I saw a celebrity on Saturday night. A celebrity on the tube. Imagine my excitement. An actual celebrity on the actual tube. There I was minding my own business on the Central line when I looked up and there he was. JackWhitehall, the actual Jack Whitehall, sitting there on the opposite side of the carriage. You know Jack, he's in that sitcom on Channel 4, the one with the flat-sharing students. And he's in that sitcom on BBC3, the one with the unprofessional teachers. And he does stand-up.
"Blimey it's the actual Jack Whitehall," I thought, "unless it's some bloke who looks incredibly like him but in fact isn't." I tried not to stare, because it's only polite, but I did keep looking up surreptitiously from my newspaper every so often to confirm it really was him. By the fifth glance I was pretty sure, and by the tenth almost certain. I don't think he noticed. "How exciting," I thought. "I can't wait to tell everybody about this, the actual Jack Whitehall!" But when I did get round to telling my friends, later that evening, all they said was "Jack Who?" I was almost heartbroken by their ignorance, so I'm delighted to be able to tell you lot instead. Jack got on at Holborn, probably, I didn't register precisely at the time. And he stayed on until Liverpool Street, at which point he nipped off to visit whatever exciting social venue it is that proper celebs attend on Saturday night. I bet it was Shoreditch, unless it wasn't.
You'll be interested I'm sure to hear what he was wearing. It's good to get sartorial tips from an actual style icon, I reckon, and close-up too. Jack was in sort-of trendy clothes, more hip and happening than mine, which if I'd been more fashion aware I could have described to you at length. Some sort of blue top, probably a jacket - I couldn't tell you what label. Trousers, not jeans, but nothing obviously special. And brown leather shoes, definitely lighter rather than darker, looking well-worn and comfy. Jack looked about the same age as he does on the telly, which was reassuring, and he had all the same facial hair I might have expected.
And he was with a woman! She was shorter than him, same sort of age, with a big smile and longish hair. Sorry, I really can't describe her either, I was too busy looking at Jack to pay her due attention. I shall never make it as a gossip columnist, for which I apologise. But I'm pretty sure this woman wasn't his girlfriend, or at least not the last girlfriend the Daily Mail saw him with. And there was another bloke with them too, sat to Jack's right! He had the look of sidekick about him, I'd say, for what it's worth. He was still on the young side - shorter, thickset, a mere acquaintance. This bloke's attempts at growing a beard were all but non-existent, so he definitely wasn't a relation. But wow, here was my very own celebrity threesome, on the Central line, in full view!
I was so pleased I'd walked all the way up to the front carriage, otherwise I might have missed out on the sheer coincidental brilliance of it all. Me and an actual celebrity, on the tube, in close proximity! It was a tabloid showbiz editor's dream. As the owner of a long-established media presence, I knew it was my duty to whip out a camera and take a photo of Jack to share with you. Everybody loves a picture of a celebrity incognito on the tube, it's one of the best things ever. But I didn't feel comfortable taking one, nor in getting out my phone and slyly pointing the lens in his general direction. It would have felt wrong, and highly uncomfortable, so all my photographic devices stayed firmly in my pocket. I believe that everyone deserves a bit of privacy on the tube, even Putney-based celebrities, rather than some starstruck blogger snapping away and then gleefully posting blurry pictures of them online. Sorry, you must be so terribly disappointed this morning.
I saw a celebrity on Saturday night. A proper celebrity in a chocolate factory, and only a few feet away from me. Imagine my excitement. An actual celebrity in the actual flesh. There I was minding my own business in a darkened room when I looked up and there she was. Jane Asher, the actual Jane Asher, standing there on the opposite side of the floor. You know Jane, she used to be in films in the Sixties, She's the party cake queen with her own business and a sugarcraft fixation. And she did Crossroads.
"Blimey it's the actual Jane Asher," I thought, "unless it's my auntie in make-up, because she does look incredibly like her but in fact isn't." I tried not to stare, but it was dark so I assumed she wouldn't mind, not least because I'd paid good money to be here. "How exciting," I thought. "The actual Jane Asher. I can't wait to tell everybody about this." But there was no point telling my friends, later that evening, because they were sitting next to me so they already knew. Jane had wandered in through some classical façade made up to look like an Oxbridge college, I forget precisely which one. And then she hung around for about an hour, on and off, before bowing sweetly and disappearing forever through some patio doors.
You'll be interested I'm sure to hear what she was wearing. It's good to get vintage sartorial tips from an actual style icon, I reckon, and close-up too. Jane was dressed as if for a long voyage, in what would once have been fashionable clothes, but no longer. Some sort of blue dress, with pleated sleeves and a scalloped bodice. Probably a crinoline underneath, unless I've got that very wrong, which I might well have done. A lace blouse, like you'd wear every day if you were an 1890s heiress, adorned with a silver brooch. And a hat too, a huge broad-brimmed hat topped with flowers and a few feathers, utterly completely over the top. Jane looked about the same age as she does on the telly, which was impressive given that she hasn't been on the telly for a while.
And she was with a man! He was younger than her, with a beaky nose and mischievous smile. It was that MathewHorne, the Gavin off Gavin and Stacey, dressed in a black dress and pretending to a woman. He was masquerading as Charley's Aunt, and upstaging Jane who actually was Charley's Aunt, due to some convoluted but convenient plot twist. I shall never make it as a stage reviewer, for which I apologise. And there was another bloke with them too, red and puffy in a top hat, storming around. He used to be either Hale or Pace, one or the other, I never could remember which was which. And several more thespians too, including one bloke who was Tarrant in Blake's Seven, although I had to have that pointed out to me afterwards because he's changed a bit. But wow, my very own celebrity ensemble, on Southwark Street, in full view!
I was so pleased I'd taken up the last minute offer of a theatre ticket, otherwise I might have missed out on the sheer brilliance of it all. Me and some actualpropercelebrities, in the same room, acting out some revived Victorian crowdpleaser. The plot was a bit light, and simultaneously contrived, but that was OK because the whole thing was meant to be a farce anyway. Tightly performed by the entire cast, I thought, rattling thick and fast throughout the entire three act session. And whilst Mathew was notionally the star, the other actors excelled in their performances. Even Jane. Especially Jane. The actual Jane who does the cakes, performing to 150 of us squashed into the back room of a converted chocolate factory. I wonder sometimes whether London theatre would survive if we didn't come flocking to watch our favourite celebrities in "Never Mind What The Play Is, I'm Here to See Jane." And Mathew, obviously.
It seemed the right place to go to celebrate the Regent's Canal's 200th anniversary. A museum devoted to the capital's canals, located precisely halfway along, round the backside of King's Cross. The London Canal Museum backs onto Battlebridge Basin, as does Kings Place, the latest home of the Guardian newspaper. To find the museum requires wandering up an unlikely backstreet, past gated entrances to penthouse flats, to the old warehouse on New Wharf Road. The building was once used for storing ice, back in the days before refrigerators when frozen water was a rarity. That's a bonus, because this is in effect the Canal andIce Cream museum, a title which would surely entice more visitors inside.
A friendly face at the front desk will explain all, in more detail than museums of this size usually afford. There's a also a mini-guide to take with you, again an extremely good idea, to direct you round the exhibits in a sensible order and provide a bit of background. If you fancy finding out more about the museum before you arrive, or downloading a guide to your mobile for use as you walk around, two audio tours are available here. Indeed, the museum website is much more detailed than most attractions of this size, so do dig around to explore it all.
They have a narrowboat for you to walk inside, and that's despite the fact it was originally much longer then the building itself. The freight end has been chopped off, leaving the cramped but compact living quarters to poke around. Admire the traditional 'roses and castles' design painted on a jug on top, and also in a separate cabinet alongside. For a whole load more boats head out through the back door to the quay beside the basin. A restored post-war tug is always here, whereas the remaining sights depend on the comings and goings of more modern pleasure craft.
At the back of the museum is a large circular hole, leading down to a gloomy purple-lit brick-lined void. This is the ice house, one of two such wells built here, inside which imported ice from Norway was stored (potentially for several months). A separate exhibit tells the story of Carlo Gatti, the Swiss Italian who built this warehouse 150 years ago. He started by supplying fishmongers, restaurateurs and the like, before diversifying into ice cream manufacture as this spread across the capital. An old ice cream cart stands near the entrance, as well as examples of the glass dishes used to serve up "licks" and "Hokey Pokeys".
You can't use the horse ramp to get upstairs, it's too steep. Instead take the stairs, to a floor that's more about information than exhibits. A detailed map of London's waterways fills one wall, a temporary exhibition of mid 20th century canalfolk photos another. The history of the Regent's Canal predominates, although other London and national waterways get a look in, and there's a model of a lock your kids can play with. Meanwhile you'll enjoy the archive film, especially the silent movie from 1924 following a barge all the way from Limehouse to Paddington. Shots of horse drawn barges are mixed with neighbouring roads plied by trams, interspersed by those wonderful handwritten white-on-black captions beloved of the era.
The museum shop's well worth a look before you go - it's especially well stocked with books and maps about canals and waterways nationwide. And sorry, but you've just missed the last of this summer's hour long boat trips through the Islington Tunnel. They'll be back for Hallowe'en, chugging for half a mile (beneath Upper Street and back) through a dark and very confined space. In the meantime, in this bicentenary year, the London Canal Museum's still plenty interesting enough for a short four quid diversion.
Limehouse: In Limehouse Basin a motor cruiser sails past the canal entrance searching for its mooring. One jetty used by Water Chariots during the Games is very very empty, while at the other fifteen black motorboats have been mothballed beneath plastic covers. Under the DLR viaduct, a man with a windlass pushes open the lock gates while his young family watches. Their little boat (named Petit Bateau) is tied up by the footbridge, with an iPad and some delicatessen bread laid out on deck. For them a journey up towards Islington awaits, whereas my eight and a half mile walk is over.
Mile End Park: Clunky hire bikes and sleek two-wheelers are out in number. Boats at winter moorings have chopped logs and herb gardens on the roof. Where warehouses stood a decade ago, now geometric flats with tinted balconies hold sway. A cluster of retail boats sell vintage clothing, tea and cupcakes, or will if anybody stops. South of Mile End Road the bustle ceases. Only a few continue past the empty park, the weedylocks, brick chimney and preening swans.
Hackney: A gradual descent of locks, between converted warehouses and new-build flats. This is the trendiest part of the canal, overrun by beardy youth in chunkyknit scarves. By the Rosemary Branch a boat owner in snood and yellow trainers emerges and locks up. At De Beauvoir Town the towpath cafes throng with Observer readers. Towards Broadway Market the towpath throngs with dogwalkers, couples and joggers. It's almost too busy for bikes, but repeated tings help force dozens of cyclists through.
Islington: Beyond the tunnel, over the hill, and through the Farmers' Market (that's lunch sorted). Through the eastern portal comes the sound of chugging with distant lights in the gloom. A neon sculpture dives into the water by City Basin. Past the barge selling coffee is a barge selling books. The launch of David Fathers' new Regent's Canal title is underway. The author signs ten pound copies while his supporters swig wine from plastic beakers on the towpath. He signs my copy with a flourish, thankfully believing I bought it elsewhere last week. Glad I kept the receipt!
King's Cross: A narrowboat named Arthur Dent is moored up beneath the railway at St Pancras Lock. Tall red cranes reflect in the water as plastic bottles float by. Granary Square is not yet the beating heart of a new neighbourhood - a security guard keeps watch by the fountains. Noah's dad is trying to teach him how to weave his tricycle between the oncoming joggers. A noisy swan flaps the length of Battlebridge Basin. Time for a diversion into the London Canal Museum.
Camden: A mixed aroma of global food wafts from the quayside Market. Grab noodles, try halloumi, or buy calamari off a teen with tunnel earrings. Photographers sidestep one another, trying to capture the best shot. Five men stand around an open cover in the towpath, staring at a broken pump. TV-AM's rooftop eggcups overlook a wire-mesh duckling stuffed with plastic bags. Only a few tourists leave the bustle of the Lock and wander away beside the water beneath the streets.
Regents Park: The first flush of autumn gilds the leaves. Nash's grand mansions rise from canalside lawns. Two swans glide by, rippling the flat water. A number of international tourists are out enjoying a brief stroll along the towpath. In the Snowdon Aviary the birds are aflutter, but the rest of the Zoo's animals stay silent. A small group of novices from London Kayak Tours lower their craft into the water and paddle away.
Lisson Grove: Above the cutting, the substation hums. A woman in red lycra bends and stretches by the tunnel mouth. A steady stream of Sunday morning joggers pants by - I step aside to let them pass. Alongside the private moorings one owner relaxes in her deckchair, soaking up the morning sun. Radio 4 floods indistinctly through an open window.
Little Venice: It's a crispblue morning at the triangular basin. The sun gleams off a creamy-white stucco terrace. Oaky woodsmoke puffs from a narrowboat chimney. There are still seats available for breakfast aboard the Floating Boater, if you hurry. The first waterbus of the day is preparing for to transport a handful of early tourists to Camden. The Regent's Canal begins beside the old lockkeeper's cottage.
I thought I'd create a by-postcode map of Londonbookshops. The independent ones (so no Waterstones). The non-specialist ones (so no Stanfords). The ones that sell first-hand, not second-hand (so no Ripping Yarns or Skoob). Those small-ish friendly bookshops with knowledgeable assistants who can flog you a Richard and Judy or order you an obscure Ian McEwan.
A lot's changed since I last tried this in 2008. Several independent bookshops have, alas, closed. A number have, hurrah, opened. Quite a few that didn't have a website four years ago now do. But I bet there are more independent bookshops in London than I've found so far. Can you help me out?
At a special planning meeting on Wednesday night, the future of one of Spitalfields' better looking buildings was decided. That'll be the Fruit and Wool Exchange, a 1920s auction house overlooking the more famous market. Admire the splendid frontage on Brushfield Street, designed sympathetically to blend in with Hawksmoor's magnificent Christ Church at the end of the road. The Exchange used to bustle with traders selling boxes of Jaffas, bags of onions and crates of melons, sourced from countries all around the world. Hundreds of staff were employed for stacking, selling and conveyancing purposes, with fourteen loading bays round the back to ensure that produce reached its destination in pristine condition. To read more about the Fruit and Wool Exchange's heyday head over to the marvellous Spitalfields Life website where you can dribble over the contents of a brochure from 1937. You'll also want to take a look inside the building, courtesy of the same gentle author, to see what its grand staircases and atria look like today. And then perhaps you'll understand why quite so many campaignersare quite so angry.
The greengrocery types moved out in 1991 when the main market over the road emptied. In their place the Exchange became home to smaller businesses, a sort of office block by default, on a really rather low key level. We're in Tower Hamlets rather than the City, despite the big "Corporation of London" sign across the frontage, if only by a hundred metres or so. But the City proper is keen to move in, courtesy of financial brokerage dealers Icap. They're currently based at Broadgate Circus but are keen to expand when their lease expires, so have been searching around for somewhere bigger but cheaper. Their eyes alighted on the Fruit and Wool Exchange site - ideally situated, but alas the building wasn't quite what they wanted. Icap require large unpartitioned floors for dealing, which is not at all what the F&WE offers, so their plans involve knocking the building down and starting again. Tower Hamlets council said no, repeatedly no, that definitely wouldn't be appropriate. But on Wednesday the Mayor said yes, and the Mayor wins, so the Fruit and Wool Exchange loses.
Icap's plans are for a mixed use city block, as is the custom these days, combining 36000 square metres of office space with a mini business hub and small retail units. That's very much the model around Spitalfields, whose main market building was transformed a few years back into an over-shiny tourist magnet. Now there are patisseries and boutiques around the traders' stalls, as well as whopping great glass office blocks down one end where elegant but rundown buildings once stood. The entire Fruit and Wool Exchange block will be demolished, with the sole exception of the Brushfield Street façade which will linger on solely as a thin screen, a heritage veneer to cover up the modern walls behind. Expect a new public open space, by which the developers mean a thin courtyard surrounded by shops, and some sort of covered arcade through the middle of the site watched over by security. It could all be complete by 2015, if all goes to plan. A very informative public overview of the scheme was available here until late last night, but mysteriously the developers appear to have removed it (and diverted the link) since then.
You're probably very cross by now at the wanton destruction of an old building, but you might not be quite so cross if you'd walked past it recently, as I did last night in heavy rain. The main entrance may be lovely, with tall thin doors, then windows, stacked high to the semi-circular pediment. And the lettering's proper, very much of its era. But the rest of the frontage, to either side, that's a bit more ordinary. It's nice, definitely nicer than the faux-Georgian shop units on the opposite side of the road, and this is all staying, remember. But it's not the sort of thing you'd expect campaigners to get very excited about. Indeed the eastern side of the Exchange building facing Christ Church probably wouldn't earn a second glance from the majority of passers-by. Walk all the way round the block to White's Row and the view gets worse. Here stands one of the Corporation of London's multi-storeycar parks, a large and unsatisfying beast, and not necessarily somewhere you'd like to be after dark. All of this is going, completely and utterly, which'll be a loss only to any Icap brokers who were planning on driving their bonus-bought motor to work.
The pub on the northwestern corner is also doomed. The Gun is a Truman Hanbury & Buxton pub, taking its name from the Artillery barracks established very nearby by Henry VIII. But that last sentence imbues the place with more historical gravitas than it deserves, because the existing building dates back no earlier than 1929. The developers have plans to rebuild something similar-looking in the new development, a pub no smaller than now, and the landlord appears to be very much on side. When bankers come along and offer you revamped premises, it's often hard to resist. But the outlook's perhaps not so rosy for the hundreds currently employed in small businesses within the main building. Leaseholders have just been served notice to quit on 1st December, which doesn't leave long to pack up and get out. They'll be given preferential rates in the new building - the first year rent-free and the second half-price - but it's not clear how many could afford a full whack third year in an upwardly aspirational neighbourhood.
One further thing the new development will destroy is one of the most notorious streets in London. That's Dorset Street - in Victorian times a 'rookery' packed with prostitutes, short-term lodgers and criminals. Jack the Ripper's final victim met her end precisely here, mutilated in her room overnight, her screams overlooked amongst the usual hue and cry. But Mary Kelly's abode has long disappeared beneath the Fruit and Wool Exchange, while the White's Row car park wiped out the opposite flank four decades later. Ripper tours can't visit the site today, only peer past barriers down a reconfigured service road where the former loading bays stand shuttered. Redevelopment will see this thoroughfare wiped from the map, as the Spitalfields area continues to coagulate into larger and larger blocks. Tower Hamlets have insisted on some memorial remaining, for what it's worth, but the murder site now looks destined to be engulfed within this anodyne office complex.
There are greater architectural battles to be fought in London than the Fruit and Wool Exchange and its adjacent multi-storey. But it's clear that heritage now counts for very little when the alternative is jobs and shopping, because the economy is the Mayor's clear overriding priority. Indeed every time Boris has been called on to judge some new building project turned down by councillors, every time he's ruled in favour of the redevelopers. I'm particularly sad in this case, because Icap could have gone elsewhere but chose not to, thereby destroying an illustrious interior for the sake of partition-free trading floors. A predatory purchase has been allowed to succeed, stripping away a not insignificant slice of Spitalfields' historic character. I'm sure that tourists will lap up the new building, and that the brokers can't wait to move in. But the end result looks set to be a vapid architectural pastiche, vainly attempting to mimic the 1920s building in modern style, with the 21st century found wanting.
I'm quite good at starting emails. If it's a personal email I invariably start with Hi, even if it's the first time we've spoken. With a work email my default intro remains Dear, just to be polite, because it's best to be on the safe side. But that's only until I see evidence my recipient uses Hi instead of Dear, in which case I switch and it's Hi, Hi, Hi all the way.
It's the end of emails I struggle with. The valediction to write at the end, to sign the whole thing off, just above my name. What to use, what to say, without looking like a complete plonker?
At school I was taught to use Yours faithfully and Yours sincerely. They formed the basis of many a grammar exercise, so it's been drummed into me which should be used in each specific opening context. But they're not for emails, not unless it's something terribly formal upon which my job depends. Email endings are different.
Kind regards. I can't type this without feeling vaguely uncomfortable. It's a bit too nice, a bit sickly, and nothing I'd ever say to you in real life. Indeed if you use 'kind regards' at the bottom of your email to me, I probably wriggle a little uncomfortably and wish you hadn't.
Best regards. This is more common, isn't it? It's almost the new Yours sincerely, to the extent where I can almost imagine it being taught at school. And I do use it sometimes, but I never enjoy typing it. It's bland, I always think, and a combination of two words that's essentially meaningless.
Regards. This is the ultra-brief option, with all adjectives removed. A quick sign-off, a mere placeholder, something to get the email finished as quickly as possible. As a side issue I never know whether you're supposed to add a full stop at the end - it looks wrong with, it looks wrong without.
Best wishes. This sign-off predates email, which gives it a certain authenticity. But still no gravitas, which is why I avoid this one like the plague. It's the sort of thing an auntie would write in a birthday card, not a final phrase I'd want you to remember me by.
All the best. I like this one. I shouldn't, because it's woefully hollow, with a word seemingly missing somewhere along the way. All the best what? - it's never clear. But I think this has an optimistic ambiguity that fits well in most situations.
Take care. Whereas this one's not so good. It may be only eight letters long, but there's an unspoken hint within that something terrible is about to take place. You might as well end your email with "Watch out!" instead. It's much too negative for me, and I'd hope for you too.
Cheers. A very chummy sign-off, and almost certainly over-familiar for professional use. I suspect it appears most frequently in terse emails dashed off fast, and in replies to replies to replies. I'm guilty of this one sometimes, but only if I'm sure I know you well.
Many thanks. This one's my favourite. It's chirpy and upbeat, whilst simultaneously respectful and deferential. I'll only use it if I haven't overdone use of the word "thankyou" earlier in the email. But I like to acknowledge my appreciation of the other person's efforts, and that's always a good note to end on.
Perhaps you're an old school writer who sticks to the more formal means of sign-off. Perhaps you have a stock phrase you use all the time to conclude an email, typed out as a reflex action without thought. Or perhaps like me you change your valediction according to audience, situation or mood. I'm probably thinking too hard here, morphing my email signature solely to reflect what I think you want to hear. I might even be better off missing out the last line altogether, rather than shoehorning in some limp phrase purely for the sake of it.
Things were so much easier in the offline days of Yours sincerely and Yours faithfully. But hurrah for the freedom to end our emails how we please, even if we sometimes sound forced, cheesy or false for doing so. All the best sign off with due regard, so take care.
It seemed the right place to go to celebrate the Regent's Canal's 200th anniversary. A museum devoted to the capital's canals, located precisely halfway along, round the backside of King's Cross. The London Canal Museum backs onto Battlebridge Basin, as does Kings Place, the latest home of the Guardian newspaper. To find the museum requires wandering up an unlikely backstreet, past gated entrances to penthouse flats, to the old warehouse on New Wharf Road. The building was once used for storing ice, back in the days before refrigerators when frozen water was a rarity. That's a bonus, because this is in effect the Canal and Ice Cream museum, a title which would surely entice more visitors inside.
At the back of the museum is a large circular hole, leading down to a gloomy purple-lit brick-lined void. This is the ice house, one of two such wells built here, inside which imported ice from Norway was stored (potentially for several months). A separate exhibit tells the story of Carlo Gatti, the Swiss Italian who built this warehouse 150 years ago. He started by supplying fishmongers, restaurateurs and the like, before diversifying into ice cream manufacture as this spread across the capital. An old ice cream cart stands near the entrance, as well as examples of the glass dishes used to serve up "licks" and "Hokey Pokeys".
At a special planning meeting on Wednesday night, the future of one of Spitalfields' better looking buildings was decided. That'll be the Fruit and Wool Exchange, a 1920s auction house overlooking the more famous market. Admire the splendid frontage on Brushfield Street, designed sympathetically to blend in with Hawksmoor's magnificent Christ Church at the end of the road. The Exchange used to bustle with traders selling boxes of Jaffas, bags of onions and crates of melons, sourced from countries all around the world. Hundreds of staff were employed for stacking, selling and conveyancing purposes, with fourteen loading bays round the back to ensure that produce reached its destination in pristine condition. To read more about the Fruit and Wool Exchange's heyday head over to the marvellous Spitalfields Life website where you can dribble over the contents of a brochure from 1937. You'll also want to take a look inside the building, courtesy of the same gentle author, to see what its grand staircases and atria look like today. And then perhaps you'll understand why quite so many campaigners are quite so angry.
You're probably very cross by now at the wanton destruction of an old building, but you might not be quite so cross if you'd walked past it recently, as I did last night in heavy rain. The main entrance may be lovely, with tall thin doors, then windows, stacked high to the semi-circular pediment. And the lettering's proper, very much of its era. But the rest of the frontage, to either side, that's a bit more ordinary. It's nice, definitely nicer than the faux-Georgian shop units on the opposite side of the road, and this is all staying, remember. But it's not the sort of thing you'd expect campaigners to get very excited about. Indeed the eastern side of the Exchange building facing Christ Church probably wouldn't earn a second glance from the majority of passers-by. Walk all the way round the block to White's Row and the view gets worse. Here stands one of the Corporation of London's multi-storey car parks, a large and unsatisfying beast, and not necessarily somewhere you'd like to be after dark. All of this is going, completely and utterly, which'll be a loss only to any Icap brokers who were planning on driving their bonus-bought motor to work.
One further thing the new development will destroy is one of the most notorious streets in London. That's Dorset Street - in Victorian times a 'rookery' packed with prostitutes, short-term lodgers and criminals. Jack the Ripper's final victim met her end precisely here, mutilated in her room overnight, her screams overlooked amongst the usual hue and cry. But Mary Kelly's abode has long disappeared beneath the Fruit and Wool Exchange, while the White's Row car park wiped out the opposite flank four decades later. Ripper tours can't visit the site today, only peer past barriers down a reconfigured service road where the former loading bays stand shuttered. Redevelopment will see this thoroughfare wiped from the map, as the Spitalfields area continues to coagulate into larger and larger blocks. Tower Hamlets have insisted on some memorial remaining, for what it's worth, but the murder site now looks destined to be engulfed within this anodyne office complex.
