Waste

Leg one of the statue walk is done. I should be a little disappointed that I left home at 8.45am and returned at 4pm with just sixteen under my belt. But I did some walking I can tell you. My right knee is done for. When I say sixteen I actually mean fourteen. Two have gone.

You may be wondering why you suddenly have a picture of shrubbery but these are redundant Christmas trees. It's a council drop-off point at the top end of Brunswick Square. Just three days after Christmas these struck me as incredibly wasteful.

Statues

Early in November I was reading E.V. Lucas's Wanderer in London (1906) and eagerly scribbling down quotes, ideas and possible 'projects'.

I have I think named all of London's statues that ever receive any attention. The others are chiefly statesmen, soldiers and kings, and may be said hardly to exist...

This, though far from complete, may be called a good list; and I doubt if there are many Londoners who could have supplied from memory half of it.

I myself wondered if those mentioned - all 52 listed between the first quotation and the second - still exist one hundred years on and are still easily accessible to the public. It's quite feasible that some fell foul of the Second World War, some have been left to rot and some may be shut off from public view - I'm guessing that may be the case for "Richard Coeur-de-Lion, splendidly warlike, on his horse, by the House of Lords."

Tomorrow sees the start of my latest London walking adventure. I have rearranged the statues into a vaguely logical walking order starting at the Royal Exchange and finishing in Chelsea by way of Islington Green and Camden. Sir Hugh Myddleton and Cobden have annoyed me somewhat by taking me too far north and probably ending my hopes of achieving this in a day; a day and a half if not two now looks more likely.

I fell into special needs teaching. I'm not really sure how. I've always thought you have to be creative with kids and as much as we want them simply to do what we want them to when we say it just ain't gonna happen all the time.

A boy with significant problems was moved into my tutor group (against my better judgement).

I want him to sit at the table like everyone else. He takes a chair to the back wall and does his best to curl up underneath it. I explain to everyone else what to do and go to join him with my own chair.

“Miss, what are you doing?”

“I'm not sure. The floor's cold, don't you think?”

“But, what are you doing?”

“Seeing the world from your angle?”

“For God's sake. There's something wrong with you.” He says with disgust. He takes his chair to the table and sits down.

Mission accomplished.

Broadway

Barking probably isn't what springs to mind when one mentions Broadway but it is in fact the name of the local theatre. (Although I have heard some refer to it as the Dudley Moore).

Having bought tickets to watch Jo Brand quite some time ago I am on their mailing list. I like the idea of supporting the local arts. And then I open the latest brochure.

I mean, what do I go for? An Audience with Jimmy Greaves in February or Chas and Dave in March?

London Bridges

A modern day Margery Allingham. Allegedly. Enjoyable but too contrived to follow in the footsteps of the mistress of London crime fiction.

Break Time

Photo from BBC website

After having spent two hours invigilating trial SATs exams with behaviourally-challenged pupils on my own (and gettting the zip of my right boot caught on the left knee of my pink fishnets) I had the pleasure of break duty. Stopping pupils from entering the building.

Sky goes black in a blink. The heavens open. Hailstones plummet. The wind roars and the children stampede screaming into the building. I do not stop them. Phenomenal.

And we are in east London. We can only imagine what it was like in the north west. Scary.

Snow

Headscarves. Suicide. Love. Politics. Religion. And snow. Lots of snow.

Things to do on a Sunday

Gobble up a salt beef and mustard beigel from Beigel Bake on Brick Lane.

Three

Mary was betrothed to a carpenter named Joseph.

Pedestrian Delight

The newspapers are showing photos of the crowds thronging Oxford and Regent's Streets yesterday which were closed to traffic. Those of us who can get up in the morning took advantage of no traffic and no crowds either to get the Christmas shopping done.


C: Who are we buying for? Family and Pat?
E: Yes.
C: Don't you think he'd like a raunchy calender?
E: Yes, but he's certainly not getting one from me.
C: Hang on... Don't I get a say in this?
E: No.

Countdown to Christmas

The countdown has officially begun. It should of course have started yesterday but I'd forgotten about the advent calendar sat on the kitchen table under a pile of papers. Fairtrade Divine chocolate from Oxfam.

1. It all started in the Holy Land about 2000 years ago.
2. A young woman named Mary lived Nazareth.

Two kinds of men

'There are two kinds of men,' said Ka didactically. 'The first kind does not fall in love until he's seen how the girl eats a sandwich, how she combs her hair, what sort of nonsense she cares about, why she's angry with her father, and what stories people tell about her. The second type of man - and I am in this category - can fall in love with a woman only if he knows next to nothing about her.'

Snow. Orhan Pamuk.

A moment in time

I stumbled my way down the stairs in the dark (I've complained to the council innumerable times) and out the door. A bird landed within a foot of me. The proximity surprised me. She looked at me. I looked at her. I was eyeball to eyeball with a sparrowhawk.

Time almost stopped as she sat on the kerb and I stood rooted to the spot. She was so close and so composed. I thought I was going to burst with amazement. I moved thinking she would fly away. She didn't. I left looking over my shoulder wondering if I was hallucinating. It made my day.

Something else to polish

The bowling club dinner dance was unlike any other event I have attended. I was certainly in a minority in that I was under the age of forty. (I think I was on my own in that respect). At a guess there were four of us under fifty.

I found the 'ceremony' fainting bewildering and embarrassing. We had to be upstanding for the President and his guests while they made their way to the top table accompanied by a slow hand clap. Grace took me totally by surprise. I was upstanding for the toast to the Queen but kept my mouth firmly shut and failed to take a swig of my wine. I toasted 'the club' and was again confused by the toast to 'the ladies and their guests.' I was clearly there with C. not the other way around. The most daring thing I did all night was point out we weren't married so my place name was wrong. Emma Jones! Never!

The food was stuck in the seventies (more details here) and the entertainment was keen on the fifties. I have to say they could sing and were just about right given the mix of people in the (very draughty) hall. I surprised quite a few as I joined in with what was termed the London medley - Henry the Eighth I am, Knees up Muvver Brown and the like. Memories of family shindigs on New Year's Eve in Bethnal Green and Hackney came flooding back.

On the way there C. pointed out we hadn't brought a bag for the three trophies. It got worse when we realised he was actually receiving six - three individuals and three perpetuals he would return next year. Someone found us a flat fruit box which we covered with the duvet we won in the raffle so no-one mugged us on the two mile walk home.

Back in the real world

“Citizens of this country will be absolutely appalled” crowed Paula Lawton, resident of Elgin Crescent 'a sweep of millionaires' houses in Kensington', in response to a High Court decision which agreed that a father and his five-year old son had played football together in the road's private gardens. Lawton argued this turned the garden into a recreation ground. West London magistrates had previously thrown out the private prosecution as two people couldn't play football – you need a team. The High Court judges would not, however, allow a retrial as this would be “inappropriate.” (Guardian).

Well, I am “absolutely appalled” - by this woman's ridiculous behaviour. I'm not convinced I know quite how to define a real world but she's certainly not living in one. Perhaps she'd like to stop by here one day. We regularly have groups of 10 to 20 teenagers playing football outside our home. Funnily enough I see this as an entirely normal part of growing up. It means that they aren't hanging around bored causing trouble elsewhere.

Reason for the rain...

...cross country season starts Sunday.

Branching Out

C. believes, probably quite rightly, that I'm obsessed with food. If you want to know what we had for dinner click here.

It'll be alright in 2012

Miserable Monday. Monday Mayhem. Black Monday. Meltdown Monday. A selection of this evening's headlines.

Yes, for those of you who don't live in the capital the public transport system was knackered this morning. But don't worry it'll be first class for the Olympics. Sod those of us who use it every day.

Direct Action

After a wine-fueled strop of magnificent proportions about the ridiculousness of programmes such as I'm a Celebrity... C. agreed to turn over. Nothing appealed to me. I became more and more sullen. C. chose to ignore me and watch Eight out of Ten Cats which I also watched but in stony-faced silence (I think Johnny Vegas made me smile slightly once). Amongst the top five stories of the week were Bond and...I'm a Celebrity.

The story that has stayed in my mind was the call to direct action by the environment minister, Ben Bradshaw:

While saying he would like to see targets for waste reduction spelled out in and included in annual reports, Mr Bradshaw also urged shoppers to force the grocers to move faster by taking direct action. After paying for their goods, shoppers should remove "excessive and unnecessary" wrappers and leave them behind. (Guardian. Tuesday, 14 November).

This probably struck a chord as my mum is obsessed by cucumbers in plastic jackets. She hates them. If she sees a cucumber in its natural state she buys it (whether or not she needs it). I've lost count of the times I've been sent home with half a cue.

Eager to find out what the supermarkets thought of Bradshaw's plan three Guardian journalists were sent to find out. In summary:

Sainsbury's: threatens to call the manager.
Waitrose: comments that Bradshaw doesn't have to work behind a till.
M&S: helps remove the packaging and offers to put it in the bin.
Tesco: seems prepared and takes the packaging.
Morrisons: puts all the packaging into a plastic bag frantically.
Asda: reacts as if it is a perfectly normal thing to do.

My response? To remind myself to avoid supermarkets altogether. Packaging is a small part of a much bigger problem. After checking the internet for Sunday Farmer's Markets in London I set off for Marylebone on the tube. (The journey there and back was sufficient for me to read and thoroughly enjoy Weedon's Diary of a Nobody).

Smaller than I perhaps expected the market (sited on a car park; wonderful) was not a disappointment. My bags came home loaded with a wonderful array of fresh, seasonal vegetables bought from the people who grew them. I asked the man on the potato stall what he recommended for mash. Did I want “continental mash...smooth and creamy” or “Irish/English mash...fluffy and floury”? Plumping for the latter I came away with a bag of Lady Balfour. “Named after the founder of the Soil Association.”

The apple and almond tart I bought from Pâtisserie Valérie on Marylebone High Street was exquisite and worth a return trip all on its own.

To find a farmers' market in London click here. For the rest of the country here.

Overheard

Bengal Lancer (as advertised by Billy Bragg). Conversation on the next table. A couple are eating and a friend has joined them while he waits for his take away.

"We go in the Barking Greek a lot...The place opposite the station. They have music in the corner. They're a quartet or a duo."

"Well, are there two or four of them?"

"Three."