In suburbia

Let's take a ride, and run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
You can't hide, run with the dogs tonight
In suburbia
 

- 'Suburbia', Pet Shop Boys, 1986

 

It's hard to keep track of me, what with all this riding about and running with the dogs.  Yes, I've moved again.  I spent the weekend moving from Castelnau down to Sanderstead in south Croydon, out in Zone 6.  I've moved in with Sam & Richard for a bit until I've got a full-time job.  It'll be great to flat with them again, given the fond memories of enjoyable cohabitation in Moana Road along with Former Flatmate Kath.  (Hello Kath!)

 

The address is:

 

51 Montana Close

Sanderstead

Croydon CR2 0AT

 

For a bird's eye view, see here.  Granted, it's quite a long way out, but the train station is only 5 minutes from the flat, and the direct services to Victoria only take 25 minutes, so it's not that isolated.  And it has the benefits of leafy suburban peace and quiet, which costs no English pounds.  

 

No telephone line or internet at the flat yet.  It should be connected this week, but making predictions like that in the UK is of course the worst kind of folly...

 

Yrs

eT
 

At Crispin Square

Last night I was joined by a few London pals to commemorate my birthday with some post-work drinks at Scarlet Dot, a bar in Crispin Square behind Spitalfields Markets. Afterwards we went to one of the many curry houses in nearby Brick Lane for some tasty dinner. The restaurant we chose offered 30 percent discount plus a free drink each, which is fairly standard for the cutthroat world of discounting in Bangla Town!

Here's a picture to prove to a doubting public that it all really happened.



Left to right: Richard, Fiona, Steve, Felix, Gavin and me.

Nauticalia in Portsmouth

England’s Easter weather was ship-shape and in rare good form as I boarded the train bound for Portsmouth on Friday. As it happens, this was my first journey outside London since my arrival in February. Waterloo Station was buzzing with the bustle of hundreds of cris-crossing travellers, but as the long train nosed out into the open air and picked up speed, the noise of crowds was replaced with the steady drone of air-conditioned comfort and the smooth rocking of the carriages. The journey was a quick hour-and-a-half, with pleasant sunshine and gentle Hampshire scenery to enjoy out the window.

The station in Portsmouth is right by the harbour. The appearance of the immediate vicinity is not particularly encouraging, and the bus interchange is rather decrepit in a post-war slapdash concrete sort of way. Across the way, the fading sign for the Lady Hamilton Hotel is missing a large proportion of its letters (“THE ADY HAM”) as it peeps over the drab concrete of the bus station.

Before my journey I had noted the minor hubbub caused by Tory MP and media personality Boris Johnson, who recently said of Portsmouth:

"Here we are, in one of the most depressed towns in Southern England, a place that is arguably too full of drugs, obesity, underachievement and Labour MPs."

As I eagerly scanned the denizens, I concluded that he just might’ve had a point, as there seemed to be a larger than usual proportion of more amply-girthed individuals. But then again, Boris Johnson is in no position to point the finger in that regard. And I wasn’t too fussed about wilful displays of drugs, underachievement and Labour MPs either – after all, I’ve seen plenty of that in Parliament. (Boom boom!) Even less flattering was the analysis of English website Chavtowns.co.uk, which details the naffest of the UK’s boroughs. But none of it’s that repeatable.

Anyway. Eager to get rid of my backpack, I took a bus to Southsea, where Portsmouth’s only hostel is located. It’s about 2.75km back to the centre of town, so I did a fair bit of walking. Portsmouth is a round peninsula, and if you imagine it shaped like a clock-face, the base of the peninsula is at 12 o’clock, the main port and historic docklands are at 9 o’clock, and Southsea is located at 6 o’clock.

The hostel itself is a modest but reasonable affair – nothing flash, but seemingly well-run by the Chinese couple in charge of things. It was quite nostalgic to return to an independent hostel for the first time in a couple of years. Hectoring notices tacked to every spare surface issued firm edicts about acceptable behaviour. (But when I remembered certain types of backpackers, I guess a little clear explanation of civil behaviour doesn’t go amiss). Here's a shot of the kitchen wall to bring back fond memories of hostelling:



Eager to acclimatise and take the airs on a sunny afternoon, I walked along the seafront promenade, past the squat defences of Southsea Castle (built 1544). Further towards the harbour, the path passes through Clarence Pier’s boldly-lit funfair, where the locals can ride a mini-rollercoaster or lurk in darkened halls to shell their coins into umpteen flashing slot machines. Not my cup of tea, but I have to admit being intrigued by the faded banner outside one establishment that read, “American Simulator – It’s Great!” I wondered if it simulated places in America, or if it actually simulated the condition of being an American. It’d certainly wreak havoc with my diet, for one thing.

In the centre of town on the site of an old naval wharf, Portsmouth now sports the shiny new development of outlet stores, restaurants and marina facilities known as Gunwharf Quays. (One of the shops is called ‘Fat Face’: have they been talking to Boris Johnson?). The centrepiece of the precinct is the striking Spinnaker Tower (pic), a 170m sail-shaped structure with glass-enclosed viewing decks near its summit.

In the evening I took the chance to see A Prairie Home Companion at a local cinema. Director Robert Altman’s last feature film, the movie is a warm and funny snapshot of a real (and barely-disguised) radio variety programme. While it’s likely to appeal most to people like me, who have enjoyed the radio show for years, APHC also features a quality supporting cast (Streep, Tomlin, Harrelson, Kline, and yes, even Lohan) to work with the genial host, the writer and performer Garrison Keillor. And the top-notch musical numbers are a real treat too.

The next morning I set off along the waterfront again with the aim of reaching the Portsmouth Historic Dockyards, the main objective of my visit, by the 10am opening time. As I legged it to the middle of town, squadrons of ferries roared out into the even waters of the Solent, bound for the Isle of Wight or the nearby ports of France, and a heavy naval support vessel, HMS Cardigan Bay, edged its way to the docks with the help of two tenders.

The dockyards proved to be every bit as interesting as I’d hoped, and by the time I’d finished seeing everything it was nearly 4.30pm. (It was expensive, mind – I wanted to get my money’s worth!).

It was a real highlight to finally tread the boards on HMS Victory, Lord Nelson’s famous flagship at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. The spot he was fatally wounded by a sniper’s bullet is marked with a small plaque. Down below decks the ceiling timbers and crossbeams make for a lot of stooping, but it’s all fitted out in an authentic recreation of its appearance during the Napoleonic Wars, 24-pounder guns and all.



In a part of the Navy Museum devoted to Nelson, I noticed an eerie plaster cast that initially appeared to be Nelson’s deathmask from 1805 (pic). Recent research has revealed that it’s more likely to be a mask taken from Nelson’s features during his lifetime, probably in Vienna in 1800.

In a giant climate-controlled shed nearby I saw the remains of the Mary Rose (pic), the massive galleon that was the pride of Henry VIII’s navy until it capsized and sank with great loss of life in 1545, not far from Southsea Castle. Since the remains of the hull and decks were raised from the Solent silt in 1982, scientists have been endeavouring to restore the ship to something of its former glory. For the past several years the hull has been living behind glass in a strange, Venusian mist, as it's being sprayed with a waxy solution to thicken the fragile timbers. After several more years of this procedure, the vessel will be able to withstand normal air and temperature conditions, and will emerge from its murky holding pen. A nearby museum holds many relics found onboard or nearby the wreck, including cannons, dozens of longbows, and even a crewman’s backgammon set.

A 40-minute harbour cruise was included as part of the ticket, which took in all of the Royal Navy warships in port that day. All three of the Royal Navy’s aircraft carriers were in port: HMS Ark Royal, HMS Illustrious, and the reserve carrier HMS Invincible. Amongst the smaller vessels present was the destroyer HMS Nottingham, which notoriously ran aground near Lord Howe Island in 2002 and caused the Navy no end of embarrassment.

Back on dry land, the last stop in the docklands visit was HMS Warrior, the world's first ocean-going iron-hulled armoured battleship. Built in 1860, Warrior was only in service for 14 years, and later acted as a reserve vessel, storage hulk, depot ship and oil jetty until it was rescued from scrapping in 1979. Its clean lines and spacious decks are an interesting counterpoint to the cramped conditions aboard the historic Victory, and its brass-plated ship's wheel bore the pleasingly peculiar inscription 'Princess Is Much Pleased'.

Later that evening in the hostel I heard some backpackers talking about a football match that day, and then I realised why I’d heard so many TVs tuned to football while I walked through town. Portsmouth FC was playing a home game at Fratton Park against the evil behemoth Manchester United, and against all odds pulled off a stunning 2-1 win. Aside from listening to the backpackers (including one genuinely named Waverley) rabbit on about New Zealand all the time, and wondering if I’d been as much of a bore about it when I first started traveling, I devoted my evening to starting Nevil Shute’s chilling nuclear war potboiler from 1957, On The Beach.

Having seen the docklands, I decided to head back to London in the morning, to get back in time for lunch. As the 0932 service to Waterloo sped back through Hampshire to the big city, passing through thin woodlands and gentle streams, the only distractions from the view were the exploits of Noisy Crisp Man behind me (chew with your mouth closed please, you’re not four years old) and Sniff Kid who joined us at Woking. Handkerchiefs are obviously not mandatory equipment these days. He’ll regret not bringing one when he gets the Black Death, won’t he now?

Heroes of Hammersmith Bridge

There has been a river crossing at the modern site of Hammersmith Bridge for centuries. Before the first modern bridge was built, the crossing site was served by generations of ferrymen. Then in 1827 William Tierney Clark built a permanent two-lane crossing supported by tolls, which endured for 60 years.

Tierney Clark's bridge was replaced in 1887 by Joseph Bazalgette's bridge, which remains in place and in use today. Resting on the same piers constructed for the original bridge, Bazalgette's bridge is an ornate affair, its two pairs of towers decorated with the gilded coats of arms of the Metropolitan Board of Works and of Middlesex, Kent and Guildford. Critics were divided on its architectural merit, according to Barbara Denny in her 1995 book, Hammersmith & Shepherd's Bush Past:

Thomas Faulkner considered the 1827 bridge to be 'one of the most magnificent works of art that modern ingenuity and skill have produced'. On the other hand, the architectural historian, Nikolaus Pevsner, condemned Bazalgette's bridge for its 'atrocious, portly gilt pylons crowned by little Frenchy pavilion tops with elephantine ornaments on its approaches'.

Today the bridge is a busy thoroughfare linking the heart of central Hammersmith with the affluent suburbs of Barnes and Richmond. But the history of the second bridge has also involved two noteworthy acts of heroism that few modern-day users are aware of.

Lt Charles Campbell Wood

Two days after Christmas in 1919, Lt Charles Campbell Wood of the Royal Air Force earned a small place in history, but he earned it the hard way. One of an estimated 3000 South Africans who served as airmen for the British cause during World War I, young Campbell Wood was a native of Bloemfontein in the Free State.

Near midnight on a cold London winter evening Campbell Wood heard a call for help from the Thames. Rushing onto the western, upriver side of the Hammersmith Bridge, he saw a woman in peril, caught in the river's flow and in dire danger of expiring. Diving into the river to rescue her, Campbell Wood saved the woman's life. But in so doing, he also severely injured his head, and this eventually brought about his death in hospital from tetanus.

Today the only reminder of his story is a small brass plaque on a handrail, which marks the spot on the bridge where Campbell Wood dived into the Thames to risk his life to save the life of a complete stranger.

Maurice Childs

The second hero of the bridge was Chiswick hairdresser Maurice Childs, who was using the bridge to walk home early on the morning of 29 March 1939. The Irish Republican Army had chosen Hammersmith Bridge as a target for a campaign of bombing on the British mainland, and that morning two explosive devices with timers had been planted to damage or destroy the structure. Childs’ account reports that he spotted an abandoned suitcase on the bridge, emitting smoke and sparks. The curious hairdresser opened the mysterious suitcase to find a bomb within. He flung the suitcase into the river, whereupon it exploded, sending up a plume of water. Shortly afterwards the second bomb exploded, knocking down some bridge girders and breaking some windows in nearby buildings.

The bridge was only superficially damaged, and Mr Childs was later awarded an MBE for his actions. The two IRA bombers were captured, and received jail sentences of 20 and 10 years respectively.

Below: Bomb damage to Hammersmith Bridge, March 1939. Photo from Denny, 1995.

In the thick of it

It's been a relatively undramatic week here in London. The last weekend before Easter has been sunny and warm, but the working week was dominated by chillier temperatures of around 8 to 11 degrees.

One evening I caught an excellent documentary on the UK History channel. The Meet The Ancestors programme sent an expedition to the West African Sahara Desert to try to excavate the remains of a BOAC Handley-Page Hermes turboprop airliner (G-ALDN) that crashed in May 1952 due to a navigation error. After suffering relatively minor injuries in the forced landing, the passengers and crew, including a mother with a young baby, had to walk 15 miles in the midst of a fierce sandstorm to rendezvous with a French rescue party. Although they reached their destination, sadly the First Officer died of exhaustion before he could be evacuated to a hospital.

The programme's excavators failed to find the aircraft fuselage, because a local Bedouin merchant had hauled it away for scrap metal resale only a few years before. But in two moving scenes that closed the programme, the widow of the dead First Officer was brought from England to see his simple but well-kept grave in a lush desert oasis for one last time. And it was also revealed that one of the expedition crew, who had done a few interviews to camera during the programme, had actually been the baby involved in the crash. His mother died in a road accident in 1953, so for both the widow and the grown son, the trip to the desert was one last opportunity to connect with their lost family members.

After work on Thursday I headed over to Deptford Bridge to watch the cricket with Steve & Fiona, and enjoy some decent fish & chips from their local shop. Decent fish & chips are hard to track down in London, and even a good shop bears little relation to those in New Zealand in terms of quality and taste. But this one on the Greenwich High Road is pretty good - and of course New Zealand's seven-wicket victory over the West Indies helped to set the seal on a good evening.

It's been a reasonably busy weekend too. Richard & Sam have secured their flat, so I look forward to seeing that soon. Will probably move there in the next couple of weeks until I secure a full-time job with a decent salary. But of course there's the small issue of the Oakley-Ngatai offspring on the way, so that should keep things interesting!

On Saturday I had to thread my way over the Hammersmith Bridge through a mass of milling posh people who crowded the narrow pedestrian lanes to cheer on the Oxford Boat Race rowing crew, which was practicing for the big race. The whole bridge was lined with well-bred young supporters, many of whom had flowed bibulously from The Old City Arms pub at the north end of the bridge, with their pint glasses in hand. I think the race itself is on 7 April, so I might be out of town for that one.

In town that evening I signed up as a member of the Prince Charles Cinema in Leicester Square, so I can now get £3 movie tickets. This might not sound too impressive until you consider that an ordinary ticket at the Odeon nearby costs £12.50, which is the equivalent of NZ$34.40. The PCC is a funny old 'grindhouse' - the cinema floor slopes up rather than down to the screen, so watching a film there can feel as if you're in a rollercoaster seat. And the screen's not that big. And people light up their mobile phone screens during the movie to check their text messages. (Don't get me started on mobile phone etiquette!). But hey, it's affordable and has some interesting stuff on, and that's the main thing.

My first Prince Charles film was the Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu film Babel. There are four intersecting dramas played out in the film, and while the overall effect was a little uneven - the Moroccan Perils of Pauline-style woes of Pitt and Blanchett were probably the weakest element of the film, despite the star power - but there were some powerful images and soundscapes to absorb. The Mexican sub-story rings truest, which is unsurprising given the origins of the director, and it packs a real punch in its depiction of the harshness with which Mexicans are treated by US border officials. While the Japanese sub-story is relatively simplistic and naive, it's redeemed by the nightclub scene in which the audience hears the booming bass of the disco music just as deaf-mute schoolgirl Chieko would: everything is stripped away from the track (a remix of Earth, Wind and Fire's 'September') until all that remains is the pile-driver bass earthquakes that pound the entire room. I'll definitely be on the lookout for the film soundtrack - aside from the club music and Ryuchi Sakamoto's stylings in the Japanese scenes, there's also uplifting mariachi pop from the Mexican wedding scene, and eerie North African drones from Morocco to complement the harsh desert light. It's not hard to see why Babel won Best Original Score at the Oscars.

Today I ventured into the thick of it at the Camden Markets, which is particularly brave on a sunny Sunday, because everyone else has the same idea. It's still a teeming mass of humanity (pic), and there's a lot of gawpers and gawpees on display, but the goods on offer remain appealing and there's a huge variety of stalls and shops to browse, if you can reach them through the torrent of people.

As the afternoon ebbed into a golden-hued dusk I explored the north bank of the Thames near Hammersmith. I followed the Thames Path, which wends its way along the riverside past houseboat moorings ringed with paddling swans and ducks. The journey was punctuated by several upmarket pubs and restaurants that were heavily patronised by the immaculately-clad scions of noble and well-moneyed houses, who had come to bask in the sunshine and consume a beer or two with their chums. Further westwards, the Thames disappears for a time behind the iron railings and high hedges of private gardens belonging to the residents of the imposing riverside mansions on the town side of the path. One building of dark bricks had not one but two plaques adorning it - proclaiming that not only was it the home of the first electric telegraph, constructed by Sir Francis Ronalds in 1816, but that it was also the site of the lecture-room of the Hammersmith Socialists in later years.

Book of the week: Pompeii by Robert Harris. Having read and enjoyed Harris's Fatherland a few years ago, I spotted this in the library last week. While Harris will never stun the world with legendary prose, his books are good solid tales a grade or two above the average airport thriller. This one concerns Attilius, a young engineer from Rome, who is sent to Pompeii to run the town's aqueduct, because the previous engineer has mysteriously disappeared. Naturally, given that it's called 'Pompeii', Vesuvius and Pliny the Elder make an appearance, as does the good old pyroclastic eruption, which is the best possible excuse to get out of spring-cleaning your Roman villa. One to read if, like me, you're planning to visit the ruins at some stage.

This week I'll be sorting out my plans for Easter, trying to arrange somewhere fun to go. I've yet to venture out of London, so I'm really looking forward to a bit of a tiki-tour. Hope you all have a good Easter break too!

Yrs
eT

Builders in the midst

It’s been a bracing week here in London. The temperatures dipped lower, almost back into the realms of winter for a spell. There was even a chance to enjoy a little snowfall, as foreshadowed by last weekend’s sudden hailstorm at the end of the St Patrick’s Day parade. There was nothing heavy or cold enough for snow to settle on the ground, though. On two occasions the snowfall was presaged by the rapid blackening of the skies while I sat at my desk at work, and the effect of the encounter was muted by the protection of double glazing and central heating. Only the builders outside the window felt its effects. But one morning the heavens decided to sprinkle a gentle dusting of snow while I walked over the river to Hammersmith Station, and it was a perfect start to the day: just enough snow to cast a romantic air, and not enough snow or wind to make things properly miserable and icy.

One highlight of the week was the chance to meet up with Allie Jacobs (nee Burk) plus her husband Pete and baby Thomas, after work on Monday. I met Allie and her sister Andie in 1997 when touring around England, and have stayed in touch in the years since. I was also lucky enough to stay with the Burk family for a few days in Burlington, Ontario, on my way back to New Zealand in 1999. The Jacobses were enjoying a holiday in London and Paris, taking in the sights and showing their young charge a small corner of Europe. Pete chose the venue: the Sherlock Holmes pub in Northumberland Avenue. Our table was next to a strange room mocked-up with Holmes nick-nacks, behind a glass wall. The mannequin dressed as Holmes sported a strange dark spot on his forehead, which Allie suspected may have been a bullet-wound, rather than a birth-mark.

There’s also been a bit of cricket on this week, and I went over to Steve & Fiona’s one night after work for dinner and to watch a bit of the coverage of the NZ v Kenya match. I also followed some of the NZ v Canada match a few days later on Cricinfo and Radio Sport via the internet. Nice to see the batting improving, but of course the real test will be some quality opposition. But it was a slight pity that NZ batted first in each game. Would’ve preferred a chase, because it would’ve meant I could’ve followed the NZ innings in the evening!

One source of ongoing frustration this week has been the afore-mentioned ever-present gang of Polish builders outside my office windows, working on the exterior of the Nuffield building where the BOA is situated. I’ve no idea what they’re actually doing to the place, but it definitely involves a lot of shouting and clanging. At one stage on Thursday the whooping and bellowing was coming thick and fast every few seconds – perhaps a warning that some heavy scaffolding was being lifted, or a builders’ ritual mating cry – and there was also the astonishingly piercing screech of the scaffold winch, which rung out much of the afternoon, for want of a decent drop of oil.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune could also do with a few other things, like a TV and some bedding here and there. And as luck would have it, The McLean has recently moved in with her debonair chap-about-town, Patrick, and they offered some gear that was surplus to requirements. So in two trips to their chic Vauxhall pied-a-terre, I picked up a little TV set formerly owned by Louise & James Gardiner, and some bedding, which will become particularly useful once I actually get myself into a flat for good. While in Vauxhall we also leafed through Fiona’s farewell book that she was presented with when she left the SCO in 2001 – I’d assisted Trayner in piecing together the many photos and captions.

On Friday after work I made a tactical patrol of Oxford Street to try to sort out some mobile phone difficulties (SIM card inconvenience, nothing substantive). I noticed a throng outside Schuh – a shoe-shop, unsurprisingly. Plenty of young fan-types were queuing both inside and outside the shop to meet someone famous.

This brought on quite a philosophical observation, if I do say so myself. A shoe brand I’d never heard of – “Keds”, which sounds like a defence acronym a la Kinetic Energy Disintegration System – had paid a large wad of cash to a starlet I’d barely heard of – Mischa Barton – to become their ‘brand representative’ in the UK, which seemed to largely consist of Ms Barton appearing in an advertising poster wearing a dress that looked not entirely unlike a white bin-bag liberally adorned with the Keds logo. I didn’t even know what Mischa Barton is well-known (-by-other-people) for. Aside from wearing a bin-bag dress, that is. As I threaded my way through the Oxford Street human maze, I decided that this sensation must be what people in their fifties experience every day of their lives, until they reach their sixties and seventies, and just give up caring.

One other Oxford Street story before I change the subject: this week the Playstation 3 was launched in London. Numerous die-hards had queued on Oxford Street for several days for the right to buy the first consoles. Turns out they might’ve had the right idea: when they were finally allowed to purchase their highly-priced electronics, the first 120 buyers in the queue each received a 46-inch HDTV to accompany their game console. Not only that – when the police mentioned that customers might be at some personal risk, given they were trying to stagger home with not one but two expensive bits of electronics, the promoters laid on taxis home for all concerned. Reports that they also offered to peel the customers some grapes and do their trigonometry homework were unconfirmed.

There were a couple of parking-related incidents this week, which just about led to a double parking title for this post. Earlier in the week one of my employment agents called with a possible policy job for a London council. Sounded interesting at first, and the money was fine. But on closer examination it turned out to be in the council’s parking services department, and the job description included ‘conducting customer surveys and covert surveillance’. Er… not really my cup of tea, I think. And yesterday the double yellow lines at the north entrance to the Hammersmith Bridge were adorned for several hours by what looked suspiciously like an abandoned or broken-down Aston Martin DB9. I just had to take a snap for the record:



Yesterday was one of the first times I’ve permitted myself a little retail therapy. I made a beeline for HMV, where I scored an excellent Eddie Izzard DVD set on special – six of his stand-up performances on disc for only £12 – what a bargain! And at the Virgin Megastore I bought that Calvin Harris single I mentioned last week, although I had to suffer the ignominy of having the actual track come onto the instore radio system just as I was queuing to buy it. I assured the check-out girl that I’d already picked it up before the song came on. I like to think that she believed me.

The weekend was nicely rounded off this afternoon when I caught up with Richard & Sam for lunch in a café near Clapham Junction. They’re both well, and they expect to sign their lease for a 2-bedroom flat tomorrow, so with any luck I’ll be able to flat with them for a bit out in the wilds of Purley until something more permanent comes along.

After lunch we perused the stock in a Waterstone’s bookshop, noting a book on Toilets of the World, which featured a picture of the classic stainless steel male urinal in concrete surrounds that graces a formidable venue of some sort in Te Puke, and of course the Hundertwasser toilets at Kawakawa.

Aside from that, one how-to book caught my eye, and I momentarily pondered the strangeness of a world in which someone publishes a book on how to polish things. Who needs a book on that, I wondered. Butlers? Until I looked a little more closely, and noticed that it was a how-to book on Polish, not polish. Perhaps it was written for Londoners hoping to improve communication with their builders.

Yrs
eT

p.s. Here's a photo in my messy room in Castelnau, taken with the tripod & timer this afternoon.