: £5 £50 £100 £750 £5000 £20000 £35000 £250000 The next stage is to open three of these boxes, leaving just five. Sounds dead risky doesn't it? What if the big numbers are revealed? There's a 50-50 chance that the next round of box-opening will wipe out more reds than blues, and that would leave you in a worse position. Or so you'd think. You'd be wrong.
There are 56 different possible ways that the game could proceed. One would be to open £5, £50 and £100, which would be fantastic. Another would be to open £20000, £35000 and £250000, which would be a disaster. And there are 54 other possibilities inbetween. It's counter-intuitive, but you are nearly twice as likely to keep the £250000 box as you are to lose it. 64% of the time the big number stays. And if the £250000 stays, then your expected winnings (now averaged over just five boxes) must increase. Which means you can expect a better banker's offer after the next round two thirds of the time. You'd be a fool not to go on.
Except, as we know, chance is unfair. The Banker plays this game every day, so things average out. You only get to play ONCE. You can't necessarily afford to take risks. You're just as likely to have the five pounds in your box as the quarter of a million. Opening more boxes is a risky strategy, whereas a banker's offer is a dead cert. Keep going and that potential fortune could slip oh so easily through your fingers in seconds, because dreams can vanish if you push your luck too far. Most people placed in this situation are stubbornly risk-averse, and that's the reason why nobody on the programme has yet won the £250000. Six contestants have had the correct box in front of them, but none has been willing to progress far enough to open it. The show's producers are laughing all the way to the Bank. And we're still watching, because human fallibility makes the best television of all.
Total Eclipse - 29th March 2006 When? This morning. Starts 08:34 GMT (in Brazil), ends 11:48 GMT (in Mongolia) Where? Visible as a total eclipse across parts of West Africa (from Ghana to Libya), Turkey, Southern Russia and Kazakhstan. You almost certainly don't live beneath the path of totality. How long for? Maximum eclipse (in Libya) lasts 4 minutes 7 seconds, just after 10am GMT Can you show me an animated map?Certainly. Fab, isn't it? Can you show me some 2006 eclipse weblinks? Sure. Hereareseveral. What will I see from America or Australia? Nothing. It's night time. What will I see from London? A feeble partial eclipse covering no more than 17% of the Sun's disc (see illustration top right). Starts 10:45 BST, maximum 11:33, finishes 12:22 (see animated graphic) When can I next see a bigger eclipse from London?20th March2015 (84% obscured) When can I next see a total eclipse from London?14th June 2151 (bad luck, you won't see it)
A quarter of a million pounds, 22 identical sealed boxes and no questions... except one... Deal or No Deal?
You must have watched it by now. DealorNoDeal is an unlikely TV blockbuster, a game show based on luck which requires (almost) no skill to play. It's revived Noel Edmonds' career and it's put a huge smile on the faces of Channel 4 bosses.
Here's how it works:
• Before the game starts, 22 players each select a different box numbered from 1 to 22
• Sealed inside each box is a different amount of money, as follows: 1p 10p 50p £1 £5 £10 £50 £100 £250 £500 £750 £1000 £3000 £5000 £10000 £15000 £20000 £35000 £50000 £75000 £100000 £250000
• One player is selected at random and brings their box to the central table.
• One by one each of the remaining 21 boxes is opened, five at first, the rest in groups of three.
• At the end of each round a shadowy telephone presence called the Banker offers a certain amount of money. The contestant then has to decide whether to stop (deal) or continue (no deal).
• If the contestant refuses all of the banker's deals, they open their box and walk away with the contents.
Which all sounds a bit dull, doesn't it? It's 100% chance. The contestant has absolutely no way of working out how much money is in their box, they can only narrow down the options as the remaining boxes are opened. The show is full of people wittering on about 'luck' and attempting to read some pattern into the unpredictable. All drivel. But what do you know, it works.
Still not convinced? You can have a go at playing the American version of the game online here or here. Or you can read a UK fan's in-depth blog here. I'm not claiming that Deal or No Deal is the best television going. It's not worth staying off work for, for example, but it is miles better than Ready Steady Cook. And Noel's up for a Bafta, so the programme must have something going for it.
Every show is different because the random revelations play out in a different order each day. Every show is dramatic because host Noel Edmonds manages to coerce emotion out of every situation (yes, I know, who'd have thought?). And every show is fascinating because the contestants blunder about willy-nilly with absolutely no concept of theoretical probability whatsoever. They don't understand when to stop and when to continue. They're just interested in rubbing their lucky charms and opening box 17 anyway because it was Auntie Bessie's birthday.
So, here's an example from midway through yesterday's game...
There are eight boxes left unopened. Eight amounts still to be revealed. One of them is yours.
Remaining amounts: £5 £50 £100 £750 £5000 £20000 £35000 £250000
The phone rings. Here's what the banker might offer. What would you do in each case? (please give four answers)
Take the money, or carry on and open three more boxes?
Element-ary quiz: Below are cryptic clues to the names of 30 chemical elements (none of which end in the letter 'm'). How many can you identify?
1) can 2) guide 3) flattener 4) ringtone? 5) in second 6) policeman 7) my sibling 8) five cents 9) maybe none 10) note ancient
11) makes 4 line 12) Super planet 13) I nothing eat 14) from this bum 15) stupid swindle 16) a man's gene? 17) mad dog Henry 18) forms tea stain 19) that twat Faldo 20) found in 10 mouths
21) interplanetary singer 22) rich Noel created this 23) swan left of spacebar 24) mystery, nothing back 25) not quite Turkish straits 26) sounds like kitchen bowl 27) hurls up (from volcanoes?) 28) returns in bassoon or oboe 29) were Jason's men made of this? 30) negative coordinates zero (reversed)
fivelinks • Feeling down on a Monday morning? Get out your virtual guitar and play the desktop blues(via in4mador) • What would happens if global warming caused a rise in sea level of two metres, or five, or ten? It could be bad news for most of Hammersmith, Peckham and Stratford, but not for Westminster, the City and my house. Try flooding where you live to different levels to see if your house stays above the water. • The Armstrongs, BBC2's cult double glazing couple, have their own blog. It's everything you'd expect. • My thanks to possbert, strangeblueghost and Pamela for having a go at Friday's Me Me Meme. Anybody else tempted? • Wikipedia's list of lists: a catalogue of potentially useful stuff including a list of films about possessed body parts, a list of Simpsons characters, a list of albums containing hidden tracks and a list of global tongue twisters.
Harmondsworth is a small village located on flat meadowland just under a mile north of Heathrow airport. It's not historic in the sense that William the Conqueror built a castle here or that Henry VIII stopped by to cure the locals of dropsy, but it is still a very old village. St Mary's Church dates back to the 12th century and its Norman doorway is one of the finest in London. Nextdoor there's a golden-brown tithe barn, reputedly the largest in the country (although I grew up in a different village which also claimed the same thing, so I'd take that with a pinch of salt). Harmondsworth therefore boasts one scheduled ancient monument and several Grade II listed buildings, all gathered around a triangular village green with a couple of pubs and a few sweet asymmetrical cottages. Most historic. For now, anyway.
It was surprisingly quiet in Harmondsworth on Saturday afternoon. The graveyard around the church was deserted, apart from the odd bumblebee. The tables outside the Five Bells pub were packed with hordes of good-natured unwashed student types with sculpted hair and piercings. An old lady in a sari sat down in the bus shelter on Holloway Lane and smiled across the street. One front lawn in Hatch Lane was busy receiving its first lawnmower trim of the season. A courting couple disappeared with intent down a heavily willowed path into Bateman's Orchard. The cattle on Harmondsworth Moor just stood and watched it all. And, in the distance, the planes taking off at the airport were clearly audible but never overly intrusive. It's strange to think that this peace could be shattered so utterly and irrevocably, and all for the benefit of people who'd never think of visiting Harmondsworth otherwise. Still, it has a better future than the neighbouring village of Sipson which is still due for complete eradication if the third runway gets the go-ahead. The last village round here which suffered a similar fate had the rather quaint name of 'Heath Row'. And who remembers that nowadays?
Heathrow opened in 1946, an unassuming alternative to the existing London Airport based in Croydon. Terminal facilities were provided in an army tent equipped with armchairs and chemical toilets, and a mere 60000 passengers passed through in the first year. Then came the jet age, the advance of air freight and a mushrooming in international travel and hey presto, one giant airport hub complete with one, two, three, four passenger terminals. A fifth terminal is nearing completion and should be operational in two years' time. It'll dwarf the remaining buildings (T5 could be the third largest airport in Europe in its own right), but only BA and Qantas passengers will get to check in beneath its signature glass roof. The futuristic 87m-high control tower has already opened, although it has the look of a fragile Thunderbirds model and might therefore be expected to explode and topple at any moment.
Strangely the one thing that's very hard to do within the centre of the airport is to watch the planes. There are no aircraft immediately above you, merely those in the process of landing or taking off along the two parallel runways to either side. Visitors used to be able to stand on an observation deck atop the Queen's Building but that's been closed down, presumably in case an unassuming plane spotter turns out to have a surface-to-air missile hidden in their lunchbox. I discovered many displaced enthusiasts standing outside the airport perimeter in the car park close to the Renaissance Hotel. They clutched optical devices with huge lenses, wielded radio receivers which helped them listen in to control tower traffical and jabbered excitedly about percieved anomalies in the landing pattern. Every 90 seconds or so another plane thundered down the runway, its engines screeching as it picked up speed before ascending with a roar into the sun-dazzled western sky. Each passage was observed, discussed and recorded with disinterested fascination.
I must confess that Uxbridge doesn't normally spring to mind when I think of London's great retail centres. But the Hillingdon council website assured me that Uxbridge was home to not one but two marvellous shopping centres. And, as you may have noticed by the lack of photo in the report above, I'd managed to leave home without my camera's memory stick so I was in urgent need of a replacement purchase. So I went. Good old Dixons in the Chimes Centre had a memory stick for a bargain price, plus they were only too happy to fetch a pair of scissors so that I could rip open the ludicrously well sealed plastic packaging and start taking photos again. Elsewhere in the two-level mall the families and youth of Hillingdon were partaking of their Saturday shopping fix. Some ripped jeans and glitzy gold chains for the younger consumers, perhaps, or a restful muffin and coffee for the more mature purchaser. I had to fend off a particularly keen woman trying to get me to switch my electricity supplier, twice, and carefully avoided the gangly pierced alternative types signing up at the bottom of the escalator for the Ministry of Paintball. Across the street the Pavilions Shopping Centre proved to be just as large, but slightly more downmarket. There were a few faux market stalls clustered round a central staircase (now I know where to come for all my mobility scooter needs) and several not quite brand-name stores (like Secrets, Purelife, and Popiandy's cafe). Outside a few large traditional stores lived on, like Randalls furniture & carpets store (the family business of the local MP), but shopping in Uxbridge is generally as 'clone town' an experience as you might expect. I didn't stay long.
I suppose, given that I was exploring the heartland of deepest Middlesex, that I should have visited somewhere cricket related. But the MCC are based some distance away and only deigned to play a single one day match at the Uxbridge Cricket Club last year, so I decided against. I was very tempted to write an in-depth report from a local bowling green, this seeming to be the official sport of Hillingdon borough, but thankfully the season doesn't seem to be properly underway yet. So instead I hunted down a top local football team, Hayes FC, from the Nationwide Southern Conference no less, Although maybe not for much longer. The team are languishing in the relegation zone at the moment, so yesterday's match against Lewes was a crucial points-gathering exercise. I tracked down their mid-suburban Church Road ground a couple of hours before kickoff to view the first stirrings of pre-match preparation. The huge car park was still nigh empty, bar the odd souped-up motor or white van. A shaven headed bloke in a suit arrived and lugged a heavy kitbag through the side entrance towards the changing rooms. The groundsman stood by the red-painted turnstiles and waited. Local residents walked, or drove, past without giving the old part-time stadium a second glance. It came as no surprise later to discover that official attendance at the thrilling two-all draw had been only 167. I hope the club survives potential relegation to the Isthmian League - it's a long way down.
Rearrange all of London's placenames into alphabetical order and Hillingdon boasts the last name on the list - Yiewsley. Which seemed a good enough reason to visit. This small town owes its existence to two great 19th century endeavours, the Great Western Railway and the Grand Union Canal. I arrived via the former (happy 200th birthday - today! - to chief engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel) and went for a short walk up the towpath of the latter. The flooded gravel pits of the Colne Valley are really rather scenic, but alas much of this stretch of the canal skirted several warehouses and a patch of post-industrial wasteland instead. A giggly gang of four schoolboys hung from the ironwork off the footbridge leading to the Slough Arm of the canal, and proud barge owners sat looking out from their improvised gardens on the banks of the Packet Boat Marina. Yiewsley High Street, running parallel, was a different world. A long string of shops ran down to the station, featuring such retail delights as Sweet Dreams discount bed showroom, Dades electrical store and Gordon's - one of those slightly musty independent ladies fashion outlets that exist only in suburban parades. Architecturally the only point of note was brick-built St Matthew's Church, designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott who was also responsible for the gothic excesses of St Pancras Station. And a warning to any reader tempted to book into the 'Heathrow Guest House' prior to a flight out of the country. You might be expecting a homely hotel close to the airport, whereas what you're really getting is a block of first-floor rooms above an opticians, a bakery and a unisex salon. In Yiewsley. You can do better.
Random borough (9): It's time once again for me to take another random trip to one of London's 33 boroughs (I only do this once every three months, honest). Eight down, 25 to go. As I write I have no idea which name will be on the folded slip of paper I'm about to pick from the special jamjar that sits on the floor beside my computer. I could pick any of London's remaining boroughs - inner or outer, urban or suburban, tiny or vast, fascinating or dull. I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea or Hackney because they're the eight (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already. I've been 'lucky' with my last few selections - all fairly central, compact and packed with sights of interest. Maybe today I'll end up somewhere rather more distant, sprawling and commonplace. And I have yet to venture anywhere out west, or anywhere out east - surely today's the day? Or maybe not.
Waterloo → City
Building a Stonger London
I wandered down to the site of the Olympic Stadium over the weekend (it's only a 15 minute walk, it's not far). The crumpled cardboard box in my photograph marks what will one day be the southwestern grandstand, and those warehouses in the near distance stand in what will eventually be the central arena. But nothing physical appears to have happened around here since the award of the Games was announced. Local businesses are still operational. Tall incinerators still belch cooking oil and waste into the skies. An ethnic ragbag of workers still emerge from rundown factories (at four o'clock precisely) to carry home their minimum wages. Boy racers still drive at speed along deserted Marshgate Lane. Disaffected kids still ride their trailbikes round (and round) a bumpy circuit of overgrown hillocks. Unwanted sofas still litter the pavement beneath an overhead sewer pipe. Pylons still stalk the horizon. Herons still soar high above the industrial landscape. Leafless branches still dip down to touch silently flowing rivers. But not for much longer. This Summer's probably your last chance to visit the Lower Lea Valley as it is now, as it used to be, before the construction companies move in and erase the lot. Let's hope, for East London's sake, that their destruction won't be in vain.
Day 5000: Thursday 16th November 1978 (age 13, Watford)
Oh my god. I found a kitten on the internet and it looks like a frog. Can you believe that. A kitten. That looks like a frog. A big green frog. Just like a frog. First of all I thought it was a real frog. Yes it was that convincing. It had this big green head and huge eyes. Big staring froggy eyes. And green froggy feet, just like a frog. It looked just like a frog. And then I looked a bit closer and I saw that it wasn't a frog at all. Oh my god! It was a kitten. A kitten dressed up as a frog. A kitten wearing a green hat made out of felt which just happened to look like a frog. The frog's eyes were perched on top of the kitten's head like a hat. And the frog's legs were sticking out of the kitten's neck. And the kitten's head was poking out of the frog's mouth! ROFL. That is so funny. That is so clever. It's a froggy costume for a kitten. And it looks just like a frog. How brilliant is that. I can't believe I fell for it. It looked so much like a frog. but it was really a kitten. I so want a costume like that for my kitten. If only I could read Japanese.
A very stern message from the Blue Peter team
• Trash the Blue Peter Garden by breaking in overnight and throwing the tortoise into the goldfish pond, then sending an schmaltzy email to the programme saying "I woz shocked it is awful I hope you catch the bastards wot dunnit".
When? This morning. Starts 08:34 GMT (in Brazil), ends 11:48 GMT (in Mongolia)
So, here's an example from midway through yesterday's game...
Strangely the one thing that's very hard to do within the centre of the airport is to watch the planes. There are no aircraft immediately above you, merely those in the process of landing or taking off along the two parallel runways to either side. Visitors used to be able to stand on an observation deck atop the Queen's Building but that's been closed down, presumably in case an unassuming plane spotter turns out to have a surface-to-air missile hidden in their lunchbox. I discovered many displaced 
I must confess that Uxbridge doesn't normally spring to mind when I think of London's great retail centres. But the Hillingdon council website assured me that Uxbridge was home to not one but two marvellous shopping centres. And, as you may have noticed by the lack of photo in the report above, I'd managed to leave home without my camera's memory stick so I was in urgent need of a replacement purchase. So I went. Good old Dixons in the 
I suppose, given that I was exploring the heartland of deepest Middlesex, that I should have visited somewhere cricket related. But the 
Rearrange all of London's placenames into 
I wandered down to the site of the 
