Diaries, 12th May 2024,

John Smith died thirty years ago. The Labour Party’s history is full of people called the best prime minister we never had. I certainly feel that about John Smith. It felt like the earth had stopped turning when I heard the news of his death. Walworth, where I live, was home for around twenty years to the Labour Party HQ. When Smith died the building was named John Smith House, and a silver rose decorated the facade. Now it’s a hostel for students visiting London.

The local election results saw the Tories suffer a trouncing, not that they are interpreting it like that. You would almost think it was a huge success from the interviews given afterwards. We almost won, was the comment I liked best. I don’t mind if they almost win when the general election is held. I just want them to lose. Fourteen years of their ideology led incompetence has brought this country to a state I could never have imagined growing up. Then Keir Starmer did an extraordinary thing, he welcomed a right wing Tory, a former member of the ERG for goodness sake, a Brexiteer, into the Labour party. She crossed the floor last Wednesday. what to make of that I do not know.

Fortunately the weather has been kind all week which always makes things seem more positive. I’ve been busy with work and also cultural (!) pursuits. Two trips to the theatre. On Friday night I was at the Purcell Room on the Southbank to watch Masterclass. Mesmerising and jaw dropping to learn in the post show talk that the outrageous things the person playing the acclaimed director was saying were taken from actual masterclass talks. Misogyny, control, privilege and patriarchy are all alive and well. The company is Brokentalkers, based in Dublin. They said they would be touring this play throughout Ireland. Oh good, I thought, I shall recommend it to my pals in Belfast. Unfortunately throughout Ireland appears to exclude the north. Hey ho.

Diaries, 6th May 2024, Birthdays, Unsettled Weather

I see there is some blue sky now. I saw some when I woke up this morning, then it fled and we have had rain on and off all day. In a way it was helpful as I had admin tasks to attend to and I wasn’t tempted to cast them aside and go out. Now though I am getting that itchy feet feeling of having spent most of the day indoors. I think a short stroll after I’ve fed the garden cats. It was Celia’s birthday 26th April, mine 1st May. We were both lucky with the weather on our respective days. We were equally fortunate yesterday when we went for a favourite walk and were joined by my cousin Russell. It did drizzle a little during the afternoon in the Surrey Hills, most of the day we were warm and walking in sunshine. Lucky again for me as I didn’t have a waterproof.

We met at Guildford station, walked up the Mount to the cemetery where Lewis Carroll and my great grandmother are buried (not together, their graves are quite far apart) and realised it must have been the Sunday when the Orthodox Church celebrates Easter. We were too early to witness any of the service, but one year Celia and I were invited inside.

Fields spread in front of us. The acidic yellow of field of rapeseed stood out among the various shades of green. In the shaded woodlands there were still bluebells, and the hedgerows were full of wild flowers. Celia and I have done this same walk many times. It was nice not to need to study notes, not to wonder if we had taken a wrong turning, to be able to just enjoy it. We arrived at Watts Gallery in time for an early lunch.

Diaries, 28th April 2024, Winter in April, I ❤️ the Barbican, Art Matters

I see it’s sunny in Belfast but a wintry 4c. In London it’s warmer, but rained all night and still hasn’t stopped. Climate crisis, what climate crisis? This one. We were warm in February, warm earlier this month. Now I’m back in winter pyjamas, wearing jumpers (sweaters if you are across the pond and thinking I mean something I call a pinafore) which usually only appear in the depths of winter, reluctantly turning the heating on, and making hot soups.

I’m glad I made it to the Barbican yesterday to see the 2 Tone exhibition in the music library. I looked in vain for the first edition of The Face which had a photo of Jerry Dammers on the front cover. I used to have a copy until someone stole it from a flat I shared. I’d bought it on my birthday back in 1980. I still have the next 23 issues.

I love the Barbican. I don’t know why but it makes me happy just being there. It’s so complete, such a maze. I find corners I didn’t know existed just by taking a different route through the walkways. I’d love to win the lottery and live there. Next visit I mean to go to Unravel, The Power and Politics of Textiles in Art. It looks fabulous. Like 2 Tone there’s a lot of politics involved. The arts so often express things we find difficult to get across in everyday speech, maybe that’s why the current government is so keen to denigrate it and underfund it. If art does anything, it challenges us. That can include representations of flowers and animals. What do we value, what do we understand, what do we see? How do these things make us feel? Our responses to art are a window onto our feelings and sensibilities.

Diaries, 25th April 2024, Shirtsleeves, Arctic April, Flipping Flags, Happy Birthday Shakespeare

It’s Celia’s birthday tomorrow, mine next week. We were both spring babies. Right now though it feels more like February. There is a biting wind, and although some days the skies are blue, it’d be a foolish person who left home without coat and gloves. Hard to believe that just under two weeks ago I enjoyed a walk in the Hampshire countryside with my cousin Russell and we spent the entire day in shirt sleeves. Pictures below, though of where we were, not the shirtsleeves. Look at that wild garlic! I’m very glad my new heater was installed during the mild weather, pleased I know how it works, less glad I am having to use it. I’m wearing a thick sweater and the windows are closed.

Biting winds did not discourage members of the far right from assembling in Westminster two days ago. St George’s Day. St George is the patron saint of England. He always worries me a bit as he’s best known for killing a dragon, a mythical beast, and I don’t know how he made the leap from that deed to sainthood. So I was working with a group of Americans, and about to finish when I saw a line of police vehicles and a bunch of St George’s flags. It didn’t look good. I don’t like nationalism in any form in any country. I was once asked by a Frenchman if I was ‘anglaise, pur sang’. I didn’t know what to say. Or rather I did, that’s there’s no such thing, and even if there were I’d rather be a European mongrel as I am, but not quite how to say it politely. I’d ban all flags. St George’s flag may be mine by virtue of my birthplace, but if so it’s been stolen from me by a bunch of people with whom I feel no kin. And that’s the case for so many people in so many countries. Flags are hijacked by nationalists, the rest of us are told we are unpatriotic. If it’s patriotic to assault a horse with an umbrella, to intimidate people on Whitehall, think Tommy Robinson, aka Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (Tommy Robinson is his pseudonym, presumably he thinks it sounds more common man) – to wrap yourself in a white flag with a Red Cross on it and shout “England ’til I die”, cost goodness knows how much in security – there were vans of police all along Whitehall and down each side street – be taken away in handcuffs for your behaviour, count me out. I’d rather have a flag of a ginger cat. Actually, I’ll be quite happy with just the cat. Just as well.

Diaries, 5th March 2024, Red Kites, Muddy Boots and Two Good Pubs

On Sunday a post foot surgery goal was achieved. Celia and I went for a walk in the Chilterns under blue skies. It wasn’t a particularly long walk, but we took our time and savoured each moment. I used to walk with the Ramblers which I loved. But there was little opportunity to stop and gaze as we did on Sunday as Red Kites flew above us. They didn’t seem to be hunting as they surfed the thermals, wheeling and banking with extraordinary grace. I’ve never seen Red Kites before. This was special. We saw them first as we walked up a hill where sheep grazed. A ram stared at us, he was very bold but did not approach. Maybe if we had been between him and some lambs it would have been a different story. Halfway up the hill Celia said she was going to turn to look at the view. At first we puzzled about some strange square patches in a field on a hill across the valley. Then we saw the birds.

But I’m jumping ahead of myself. We took the Metropolitan line to the walk’s start then climbed a hill to cross a common. My morning coffee was increasingly making me need a toilet. The dog walkers were out in force. There were clumps of trees but no public toilets. On the far side of the common there was a cricket ground and pavilion. I wondered if there might be toilets there. Celia thought not, this not being the cricket season. But a door stood open, so I thought someone might let us in. It turned out to be a delightful café, a community venture, dog friendly, clean, welcoming and with very good loos. I bought a slice of cake to celebrate. I should have taken a picture. Crossing the road, we entered the Chorleywood House Estate.

You are here

The house and summerhouse

It has rained a great deal in recent weeks. The legs of dogs we met were mud up to the oxters. Soon our boots were similarly coated. We walked through woodland and into fields. No cows in this one, but someone was speaking up for them.

Woodland

Go vegan

Near Sarratt Mill, some dogs were rinsing their trousers. I enjoyed the explanation of a cock horse on the information board. Finally the nursery rhyme made sense.

Trouser rinsing

Sarratt Mill Information Baord

Then up this hill where we saw the first red kites, before we arrived at the church where primroses, the first I’ve seen this year, grew by the wall.

Impressive cloud

Gentle Hill

The Church

We enjoyed our respective packed lunches on a sunny bench, looking across to a row of attractive terrace houses built in 1821. The post box must have been added later. It’s from the reign of Queen Victoria, and she didn’t come to the throne until 1837.

Terrace Houses

Primroses

Postbox

The church was open so we looked inside. The pulpit was what caught my attention most. It is thought to be Jacobean and from when James I of England, aka James VI of Scotland, decreed all churches should have pulpits. Hence the thistle. There was also a wall painting dating from around 1370 and other interesting features.

Diaries, 14th February 2024, Significant Dates, Books and Outings

Maybe there hasn’t been so much hype this year, or maybe I just haven’t been paying attention, but until I saw a girl walking down the road with a rose in her hand, then a man (if only I had had a camera in my hand) cycling along holding a bouquet, the lead up to Valentine’s Day had passed me by. Yes, I did see chocolates in the shape of hearts in the shops even before New Year, but nothing over the last few days. Perhaps it’s because it coincides with the first day of Lent this year, and there seems to have been a lot about pancakes, though little about giving things up, and then it’s also Chinese New Year. Children can join a workshop at a local library to make paper dragons. That’s rather nice.

Diaries, 29th January 2024, Out and About

I had my longest walk today since I had my surgery four months ago. It was a walk with a purpose. Over the last few months I’ve been collecting a bag of things to go to the textile recycling, plus a pair of shoes and some electrical bits and pieces I didn’t give to Ahmad at All about Phones to take care of. It’s only about two miles away, so not much further than Pipoca and I walked there and back twice recently. But unlike Pipoca, this time I wouldn’t be having a good lunch and sitting at a table for a while. I had a back up plan. If need be I could come home by bus.

On Saturday I joined neighbours for the monthly chinwag in the square’s garden. We stood around for about an hour and half. Then Celia and I went to Pipoca for lunch and to get some refills of this and that. In the evening there was another gathering of neighbours at Wendy’s house for a house cooling. Wendy died a year ago, and her house now cleared, is sold subject to contract. We stood in the small kitchen with our drinks and nibbles. It was bittersweet. But all that standing and no ill effects made name feel quietly confident I could get to the recycling centre and back today.

I took the route through Burgess Park. If you have seen the Lloyds Bank advert with a herd of black horses running through a green space you’ll have seen Burgess Park. Admittedly it doesn’t usually look that romantic. There were no horses today. I went after lunch, around two o’clock, so no school children either. Some people exercising, some dog walkers, a few amblers. The crows were busy on one stretch of grass then a few yards on it as the starlings who were in residence. My attention was caught by a dog standing very still. A lurcher, she was wearing a harness, but at first I couldn’t see her owner and I wondered if she might be lost. Then I realised she was focused on a squirrel several yards away. Slowly slowly she advanced, raising a paw and holding it in the air then gently placing it on the ground. Her tail was up, her neck extended. The squirrel seemed oblivious and was nibbling something it had unearthed. Her owner, presumably inured to his dog’s behaviour, stood some way off, looking up from his ‘phone from time to time to check on her. I stopped to watch. Then two walkers, their attention caught by my attention, stopped too. David Attenborough eat your heart out. It was as gripping as any natural history programme. As the dog drew nearer she seemed to relax, she was only a yard or so away when the squirrel realised it was in danger. It stopped eating and raced for the tree. The dog sprang after it. Too late. I was glad. Much as I enjoyed the drama, I didn’t really want to see a squirrel being killed.

Diaries, 25th January 2024, Spring, More Shetland, RIP Westie Boy

Today feels like spring. Obviously it’s not actually spring as we’re still in January, which is almost the definition of midwinter. But after the cold cold weather of last week, the ice has melted, the flowers are pushing their way through the earth. There’s a mildness, a lightness that at the very least presages spring even if next month sees us plunged into below zero temperatures once more. That’s below zero centigrade, not Fahrenheit. I can convert two temperatures with confidence from centigrade to Fahrenheit, and neither is freezing point. One is 16C which equals 61F. The other is 28C which equals 82F. You can probably work out how I remember them both. When I was a child, I think talking temperatures in Fahrenheit was the norm. Certainly if you were ill and a thermometer was popped under your tongue it was read in Fahrenheit. I’m still not sure what normal is in centigrade, so perhaps it’s a good thing I haven’t felt the need to take my temperature for a while.

Diaries, 1st January 2024, So a New Year

It’s grey outside, though it started bright. The sort of day to pull on your boots, wrap up in fleece, scarf and gloves, put some lunch and a bottle of water in a backpack and head out. Well, it would be that sort of day if my foot were up to it, which it isn’t, not yet. I don’t think it’ll be long though, at least for a shortish walk. Every day it feels more normal. Some swelling, but it’s gradually diminishing. I’ve returned to my work. only a little, as it involves walking and standing, and if I’ve learned anything these past weeks it’s that rest is the key to recuperation.

For the first time I felt excited when I saw the Christmas lights in the West End. Usually I see them go up, weeks before Christmas which always seems like those Easter eggs which go on sale early in the new year, and each year now they are the same with the same corporate logos. This time I saw them first at night, and I gazed at them from the windows of a bus taking me to see a show at a theatre. But it was the Christmas trees at various junctions I liked the most. Tall and covered in lights, they were magical. As I wrote before, it’s supposed to be Prince Albert who introduced this country to the Christmas tree tradition, but my great aunt Madge maintained it was one of our German ancestors, so I like to make a little personal claim each time I see one twinkling in the windows of a neighbour’s house. Less of a claim when they are put out onto the street ready for collection by the council in the New Year. They look sad, shabby and unloved by then, stripped of finery.

Diaries, 30th November 2023, Ups and Downs

It’s so long since I posted I don’t recall whether I had my new television or not, and if I did, whether it was installed on a bracket on the wall which allows me to push the television against the wall when I’m not watching it, or angle it for a good view from where I’m sitting. I feel very high tech. The size of the screen (32″) is almost twice that of my previous television, but minuscule compared to the televisions many people are buying now.

So new television, new arrangement in the living room. Saturday was spent moving bits of furniture about and dusting those bits of skirting board and corners which don’t get much attention in the usual run of things. MasterB was asleep under my bed when I was doing this and, being a cat and very keen on routine and resistant to change, cast an appalled look around the room when he came in and vocalised his disapproval. He then investigated everything, rubbed his face against everything to remind me that they belonged to him, and now seems to have accepted the new set up. This is fortunate as I do not want to move it all back.

Footwise I am making progress, but after a great day on Saturday, this week has been marked by strange new pains across the top of my foot just below my toes. I do so wish I were seeing a physiotherapist regularly who could advise what I should be doing and what to expect. I’m continuing with my home devised exercises and I am convinced they are helping.

When I had my op two months ago, Michèle appeared with a pile of books. I have been slowly making my way through them as well as the library books I also borrowed. The other day I finished Home Fire by Kamila Shamshie, a sort of take on the story of Antigone set around ten years ago when ISIS was at boiling point and we were watching in shock and horror at people going to join up, and the reactions of the state at home. I’m not going to go into the story but if you haven’t read it, do.