London Lives

Okay, it is Deep and Crisp and Even in London today. This warranted a visit to Hampstead Heath to stand in splendid deep snow and take pictures.

Hampstead Heath in the snow

Spaniards Road, Hampstead Heath

Hampstead Heath

Hampstead Heath

Frosted trees, Hampstead Heath

Laden twigs, Hampstead Heath

Foraging Squirrel, Hampstead Heath

Icy wonderland, Hampstead Heath

Snowbound bridge, Hampstead Heath

Ice stream, Hampstead Heath

Snowbound Bridge II, Hampstead Heath

Hopeful squirrel, Hampstead Heath

Striking branch formations, Hampstead Heath

Striking branch formations II, Hampstead Heath

Lovely leaf patterns, Hampstead Heath

Robin, Hampstead Heath

Wonderful branches, Hampstead Heath

Looking upwards, Hampstead Heath

This log looks like some sort of dinosaur with a long tail

Close-up of twigs, Hampstead Heath

There is a blurry outline of a fox just above the centre of this picture

Snowbound avenue of trees, Hampstead Heath

Icy stream, Hampstead Heath

Lots of dogs of all shapes and sizes explore the snowy Heath

Houses towards the eastern Heath

Icy twigs above the frozen lake, Hampstead Heath

Ducks seek food in the icy lake, Hampstead Heath

Birds on the frozen lake, Hampstead Heath

Robin on snowy branches, Hampstead Heath

Frozen lake and surrounding trees, Hampstead Heath

When I’m on my way to work in the morning, I am frequently passed by a man running to the Tube station.

He is neatly dressed in a suit for work, with smart shoes and his jacket folded neatly over his arm as he runs. The first time I saw him, I assumed he was late for work. When I kept on seeing him, it occurred to me that he couldn’t just be late every day; he would simply change his routine rather than have to run to the Tube station each morning.

So, it must be part of a routine, for whatever reason. It struck me that he is wonderfully composed as he runs, never out of breath and evenly paced as he runs in his work clothes. This morning he climbed on to the same Tube carriage as me, still perfectly composed.

I love seeing my street wake up and get to work in the mornings. Parents trundle their children to the nearby schools (mothers check their phones and shout encouragement to kids wobbling along on bikes; a father here and there carries his briefcase and his child’s lunch box). People sail by on bicycles, helmets neatly affixed. The street sweeper appears, iPod on, checking his phone. Cats sprawl themselves on front walls. People walk their dogs. A jogger sidles by. On Tuesdays the refuse collectors and recycling vans make their way along the road. At the moment, men are laying new paving slabs. The normal activity is like a TV drama writer’s dream.

More poppies and fireworks about now. The clocks have gone back and it is dark by 5pm.

London’s latest micro-pet seems to be the Dachshund, and is often to be found in the company of a youngish man. We saw an example at Waterloo on Monday and I have seen smart male couples with two or three in tow. I suppose they must be a fairly hassle-free dog for a city-dweller to own (I assume they don’t need to be walked for hours each day…)

They are a different micro-pet owner from those who own Chihuahuas, who tend to be young giggly women of the Paris Hilton type. The few exceptions to this I have seen on the bus and Tube (where else would any self-respecting owner show off their Chihuahuas? Have dog – will travel). These have been young men who look like Joe Orton, carrying their small decorated charges with amusement but without fuss.

As we move into the Bank Holiday, it became clear today that vast swathes of London’s population seems to be (a) away from London, or (b) at the Carnival. The bus slipped steadily around near-empty streets as it moved from the Edgware Road and into Paddington. No chance to glimpse Bayswater today, as the bus was diverted before then, to tuck down other roads away from the Carnival.

It’s one of my favourite areas of London, the slightly faded glamour of Paddington seeping into the whitewashed houses of Bayswater. But even here, there is an element of transition and griminess in the streets of little hotels. From here, it’s possible to explore Ladbroke Grove, or continue on to W9 and Maida Vale.

But today it was to Fulham and then Chelsea, looking for nick-nacks and cookware. Once, when I was standing outside Peter Jones on Sloane Square, a man walked past me with four Great Danes. It was like a cacophony of legs; impossible to tell where one Dane ended and another began.