Once clear of London en route for das Boot I generally stop at a supermarket for supplies, things I think I’ll need afloat – beers, coffee and so on. But not eggs. No, those I buy on the road that leads to the marina. Just a quick text to Janet Eggs to let her know I am on my way, and provided the hens are laying, half a dozen eggs are hidden in the mailbox attached to her gate.
Eggs for sale
I don’t know how many hens Janet keeps, nor do I know her real surname, though it definitely isn’t Eggs. I do know the hens are free range and that any money collected from the sale of their eggs goes to support local good causes – someone in financial straits due to illness, the victim of a hit and run accident. Janet is a farmer’s wife. Before you accuse me of sexism, it’s only her husband I seen on the big machinery, his ears shrouded in the big protectors. I know she refers to him as Daddy when talking to her dogs. She has several dogs; golden retrievers, a Jack Russell who escapes under the gate to scamper around my feet, a standard poodle. Janet has never met MasterB, but that doesn’t stop her asking if he is with me and how he is. Continue reading
Oh my. What a lovely evening.
It was the first night of a new community film club. In the same place where we go to Book Club in SE5. The book club Celia and I joined after peering at an indistinct poster behind glass that was covered in condensation.
Michèle happened to be passing. Oh do join our book club, she said. But we don't live here, we said. We are from further up the road; part of the SE17 tribe. No matter, said Michėle (or words to that effect), you are still welcome.
So the SE5 tribe opened its doors to us, and communication between two neighbourhoods opened up.
The opposite of those stories people tell you about people in cities living lonely lives surrounded by millions. Continue reading
Our poetry group has blossomed. At the end of 2013 it was an endangered species. The library, where it began under the protective eye of David, a library assistant who is also a published poet, has been closed for over a year due to a devastating fire in the building next door.
We were moved to a library some distance way. Numbers fell. To be honest, they had already fallen when David was moved to a different library and a new library assistant was assigned to us. Celia and I, with our dying mothers, had other preoccupations. In November, the local authority decided that if only a couple of people were going to attend, it was no longer viable. The group would close. Perhaps, when our library reopens sometime in the distant and unspecified future, it might start again.
Could we, we suggested, run it ourselves in the interim? Suspend it rather than close it, let it loose in the community until new stabling is found?
So we sat in the pub and discussed how we would do it. We needed a venue. The pub landlady, asked for her opinion, was happy for us to meet there. In January we marked our new group with an outing to the TS Eliot Prize readings by the ten short-listed poets. In February we were at the pub. It was the same night as a Labour party fundraising quiz night, and pretty noisy. But there were three of us, and later Reuben and Emily came to find out what we were up to.
This was a lucky moment, as they have a gallery space nearby, and said they would be happy to host us. We had already arranged that March would be at the poetry library, so on a chilly night in April, five of us sat at a round table at Hotel Elephant with our poems and some lager. Ronnie, Reuben and Emily’s new puppy, was so delighted to see us he peed on the floor. Continue reading
I’m reading my first Stella Rimington novel, so it’s appropriate I should have snapped MI6’s building on Sunday. Stella, as Director General of MI5, worked across the river at Thames House.
I’m only a short way into the novel, which is entertaining and readable, and Vauxhall has had a few mentions. I wouldn’t have bought it were it not for the author, and even then, only because it was one of those ridiculously cheap Kindle book offers.
Vauxhall is a funny place. The heart of it was torn down and replaced by the huge traffic junction and accident black spot that is Vauxhall Cross. Photographs of it before redevelopment show a thriving shopping street, completely at variance with today’s multi-laned highway. In earlier times still, it was the site of one of the most famous of London’s pleasure gardens. This scruffy piece of land on the other side of the railway is part of those gardens.
There was an open event a couple of weekends ago that I was sorry to miss.
The aim was to cheer up some rather dreary railings with a community mural on perspex.
I haven’t had the chance to see the results until this evening.
I love it.
I hope it stays up a long time.