Tag: London

June 11

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  #someoneofsoho

We took another walk round Soho yesterday observing increasing signs of optimism. The sadly boarded up Dean St. Town House, one of our most favourite haunts, has become the site for an open air photographic Exhibition, #someoneofsoho, featuring portraits of local residents and workers by photographer Richard Piercy.

Kettners and Bistro 1 also provide a backdrop for his dramatic and insightful work.

Richard’s pharmacy, Zest, used to be one of the delights of living in Soho, as did Richard himself. Who needed a doctor when you had him as your pharmacist?

Today, his premises wouldn’t be much use for dispensing the Covid-19 vaccine we pray is on the way:

Richard moved out, put pharmacy behind him and turned what used to be his passionate hobby into a photographic career.

He says of this exhibition,

“It’s people who make places,”

A neighbourhood’s landscape may change, but it’s humanity that defines its character.

A deserted Soho due to the pandemic lockdown has only served to heighten this. I want to re-install some humanity and positivity back to an area I have been heavily involved in for 30 years. The people featured here are just a few of the many who contribute to the character and soul of this unique pocket of London.”

Richard Piercy

June 5

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This, sadly, is the latest picture of our bird feeder, reposing in the rubbish on top of a mass of plastic fruit containers. Ironic that we were all just getting used to the idea of avoiding plastic at all costs and now, in the face of Covid, such ecological niceties have been completely disregarded.

These are the bags in which our big Waitrose order was delivered on Monday. In case you’re wondering why they are still sitting in a heap on the floor, they’re waiting for the 24-hour/48-hour/9-day period ( Take your pick of all the available estimates) that it will take for them to be Covid -free and safe to put away.

I had just got used to the Greenfinches flitting round our terrace and was wondering how long it would be before I could tame them to take seed from my hand – when I saw it.

I wasn’t sure I had seen it at first. Maybe it was a floater in my eye or a blackbird heading for the feeder. But then I saw another – or the same one again – scurrying back the other way . A small black mouse – definitely not a rat – that shot across the terrace and vanished into our thicket of plants.

It’s always fascinating to wonder why we have the fears we do. Unless we can ascribe a fear to a particular incident – a dog bite or a wasp sting – the things in the natural world that disturb us seem so random. For example, I think mice are sweet, cuddly creatures but “The Writer” can’t bear them anywhere in his vicinity. I’m terrified of spiders and will stand trembling outside the room in which one has taken up residence, whereas he sweeps in, bristling with machismo, and disposes of it. (I don’t care to ask how). I’m not especially frightened of snakes and was happy to tramp through the Australian desert or bush banging the ground with a stick in front of me or singing at the top of my voice. (I found the latter an excellent deterrent). We were told by rangers that the best way to deal with a poisonous snake indoors is to throw a towel over it and call the appropriate authority to dispose of it humanely. I do admit to being relieved at never having had to test that advice.

In Italy some years ago, Trisha, having been dozing barefoot under a tree, slipped her foot back inside her shoe, only to be bitten by what was later identified as a viper which ,we were told, live in trees and obviously drop down occasionally into available footwear. What followed was like a bad farce except to Trish, whose foot was blackening by the minute. All of us being of an age to have read Swallows and Amazons, Robinson Crusoe and Swiss Family Robinson, we decided a tourniquet was vital and lashed it round Trish’s knee as tightly as we could manage. Tod bashed the snake to death and remembered you were supposed to take it with you to the hospital. Someone else found a bottle of snake venom antidote buried on a shelf in the house, which, luckily, we didn’t use ,as we discovered later it was for horses and would probably have done a lot more harm than good. There followed a dash to Pronto Socorso at the tiny local hospital where the patients had to bring their own soap and lavatory paper. They dealt with it efficiently, warning us that tourniquets were so last decade and should never be considered and Trish – mysteriously- that she must never again eat water melon.

(As I said, this was many years ago and checking now, I can find no evidence for Italian vipers living or giving birth in trees and I may have got all sorts of other details wrong. If you read this, Trish and Tod, do let me know how you remember it).

Anyway, back to the bird feeder in the dustbin. Having seen the mouse and talked to our efficient House Manager, we were warned that bird-seed is definitely an inducement to mice and offered the choice of mouse traps or a sinister black box euphemistically called a “Mouse Bait Station” to help get rid of them. (In an apartment block it’s considered unneighbourly to let them just roam about).The idea of the bait station is that the mouse pops into the hole in the box, attracted by the smell of its favourite food, infused into a block of poison. The box has to be opened with a key so it’s safe from children and other animals.

I must say the idea of either device is upsetting. At present, I favour the crossed fingers solution, hoping that perhaps they’ll just go away now there is no bird feeder to attract them. But if “The Writer” sees the mouse again, I’m afraid it’s black box time.

June 3

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Yesterday morning I received news that brought a definite sense of Soho waking up.

A proposal headed “Save Soho” aims to designate July, August and September a “festival”, close all the streets around us and pedestrianise them so revellers can eat, drink and make merry in celebration of the restaurants re-opening.

It sounds like a great idea: Since Soho is mainly filled with restaurants nowadays – food having apparently taken over from sex – and many kinds of workplaces whose staff can work from home, it has become a complete ghost town during the pandemic. Friends in Fulham and Hampstead are beginning to meet in local cafes, to sip coffee at a safe distance from one another but there is still nothing open round here except liquor shops and The Bagel Bakery.

I start out as an enthusiast for the plan then “the writer”mentions that, if there is a spike and we remain locked down, there will be no food deliveries because of the road closures and we’ll starve. This is not a good start. Then we remember the time when Old Compton St. was pedestrianised and became an open air pub, with drunks lurching round the streets throwing up and no-one to call “Time”. And then we realise that without road access, we won’t be able to get to our garage.

Please let us try to avoid being the old, grumpy Scrooges who naysay everything. The local restaurants are where we have our best times and we do want them to thrive. There will be a compromise.

Thinking about the proposal, I suddenly want to see for myself what is going on in the streets around us.

As I walk down an empty Carnaby St. into an even emptier Regent St. the answer is -very little.

Peering through windows, I see staff in a few shops heaving boxes of stock about, readying themselves for possible opening on June 15. Otherwise, I encounter only a few aimless window-shoppers and little else. I must say, though, it is a relief to be away from the park joggers. No-one runs up and breathes in my face here.

I hadn’t realised it would be so odd to be walking in the city without being able to stop for a coffee and maybe even a pastry and I wonder why at least the prospect of doing so is important to both of us. Partly, it’s an opportunity for the impromptu. “Let’s just stop here”. So much has to be booked way ahead in London, it’s a relief to just “drop in”. It’s also the best way to enjoy the cabaret of passers-by in comfort – and of course there is the coffee – and the cake and the fact that the coffee bar was once the expression of Soho bohemianism. In the 60s, when I lived far away in North London, the 2i’s coffee bar at 59, Old Compton St. was one of my favourite Soho haunts. Skiffle was the music of choice on the tiny stage in its equally tiny basement until Tommy Steele and Cliff Richard sang there and the music scene changed.

The only thing I can’t remember about the place is what the coffee was like, mainly because I don’t like coffee and in those days it wasn’t cool to drink tea so I was the uncool kid who had to carry a teabag around to restaurants and persuade sniffy waiters to dump it in a cup, there being no pot on the premises – at least not the tea -brewing kind.

When we came to live in Soho, Bar Italia at 22 Frith St, where John Logie Baird first demonstrated how we could all become couch potatoes, was still, and remains, the area’s iconic coffee bar. It’s been there since 1949 and is still a family business

Sadly, such coffee bars – in fact most coffee bars- disappeared decades ago, only to return sanitised, respectablised, sleeked and indistinguishable in the form of Starbucks, Costa Coffee and the rest. I guess double expressos or cappuccinos didn’t cover rising rents whereas a venti salted caramel mocha frappuccino with 5 pumps of frappuccino roast, four pumps of caramel sauce, four pumps of caramel syrup with double blended extra whipped cream sounds a lot more likely to cope with those business rates.

In fact Starbucks in Carnaby St.was the only other place open on my walk, serving takeaway coffees largely drunk on the steps of The London Palladium nearby. And this, below, was the only other, sad remnant of the vibrant, buzzy social life we love so much. Good for them for keeping going.

Perhaps we shouldn’t worry about starving and rejoice in the prospect of the re-awakening of Soho.

May 31

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For the first time since this whole appalling Covid saga kicked off, I’m worried. I mean the kind of worry that buzzes constantly in the head like background music behind the ordinary tasks of the day. New loosening of Lockdown is being announced every day and I realise ,with a shock, that I’m finding the prospect of Unlockdown more difficult to handle than its opposite.

Firstly, because I have enjoyed – am enjoying – Lockdown . We are comfortable. We have access to fresh air, we have plenty to do, plenty to eat, enough to live on and no children to home school. I am well aware it’s a far cry from this for many people who are suffering badly, desperate to resume earning and cooped up in unbearable conditions , sometimes with a partner of whom they are terrified.

Unlike “The writer, I’m not a party animal. I understood what parties were for when I was single – they were for becoming not single. But, nowadays, the prospect of standing uncomfortably sipping warm white wine and having every conversation curtailed by “circulating” just when it’s getting interesting, isn’t my idea of fun. I miss dinner, breakfast or tea at a round table, with friends, laughing and arguing and bitching about or admiring others in a restaurant. But I find, reprehensibly, I’m not missing theatre, opera or galleries – just substituting with far too much TV.

Yesterday, I knew where I was. Stay in, except if I fancied a walk, sanitise every piece of cardboard or plastic, bag a food delivery slot, discuss the day’s meals, take some exercise, listen for hours to news about Dominic Cummings, shout at the TV about Dominic Cummings, and look forward to our weekly meeting with friends on Zoom. I didn’t worry, just got on with tasks.

Today, the world has suddenly become a more equivocal place. Are we morally obliged to start shopping for ourselves again? Will we be expected to invite friends round soon? How many friends? Which friends? Suppose the friends we do want to see don’t choose us as their preferred group? Will there be a spike? Will we ever board a ‘plane again? When will we feel confident enough to get on a bus or take a taxi?

A plethora of new rules was gleefully announced on Friday:

Groups of six may meet but not hug or hold babies.

Up to 6 people from 6 different households can meet in gardens and private outdoor spaces. You can see 5 people from another household on one day and 5 on another but not 3 groups of 5 friends at different times on the same day.

Food and drink can be served but not handed round.

If you use the lavatory in the house, the door should be opened and closed with a paper towel and everything should be “wiped down”.

Four-ball golf matches and tennis doubles can now be played as long as your doubles partner lives with you.

If it rains, you should stay out in the garden, use an umbrella or go home.

Try sloganising that lot Dominic Cummings! Hard to fit it on the front of the lectern, too. And try remembering it the rest of us.

To my surprise, I discover I have enjoyed living life on solid ground with fewer choices. Is this what having a religion feels like – clear rules and rituals, a comforting framework? What in the therapy business they call containment – literal containment in this case, as we are locked away indoors. Or have I just become institutionalised?

Like some of the scientists who spoke out yesterday, I feel we are being encouraged out of Lockdown too fast. Life suddenly feels more precarious.But when would be the right time?

“The writer” and I have made up our minds what we’re going to do – stay put, change nothing, wait to see if there is a spike in the next two or three weeks and, if not, think again.

May 7

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I forgot to mention that many years ago, during another mouse outbreak (Mousebreak?) we in the block voted that the most natural way ton deal with it would be to buy a house cat. A rescue cat was duly chosen and took up residence. The idea was that he would live in the common parts – the stairwell, to be exact – and that he would begin his new life as a rodent operative.

For some reason that now escapes me, someone named him Cashew and his new quarters were equipped for comfort and hygiene. We all enjoyed bumping into Cashew on his and our travels round the building and we all took him into our apartments from time to time so he could leave his scent behind to deter other visitors.

We grew to love our resident. His quarters on the third floor were extended downstairs to include a playground. His feeding rota grew ever more complex and we became mystified by the number of times he would be missing during the day when the appointed feeder turned up.

The mystery remained unsolved until the manager of a nearby hotel phoned to say that a black and white cat seemed to have discovered that their honeymoon suite was not always occupied and was to be found most afternoons curled up on the velvet counterpane of the super-King size bed.

It turned out that Cashew, having been invited into one of the apartments closest to the hotel, would climb out of their window, make his way into the hotel and scout around for the most comfortable accommodation, returning home for dinner or when he felt like a change of scene.

Cashew lived happily like this with all of us for several years – until one of our residents fell in love – with Cashew.

The cat’s disappearances grew longer and longer. Now he would be away for the whole weekend, then for a week at a time, then for a month. No, the hotel manager said, he wasn’t honeymooning this time, hadn’t been for ages.

Cashew had been catnapped by the handsomest man in the block, taken to live in his glitteringly white, minimalist apartment and fed on the tastiest of morsels.

None of us said anything as he retired from work and lay around admiring his paws. How could we insist he went back to the stairwell?

Remembering that Cashew had originally moved in to mouse-hunt, I texted his “owner” this week and asked if he could please walk Cashew around the building for a while to see whether he would spot any mice. “Oh no, sorry”, came the reply, “People would pet him and he might be a vector for the virus.” And, besides, I think he’s a bit past it now. He’s become very lazy”.

Instead of the cat, he sent me a ‘photo. I see what he means. Does this look like a hunter to you?

May 25

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I have news :

My husband has formed a deep relationship.

Those of you who read my previous post about our decision to attack the marauding pigeons on our terrace with water pistols, may remember that we hadn’t actually scored one hit, despite lying murderously in wait for hours, mainly because the pigeons were, suddenly, nowhere to be seen. We decided they’d been put off by he noise of the re-started building work so this weekend, a bank holiday, seemed the ideal time to show them who’s boss.

Having now spent several days watching them, we discover there are three birds who regularly spend most of their time sitting on the roof several metres from ours. At intervals throughout the day, two of them journey to our terrace and sit below the feeder waiting for seed to drop from the beaks of the finches. The third remains on the roof opposite, looking on.

Writers being given to such fancies, my husband names the couple Leslie and Laura, decides they have been in love for many years, Leslie having stolen Laura from Lionel, her first love, who remains on the roof pining from afar, wracked with the pain of knowing she can never be his.

Leslie and Laura

Lionel

Despite having wound them them in this intricate narrative, “The Writer” is still determined to prevent the birds from visiting and continues to keep watch. Friday, gives way to Saturday and the pigeons become more adventurous as the builders’ din dies down. On Sunday, we watch their lumbering take-off as they obviously feel the time has come for them to leave their roof and venture further afield.

Leslie and Laura seem oblivious to the fact that they are living on borrowed time as they touch down on the terrace and he takes aim with the Super Soaker………

…….and misses.

…….and misses

……and misses again

Leslie and Laura evade shooting

Some time later, Lionel descends from his perch, presumably having decided that Leslie and Laura have gone for a jaunt – A nostalgic trip to Trafalgar Square, perhaps? Cooing about how crowded it used to be in the days of their courtship?.

Reckoning it’s safe for him to drop in to our place for a meal without enduring the agony of encountering the lovers, he descends onto our terrace.

There he sits, in full view, totally focussed on cleaning up the dropped seed. It’s clear he wouldn’t notice an army approaching. “Quick, quick”, I shout to “The Writer”, “There’s one here you can get”. He hurtles down the stairs from his study, grabs the loaded pistol and takes aim….. His arm stiffens in mid air, no stream of water issues from his gun and I watch his eyes mist over as he slowly and carefully lays it down on the table.

“What’s up?”, I ask

“That’s Lionel”, he says, shaking his head disconsolately. “I can’t shoot him. He’s too sad.”

************************************

May 21

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Who could have guessed that my newly- discovered interest in wildlife would turn violent?

Inspired by tales of Amy and Peter’s blackbird who visits for mealworms and the sight of the two tiny green birds (greenfinches?) who chase each other around the skies above our terrace, I decided to send for a bird feeder and some feed. The feeder arrived and was duly sanitised, as was the bag of feed, a combination of seeds and nuts cutely called “peckish”. It had looked quite small in the picture but turned out to be about the size of a pillow and heavy as concrete.

My first dilemma was where to hang the feeder. I’m growing gooseberries and tomatoes on the terrace and we lost the tomatoes last year to blight. I don’t fancy losing them this year to a different predator. The feeder had to be distant from both, yet near enough for us to spot any visitors to it from our kitchen table.

I filled it, hung it and caused much amusement when the greenfinches arrived for the first time in the middle of a Zoom call with friends, who watched me become hysterical with delight. I’ve cracked it, I thought. All I have to do now is sit and wait for delightful and rare birds to turn up from all over the world.

(I had to pretend I didn’t have in mind my Australian friend’s visitors to his breakfast table last week.)

I HADN”T TAKEN PIGEONS INTO ACCOUNT!!!!!!!

They arrived in droves, shouldering the finches out of the way as they scavenged for seed the little birds had dropped from the feeder. I was reminded of what Trafalgar Square used to be like – hundreds of tourists delightedly buying bags of seed and stuffing it into scrofulous pigeons perched on their outstretched hands, shoulders and heads. Funny, we hardly noticed them go when the hawk patrol got rid of them once and for all – the pigeons, that is, not the tourists – though, of course, there’s no sign of those either, these days. But importing a hawk to our terrace wasn’t an option. We had to find another way.

It was ” the writer” who came up with the solution – water pistols.

Of course, we could have fun, get rid of the pigeons harmlessly and enjoy our greenfinches. Brilliant!

On line, searching for the perfect water pistol, I found myself in a parallel universe. with its own hyper-macho language:

“Stormblaster”, “Soakzooka”, “Floodtastic” “Hydrostorm big shot soaker”, “Barracuda”

I discovered that adults – male adults, mostly- actually buy water pistols – sorry, water guns – for themselves! I even read an article headed “Watery Warrier. Best guns for grown men”

In case you’re planning to join them- the favourite seems to be “The Mayhem” (See below.) Compensation or what!

The James Purdey or Holland and Holland of water guns appears to be a company called “Nerf” which, as yet, doesn’t seem to have progressed to the bespoke gun – making offered by the best English gunmakers. Perhaps Water Warriors aren’t prepared to wait the two years it can take to craft the perfect weapon for its owner. Nerf don’t even offer to alter their ready-made guns to fit the user like the real gunmakers do – a gap in the market perhaps?

Anyway, our “Stealth Soakers” arrived promptly.

We breakfast on the terrace, guns at the ready. Lunch is eaten inside, weapons placed casually on the sideboard near the open kitchen door. Supper is a nightmare of false sightings, each of us leaping up at different times to take aim. The only thing we succeed in hitting is our digestive systems, which, by the day’s end are shot to pieces. The pigeons which normally sit jeering at us from the railings or have to hoist their overfed bodies onto the back of the terrace chairs as a staging post en route to the railings, have vanished.

Could the noise from the re-started building work have driven them away? Could they have sensed our malign intent? Might they return on Sunday when it’s quiet?

Watch this space…………..

May 20

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The 17 cranes we see from our terrace have been still for seven weeks.

This week, they have begun to dip and swing once again.

Part mechanism, part animal, sometimes bending as though to drink from a pond, sometimes craning(!) as if to pick a leaf from a high branch, sometimes turning their backs in a huff, sometimes leaning into one another, as though deep in conversation and today, ignoring any any attempt at social distancing, kissing perhaps?

It has only occurred to me while writing this post that one of the reasons I have always been fascinated by cranes and have photographed them quite obsessively over the years, is that, as a child, my favourite toy was a yellow crane, which, somewhat oddly, I even took to bed with me. Having looked it up in a fit of nostalgia, I now present it to you:

Wish I’d kept it. But everyone says that about their Dinky toys.

I realise this all sounds rather romantic but Oh, the hideous noise that accompanies the building work. I didn’t realise the extent to which we’ve become used to quiet during lockdown and, though my husband, uncharacteristically, urges me to see the start up of building work as a vote for the future, to me it just heralds jangled nerves and a longing for Sundays.

May 18

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Yesterday, when “The writer” remarked how extraordinary it is that he hasn’t opened his wardrobe for seven weeks, I realised I haven’t either.

I LOVE clothes. In fact, I love fashion. Not in the academic since of wanting to know what political or historical event caused hemlines to go up or down or why skirts grew too wide to go through doors – more as art and psychology – the line, the way the fabric falls, how a colour or a style can affect the wearer’s mood.

When it comes to my own clothes, they are my greatest extravagance. I own a ball gown, which I will never wear because I’ve never been and am unlikely ever to go – to a ball. Parties, yes, but a ball??? But I bought it, knowing that. It was just so exquisite.

When I was at university, I spent half of a year’s grant on a jacket and in the 60s, when Carnaby Street was London’s swinging centre, I would save up to have my trousers made there by John Stephen, the famous men’s tailor of the time and “The King of Carnaby Street”. I love to wear severe men’s tailoring more than anything and when my Mother discovered my penchant for buying men’s trousers, she became worried enough to she broach the subject of my possible lesbianism.

John Stephen with one of his Rolls Royce collection

Later, Biba became my garden of delights, scented and penumbral, filled withwaving palms, gently wafting feathers in vases and purple dresses on high mahogany coat stands. It smelled deep and pungent and so did the clothes for months afterwards, scenting my wardrobe with sandalwood. And they were cut as no garment I have owned before or since. If only I’d kept them.

So, given all this, how come I’m SO enjoying NOT wearing clothes? Of course, I’m wearing clothes but I’m not thinking about wearing clothes. Neither I nor my husband has ironed anything for the duration of Lockdown. Our sheets are as unrumpled as pulling them hard between us after washing can achieve and, as for the rest, we have been wearing track suits, yoga pants, T-shirts, and rugby shirts – all of which come out of the washing machine, are hung up to dry, then worn again.

It was quite a while into Lockdown before I realised how much of my life I have spent planning what I will wear to go out. Trousers or a dress? Pretty or cool? Sexy or comfortable? (No, I’ve never possessed a garment that was both). Would I be over- dressed, under dressed? Do I care? (No).Why can I no longer stand in high heels? Do I care? (Yes). Does my stomach stick out in this? Do I look like mutton dressed as lamb in that? To bright? Too dark? Too short? Too long?

For weeks I haven’t had pains in my ears from my earrings, I haven’t had pains in my feet from my shoes, I haven’t felt constricted by my waistband after eating, I haven’t felt a weight round my neck from whichever trinket I’m wearing round my neck, I haven’t had to plan exactly when to wash my hair so it will be at its best for a particular event, I haven’t been able to hide the grey in it, I haven’t carried a handbag or a document case or a shopping bag – and I feel LIBERATED!!!!

How are you doing?

May 15

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“The writer” does some radio work from time to time. The first piece since Lockdown began, was finished yesterday. Like most radio presenters during this weird time, he was asked to work from home. In this case to record on his mobile and transfer the file to the radio station from his desktop. Easy, he thought, as he sat down in his favourite chair, held the phone in front of him and spoke. Sending it off was harder as the file containing the recording was, at first, nowhere to be found on his desktop. Eventually, we tracked it down, despatched it and relaxed. Job done.

A few hours later, the producer emailed to say the recording sounded as though “The writer”had been sitting in a swimming pool, so great was the echo and hardness of timbre. She suggested re-recording somewhere with lots of soft furnishings. “The writer” explained that we live in an entirely steel and glass building with wooden floors throughout. Soft furnishings are scarce, to say the least. We had several more goes – sitting on the sofa with cushions piled around, lying on a rug, speaking into the clothes in an open wardrobe – all no good.

Then, we remembered that the bedroom, although it has a hard wood floor, also has velvet curtains. All we had to do was drag in a chair and place the phone on a pile of books. Sound straightforward? I brought a pile of books and arranged them in a tower of appropriate height on which to balance the ‘phone so it was close to “the writer’s” lips but not too close for fear of sibilence, only to discover him sneaking back to the bookcase and returning them to the shelves, before removing several different books and reconstituting the tower.

When I enquired what was wrong with my choice, he explained that he felt books by authors he didn’t like – or liked too much – would be a distraction were he to catch sight of them while recording. He re-iterated his usual, only half-joking, explanation for insane behaviour around writing – that writers of fiction are like Gods, creating and re-creating the world. What’s more, they are Monotheistic Gods who can’t bear any Johnny-come-lately deity muscling in on their territory. The consequence of this theory is that the work of few writers is tolerable to other writers and, frankly, I’m surprised he could find enough acceptable books to create a pile.

I think you’ll agree that the eventual solution to producing perfect sound quality had nothing especially God-like about it.