So exciting is our life during Lockdown that one of the highlights of yesterday was my husband shouting to me to come into the kitchen to see that, having left his glasses on the worktop next to the apple corer, he’d accidentally made Groucho Marks!
Regular readers of this blog may remember
that on November 13th I wrote about the
fun of playing conkers in my youth,
having first baked them in the oven to harden them.
My reminiscences provoked this outrage from Warwick Charlesworth
in Australia.
"It is not often that I am driven to rage
by anything you have written in your blogs
but I felt that you had gone way beyond
decency in your latest conker effort.
It was with horror that I discovered
you were an oven roaster.
That was sooooo cheating
I cannot believe you did such a thing.
The windowsill was allowed,
but ovens were for those who had to win at
all costs which I would never have thought
you would be.
It was always obvious at school
when someone had done the dirty
and artificially hardened their nut.
Of course it was always denied
but you don't get to be a "sixer"
without some sort of intervention.
I think my knuckles still have the scars
from others who couldn't get their aim right.
What a wonderful memory to revive though.
I had completely forgotten the humble conker
as it's not something you see here very much.
Just up the road from our house in Southend,
there was an old hospital, on the corner of Chalkwell avenue,
and it had the most magnificent tree
which always produced a wonderful crop
of those golden brown wonders.
To walk home from the bus stop
and find one always made a bad day so much better.
To then polish them until they glowed
was a boyhood delight, such simple pleasures
in such a less complicated time.
I shall give thought to forgiving you
I just hope all you opponents have".
***************************
A great example of inventiveness during lockdown was this makeshift gym I noticed on the Duke of York steps leading down from Carlton House Terrace to The Mall.
I’ve often said that, for me, serendipity is one of the most important things Lockdown has stolen. Outings (when they are allowed at all) have to be planned according to the weather as we won’t go indoors, restaurants have to be recce’d to make sure outside tables are the right distance apart, meals have to be scheduled so that deliveries produce the necessary ingredients and not unusable substitutions. Friends can’t turn up unexpectedly and drop in for a cup of tea.
This morning turned out to be a thrilling exception. We decided we’d walk in Marylenone for a change, neither of us being in the mood to commune with nature in a park. We left a dismal, deserted Soho and, behold, as we approached Marylebone High St. ,we were transported to a different world. People scurried along the streets, Crowds queued outside Waitrose – apparently open long before Sunday’s legal 12pm. More crowds queued outside the Ginger Pig butcher, whose huge sausage rolls my husband has been known to buy when supposedly out shopping for groceries, and sit munching in the nearby little park, pubs were open, serving beer to drink on the pavement.We gazed around us as though woken from a dream It was then we came upon the largest queue of all. It snaked round the block and down the road and ended in a Farmer’s Market that used to take place every Sunday in a large car park now too valuable for cars or markets and currently the foundation for a vast block of luxury flats.
But the market had refused to be beaten and had stubbornly migrated into the surrounding area. Stalls thronged side streets, barriers had been erected, marshalls controlled the crowds , letting in only safe numbers for social distancing and families were actually enjoying a day out.
After a brief altercation – or should I say discussion? – “The Writer” gives in to my curiosity and agrees to join the queue. (Normally, he would forgo that which he wants most in the world if the penalty for obtaining it is even five minutes spent queueing. Today, though, even he is forced to admit there is nothing urgent on which he needs to spend his time). And so we join the queue, not sure where it’s heading or how long it will take to get there, not really wanting to shop but wanting to be part of it all, part of the fun. And this once-ordinary, everyday experience has become, because of its scarcity in Lockdown, just that – fun.
We stroll among the stalls, buy some Bramley apples to satisfy our current baked apple craze, gaze at honey-coloured croissants, olive-studded loaves and palely -glimmering cheeses. Despite only recently having finished breakfast, we know we were not going to resist an unexpected food treat. I station myself at a stall laden with slices of cold pizza. Surely this would be perfect?.
“The Writer” joins me but at once his customary market caution kicks in, born of many disappointments, over many years, in markets up and down the Kingdom. Never buy something at the first stall, is his Mantra. You will rue it before you reach the last, as something better will always turn up and you’ll be too full to enjoy it.
And so, we peer into every stall, inching our way down the street, like detectives seeking a fugitive – until we reach the last one where all his prognostications are justified. We smell it before we see it, The Parson’s Nose, serving fragrant sausages, succulent hamburgers and glistening fried onions, all nestled in soft, white, pillowy rolls. We eat them leaning on some scaffolding with a pile of cladding for a table.
Replete, or should I say stuffed , we head home but only yards from the market, are hit by the thirst that only hot dogs and hamburgers can engender. We pause at the 20-50 coffee shop in Marylebone Lane, buy coffees and sit on a convenient bench nearby, to drink them.
We have walked down this lane a hundred times, sat through evenings and lunches in several of the restaurants that line its streets but as my husband looks down, he spots an extraordinary piece of history that we had managed never to notice, being always intent on the destination and ignoring the journey.
I knew of Tyburn only as London’s grim place of execution, established when Henry V111 was on the throne, to which convicts were brought on carts down what is now Oxford st. through crowds of jeering onlookers who would eagerly follow the cart to Tyburn and stay on to party while enjoying the execution.
Back home and back at my computer, John Roger’s website “Walking London’s Lost Rivers” reveals to me that, to my great surprise, the execution site was named after the Tyburn river, which flowed through the parts of London I love most and in which I have lived for most of my life, completely ignorant of its course.
“The name (of the execution site) is derived from a brook called Tyburn, which flowed down from Hampstead into the Thames, supplying in its way a large pond in the Green Park, and also the celebrated Rosamond’s Pond in St James’s Park. Oxford Street was, at an earlier period, known as Tyburn Road, and the now aristocratic locality of Park Lane, bore formerly the name of Tyburn Lane, whilst an iron tablet attached to the railings of Hyde Park,opposite the entrance of the Edgeware Road, informs the passer-by that here stood Tyburn turnpike-gate, so well known in old times as a landmark by travellers to and from London.” – The Book of Days Edited by R. Chambers pub. 1888
And there is an unexpected bonus of Lockdown – time “to stand and stare” and explore things we have previously rushed past, busy cramming still more into our already too- crammed lives.
Looking at this laden apple tree, you may think “The Writer” and I have been venturing into the countryside, walking through charming villages, visiting the Manor House before feeding the ducks on the pond and and sipping tea from china cups accompanied by WI lemon drizzle cake served on gingham table cloths in the local teashop.(Sorry, got carried away with that last bit). It may surprise you to learn that this sight is actually in the heart of Soho, only a few hundred yards from our front door.
This extraordinary Georgian house is owned by one, David Bieda, who bought it, derelict, in 1993 and lived in it for three years without a bath or indoor lavatory and with only coal fires for heating. The original wooden panelling and shutters were the only things still in reasonable condition
The house was originally owned and lived in by John Meard Junior, Master of the Worshipful Company of Carpenters, who worked with Sir Chrisopher Wren on the wood carvings in St. Paul’s.
Taking on its restoration wasn’t quite a leap in the dark for Bieda, as he had presided over a great deal of restoration work in and around Covent Garden as chairman of the Seven Dials Trust. But the house has 18 rooms and he surely didn’t reckon on the work taking nearly 20 years to complete, even with the grants from English Heritage and Westminster Council.
The house is unique in the area and has yielded some important pieces of architectural information. David and London archeologists were particularly excited to discover two cesspits in the house. This might not sound particularly thrilling, until you read this on his Website, “68 Dean St. A Short History“.
“ Early 18c town houses rarely had sewers and little is known about water and waste management. 68 Dean Street has now provided the first example of a complete waste + water management system of the period. The cesspit for ‘upstairs’ was discovered in the rear vault. A combined servants’ cesspit and soakaway was discovered in one of the front vaults (with a frog hibernating in it). Objects retrieved include a number of long ‘scent’ bottles probably used for washing, a make up set with make up still inside one pot, an early 19c ‘solid rouge’ and in the front an intact port or stout bottle c.1760.”
Nowadays, David lets out the house for film shoots and conducts small tours to help with its upkeep. He’s a familiar figure in Soho and we often encounter him keeping a beady eye on what’s going on. His preferred uniform in recent weeks has been a visor rather than a mask and he and my husband have an ongoing dispute as to whose social distancing is correct. A couple of weeks ago spotting us having breakfast outside a local hotel, he even nipped home for a tape measure to make sure he and “The Writer” were chatting at the correct distance.
The tree has yielded up to 80 apples in the past and, amazingly – and wonderfully – passers-by seem more inclined to smile at such an unexpected sight than to steal them. Last year, he held a Dean Street apple pie party. No chance of one this year, of course and, though he has offered us some apples, they look so beautiful on the tree, I can’t bear to accept.
When I was young, along with many other North London children, I used to look forward ,excitedly, to the conkers ripening on one particular Horse Chestnut tree in Regent’s Park. I was taken there by my Mother most days and kept close watch so I could be first to pounce as they fell. Windy days were best and the thrill of seeing the prickly green casing fall to the ground and opening it to find the chestnut glowing inside, like a jewel in a jewel box, is still with me over 60 years later.
Baking them in the oven, threading the string, marinading them in vinegar and actually fighting with them came an unsatisfactory second to the joy of discovery and ownership.
I visited that same tree in that same park a few days ago and there, to my surprise, long after the appointed time for them to have fallen and been gathered, was a trove of conkers scattered, neglected and mouldering, in the grass.
Where were the children fighting over the best and the biggest and the ones with a flat edge that would make stringing so much easier? Where were the mothers cautioning their younger siblings “Don’t you dare put that in your mouth!”
I knew there had been much fuss in the recent past over the safety of conker fights but had assumed the newspaper stories merely myths. But they were myths with power – to such an extent that, when the story took hold in the early 2000s that conker fights had been officially banned unless goggles were worn, the Health and Safety Executive felt called upon to issue an official denial.
Some schools did insist on goggles, then, but, according to a teacher from one of those same schools years later, it appears that neither warnings nor safety gear are required as children have simply lost interest in games that aren’t either organised or on the computer.
Some people have revived and organised conker fighting, even to the extent of Northampton running a World Championships, raising large amounts for charity. Inevitably it has had to be called off this year.
I guess scenes like this will never be repeated (Maybe if they were, some girls would be allowed in!).
As we leave the park, I can’t help collecting some of the unwanted conkers. They are by now hard and wrinkled. These burnished seeds that were once so prized are shrunken and dry.
As they sit on my desk in front of me, I feel sorry for them and try hard not to draw depressing human parallels.
And so it has finally happened – We have a vaccine. And, unless the government changes its mind, my husband and I will be high up in the third tranche of people eligible for it.
The news I had been waiting for for so long hit me oddly when it came on Monday 9th. My first response was elation, then came a flood of anxieties in its wake:
Has it been sufficiently tested?
Would the Astrozenica one be better?
Is 90% efficacy enough?
Will I not feel safe until everyone has had it?
Will the Anti-Vaxxers ruin things for the rest of us?
After the anxieties came a slight pang of what I can only call sorrow. We have enjoyed our Lockdown. As I’ve reiterated so many times in this blog, we are constantly aware that we are the lucky ones. We have enough living space – both inside and out, a comfortable lifestyle, few job/money worries and no children to be anxious about or grandchildren near enough to hug. Above all, we have enjoyed each other’s company. We have both been able to continue working without inconvenience, I have loved slopping about in tracksuit bottoms without make up, not worrying about whether my stomach will stick out in what I’ve chosen to wear for the social events we used to attend at least twice – and sometimes up to four times – a week. (Nigella Lawson has been reported as saying she will be going on the 5:2 diet after Covid – not a food diet but a socialising one – 5 days alone and only 2 in company. I don’t for a moment suppose she meant it but I find it a most attractive idea – except that maybe 2 is too many.)
We have been pretty severe in our Lockdown. For two months, the only exercise we took was walking up and down our terrace or the hallway of our apartment. Shopping was entirely on line, apart from a kind neighbour who’d help out in an emergency. and the wonderful manager of our block. For months we saw no friends and still have only done so at a rigid social distance, and only two people have been in the apartment since March. Neither of us has had a haircut, been in a vehicle or travelled anywhere for eight months. The parks have been a Godsend. We love them and inhabit them almost daily. . We have watched far too much TV and read far too few books but have enjoyed even that. We have exercised to a reasonable extent and even cooked together on occasion.
How will re-entry be? What am I looking forward to? Foremost is laughing and arguing with friends in the flesh, rather than in their Zoom cages, eating out with them in rowdy groups in restaurants all over London.
Then there’s travelling. Pre-covid, I had convinced myself I’d had enough of travelling. Security measures had made the airports too uncomfortable to bother negotiating., I insisted. (Mind you, we did make 11 foreign trips last year.) Weirdly, however, the first fantasy to enter my head when our impending freedom was announced, was of eating bacon rolls in Heathrow Airport at breakfast time, waiting to board a ‘plane. Any ‘plane to anywhere. The second was of a week in a luxurious hotel, not having to make a bed, cook, clean or bag an Ocado delivery. The rest is only friends, friends, friends.
Now we have to bide our time, patiently stick to the rules of masking, hand-washing and social distancing we have so painstakingly learned, remember what life was like before and decide which parts of it we want back and which to discard. It could be the chance to press a re-set button for those of us fortunate enough not to have lost our jobs, or a loved one, or seen our businesses go bust.
For myself, I think it will be quite a time before I feel confident enough to ditch the masks, or embrace a distant acquaintance. And it will be even longer before I will be prepared to wear a non-elasticated waistband.
Our Soho surroundings are already altered. Everywhere, communal workspaces have sprung up. They look inviting and efficiently equipped but will they become instantly redundant if everyone continues to work from home? Restaurants, cafes and shops we used to frequent have gone, construction work has continued unhindered and the landscape boasts vast new buildings filling what were empty spaces pre-Covid.
The vaccine and possible end to the dangers of Covid is a subject which will occupy all our thoughts over the coming months, I imagine, and to which I will return in this blog. In the meantime, I’d love to know how other people felt when the news was announced. Do tell me .
One of the joys of travelling – meeting the locals.
A reader of this blog asked me yesterday whether it was going to be photographs only during this Lockdown. It isn’t, I promise, but I have to share these from our apartment terrace of yesterday’s dawn. “The writer”,who was making our early-morning tea at the time, called me in to look and I wonder if this is the new dawn we’ve been waiting for since the U.S elections?
There’s nothing much to add to these pictures really. We chose to live in the centre of the city but not in the kind of maelstrom that swirled around us last night. Van loads of police cluttered the streets, helicopters dinned overhead and The Million Mask march kicked off the first day of Lockdown, protesting against it until the early hours.
“The writer” and I didn’t go out for a ‘last hurrah’ last night before we’re locked down again until December 2nd but it doesn’t look as though the streets of the streets of Soho missed us!
Helicopter noise is driving me INSANE. As the cacophony of building work dies away at lunchtime on Saturdays, the helicopter racket takes over. We don’t find out what’s going on in central London the way most people do, by Googling – we find out by being subjected to hour after hour of helicopters hovering almost directly overhead and THEN Googling, in desperation to discover whether/when whatever they are watching might be over.
Last night, it was the crowds just down the street from our apartment celebrating the beginning of a Tier 2 Lockdown by gathering in large crowds, hugging, kissing and enjoying a mask-less fiesta, having decided that, since from today they would not be able to mix two households, they would mix as many as possible while they still had the opportunity.
And today, the helicopters were back – this time patrolling the anti-lockdown march virtually on our doorstep:
OK, I admit it’s not exactly Apocalypse Now but, believe me, the noise is horrendous,even from this dot in the sky.
I love the city and I love Soho and, even as I read every day that people are flocking to buy houses in the country, I know I’d rather be where the buzz is – even if at times, it’s a buzz I can’t bear.
Locked down in London 