London Lives

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.

Well, we were Extremely Well Behaved yesterday morning. After a Saturday evening of Prosecco, wine and excellent home-cooked (by me!) food, we ambled to the British Museum for a few hours of culture.

There was no particular plan as we walked in the morning sunshine. A gorgeous day as we slipped along Sicilian Avenue and towards the Museum. We spent some time in the Mexico rooms and then quite a while in the in the China, India and SE Asia galleries. I’m certain I’ve not been to these before. Fabulous Buddhas, beautiful snuff boxes, wonderful Shivas and mandalas. We mooched around the shop and made plans to come and see the Aztec exhibition.

To Lamb’s Conduit Street, one of my favourite streets in London. This excellent short film at Monocle gives a very nice flavour of the street. The street cuts across Great Ormond Street, with its famous children’s hospital. The other end of GOS is short and shady with a calm and silent row of Georgian houses. In Lamb’s Conduit Street, we spent a nice afternoon in one of our favourite Italians in town. Sea bass and lovely vegetables for me, lobster and spaghetti for my pal.

On our way back to the Tube, we stopped at a mosaic shop in a side road, because they have eccentric designs in the windows. This time, there was a mosaic of Vladimir Putin in the window. Very strange.

In a street near my home, someone has pinned a notice to the rose bush in their front garden: “DON’T take these roses. They are cursed! You will have ten years bad sex if you do.” Heh. People are hilarious. Someone was coming out of the house as I was reading the notice, which was a tad unfortunate. She looked slightly awkward, which made me think she hadn’t written the notice. Funny, though.

Not so much “Mogs on pavements” as “Mogs on walls” today.

There are loads of cats in this neighbourhood, at least seven that I see on a regular basis. On the way to work this morning, a lovely tabby was cleaning her paws as she perched on the wall outside her home. When I called out a greeting (because I’m like that), she came rushing along the wall to be stroked under the chin. Then she walked along the wall, following me as I headed to the zebra crossing. I was dreading that she’d follow me into the road, but she hung back near the hedge, continuing her cleaning routine.

On the way home the lovely multi-coloured cat in a nearby road was sitting on the gas meter box outside his home, in similar mood for being stroked. He’s one of the regulars.

I slipped out mid-afternoon to go to Muswell Hill. It was still windy, but bright and silent. The streets here are lovely on Saturday afternoons. I remember them when I first came to look at my flat before I moved in. There is a peaceful and purposeful silence to the area at this time of the week.

A brazen moggy was sprawled across the pavement as I approached. I bent down to stroke him and the daft feline promptly ran under a parked car and mewed pityingly at me. Daft thing. (((London cats)))

Off to the supermarket to pick up things for dinner later (I’m grappling with pastry again for the first time in years…) This took me past the utterly splendid St Mellitus Church, a big beautiful and civic-looking building that rather emerges  from nowhere on Tollington Park. Further down this road is another smaller-scale lovely church and then we get to the Big Houses. These are big slightly shambolic-looking terraces, all red brick , numerous storeys and roomy. Lovely. In the autumn, all the leaves gather in nooks around the gardens and the chequerboard paths, then swoop back out at you, making you feel as though you’re in a street near the end of the world.

For the second time is as many days I have seen (different) women with a butterfly wing tattooed on each breast. Presumably the wings come together depending on how she wears her cleavage. It looks foul.

I’ve remembered that yesterday Mark Gatiss from the League of Gentlemen sat behind me on the No 19 bus, getting on at Charing Cross. I loved those splendid dark series and his work on Crooked House, shown on the BBC last Christmas. The recent Psychoville was hilarious and dark and captured much that the third series of LoG didn’t. I would still love them to make a prequel to the first two series, though.

And ON EDIT (20.59): the pastry dishes turned out a treat. I am v chuffed.