It feels very strange to type 2020. I hadn’t thought of that before. Am I supposed to make resolutions for the whole decade? I really should. So far my only resolution for the year is to eat at one restaurant on my list every week. In fact, that wouldn’t take too many weeks so definitely doable.
I’d like to be less lazy, waste less time, do more – more of all sorts of things. So far so bad, though. There’s still time, right? Ten years less seven days, anyway.
On the third, I had tickets to go see a children’s version of The Nutcracker at Sadler’s Wells’ Lillian Baylis theatre. I love these shorter version of classic ballets. They’re perfect for my short attention span. First I took the bus to Islington Green at Angel to have a bit of lunch.
Walking along Upper StreetI went to Kanada-Ya and had an OK tonkotsu ramenAfter lunch I walked along Camden Passage before getting my next busJapanese tea room – and the air smelled amazing from the Penhaligon shopIt’s a short bus ride from Angel to Sadler’s Wells
Juliet was going to bring her grandson but there was a last minute switch and instead we were taking her granddaughter, Dessi. Dessi was very excited and told me that she’d seen the ballet before, the CBeebies version. With Juliet on the aisle seat, me in the next, and Dessi closest to the centre, we sat and waited.
Even the short ballet version felt long at times. Dessi kept me entertained. After only a couple of minutes she announced I want to be a ballerina just like they are. I thought how lovely it was to be so inspired. When one of the dancers appeared onstage, she announced loudly – the lone voice above the iconic music – It’s the Sugar Plum Fairy, and after a few rapt minutes I love the Sugar Plum Fairy. She then loudly whispered to us, When I go back to your house, grandma, I’m going to dance all the way there. There were six ballerinas sharing roles on stage. Four were slender, two were sturdy. I noticed, just like last year, how lightly they landed with each leap and step. At the end of the show, all children are invited to come down to the stage to take photos with the dancers.
Dessi and I raced down to get there, only to find out that we had come down the wrong way. Up we went again and all the way to the back of the queue.
Anticipation while we waited – Dessi told me she wanted to dance on the stage
Everybody was moving slowly, parents were hogging the spotlight for their children – none of this surprising – and then suddenly with only half the children having moved down to the stage, we seemed to moving extra quickly.
Dessi had told me that she wanted to dance with them on stage so when she stood there, I reminded her and she held her arms above her head, all the dancers following her lead.
Finally, it was Dessi’s turn – I was too blind to notice the green light on her faceI reminded Dessi to pose and the dancers all copied herDessi glanced around to see that they were all posing with herA delighted girl leaves the stage
A week or two before Christmas and you’d never dream it was just around the corner. Not on my street.
The view down the street just a couple of weeks before ChristmasAt nearby St Thomas’ Square, not much sign of Christmas here either
I’m used to the Christmases of Toronto, where bling was everywhere and not always tastefully. Now in Toronto, the lights in the centre are definitely not up to London standards but when you get (surprisingly quickly) to the neighbourhoods, almost every house has lights inside and out.
When I lived and visited La Habra (California) one of my favourite things to do at Christmas time was to drive around looking at the magnificent outdoor lights and decorations, each neighbour trying to outstrip the next. I used to say that what Los Angeles lacked in snow, it made up for in lights!
In ‘the old days,’ it was a very rare Toronto Christmas that was not white, sometimes spectacularly so. The drifts would blanket the streets and obscure some of the doorways and windows, creating a surreal and muffled scene, but the lights would shine through – magical. We;d light a fire log and settle in for a warm and lovely day indoors.
My childhood Christmases – in east and south-east London – were simple affairs. The tree would go up – more magic – often while we slept. On Christmas eve we’d go to bed, trying desperately to fall asleep or Father Christmas would not come down our chimney at all. It was the same chimney that we’d burned our ‘This is what I want for Christmas’ letters – mum and dad assured us that the words would arrive at the North Pole in the smoke. A glass of something strong and a mince pie or biscuit was waiting for Father Christmas, and we’d always check in the morning to see if it was gone – it always was.
When we did awake, there’d be a pillow case or stocking at the foot of our bed and also a tangerine and some nuts in the toe of the stocking – I imagined to keep us content and not out of bed too early. I don’t remember any elaborate presents. Colouring books, a doll, toiletries as we got older… A good breakfast and then, as our dinner was roasting, Dad would take us out to buy something we chose, sometimes from the chemist. The air was usually crisp and the puddles frozen over. A favourite trick was to crack the ice with my shoe – how much fun were the simple things!
When Robin was little, I was very excited for his first Christmas. The first he was only a few months old but the second was highly anticipated. A bulging stocking at the foot of the bed each year and then the wait for him to wake up. Yes – the wait! I’d be awake at 5am like a child – and he’d be asleep. An hour later, asleep, three hours later, asleep…some time before noon, he’d wake up rubbing his eyes and wondering why John and I were hovering over the bed. I have tapes of his childish chatter as he opened presents. So cute!
It’s not likely that I’ll get into the West End to see the big lights this year. I had lots of plans and even marked on my calendar all the opportunities I had to check them out, but the cold rain and other bits and pieces put paid to that idea. Hopefully, next year.
But here I am in Hackney and, while there are no spectacular light displays, it’s got its own kind of special going on.
Just before Christmas, I went with my friend Holly-Gale to see my pottery instructor, Maria’s studio. She and others in the studio were having an open house sale. Maria is one of those people who, when you meet them, you know you’ll stay connected.
Maria in her studioSome of Maria’s pots inside her tiny studio spaceI bought a few things from the ‘seconds’ box. I love this fragmented piece, which I’m using a candle holder
One very rushed morning on the weekend before Christmas, I met Lisa for a quick visit to Mare Street and Broadway Markets.
Inside the market it was warm and bustlingThe Chandelier Room at Mare Street MarketRebel Rebel had some lovely Christmas flowers – they also created the door display
Netil Market was super quiet, with only a couple of stalls open. We were shocked but walked on to Broadway Market. Things were quieter than usual there. First we wandered into the Vegan Market, which seemed to have a few stalls including a man who was selling raw oysters, freshly smoked kippers, and jars of smoked oysters. I decided to buy a jar – haven’t tried it yet. Soon!
Finn and Flounder on Broadway Market was pretty gorgeousOne year I bought sprigs from holly from here. This year, nothingCouldn’t resist a photo of one of the remaining Pie and Mash shops* *See bottom of blog**
Market florist selling her wintry bouquetsA very serious Christmas musician
Quite honestly, I’m not very good at making things. This would make my friends and everyone who sees my ‘things’ laugh really. They’d tell me I’m creative and talented. I can see how that happens.
I would say, though, that I have five thumbs on each hand, or that somehow the messages from my brain don’t get all the way down to my fingers when I create. In my head is a beautiful image, which by the time it gets down to my hands becomes a muddled mess. But then I’m messy – let’s get that out in the open right now.
What I can do is make use of my mistakes. Take my dolls – the end result is good, sometimes great, because I cover up the mistakes with lace, ribbon, bits of fabric… and I smile a lot and don’t let a mistake interrupt or stop me.
And so messy becomes ‘me,’ ‘my style.’ I think or hope that people see that the end result reflects me. And yet…
I was recently interviewed by a woman who is writing a book. As far as I can tell, she is taking photos of older people and writing about them. We talked for about an hour, I told her all manner of things about me, holding very little back and at the end, it was the dolls – something I mentioned only briefly at first – that caught her attention, even though I suggested she photograph me in front of some Hackney Stik art. And so in January I’ll be taking all of my dolls to a studio where she’ll artfully display them and take my photo with the whole lot. I hate having my photo taken so we’ll see what comes of it. At any rate, her eyes lit up when she saw the colours and personalities I’d created – forget the travels, forget the search for street art and local culture, forget the foodie obsessions – this, apparently, was it!
In November I took a course on how to make rye bread. Somewhere in Dalston, down a less-travelled alley, is the Dusty Knuckle Bakery. I went one evening to their classroom, which is across the yard from the bakery/cafe, in a container. The instructor was Tomek, a somewhat serious man, who knew a lot about bread.
Tomek with Marta
There were only three of us! A woman, her daughter, and me. This was perfect. We could each do our own thing, and the mood was unhurried and personal. Rye bread, it seems, is the simplest bread to make. We were learning the slow method, which uses a sour dough starter instead of commercial yeast. The starter at the Dusty Knuckle is called Marta. She sits in a large plastic container with a cracked lid, growing and being used to start hundreds of rye loaves. Bits of her have been shared around the students and bakers, and now a bit of her is in my fridge, waiting to be woken up when I need another loaf.
Yeast, Tomek, explained is natural and it’s everywhere. If we had special ‘yeast glasses,’ we would see yeast covering everything and it might be horrifying. So Marta picks up that natural yeast and. when fed, grows. My Marta is different than anyone else’s because it’s picked up the yeast in my environment, including from my body. If I gave some to you, it would change again. Yeast is pretty special.
We created one loaf of sour dough rye bread, one loaf of quick (soda) bread, and some thin rye crackers that use buttermilk and honey. All in three hours. I am not used to weighing on a scale or with grams, British-style, and that may be the reason that, after the sour dough loaves had risen (proved) to be ready for baking, mine was smaller than the others. I was a bit devastated. Why mine? Of course mine! Messy me strikes again. Out of the hot oven, mine was still the smallest. At home? Tasted delicious! Job done.
The dreaded scales and gramsFinished dough into the tin to prove
The classroomRye soda breadMy sour dough rye at home
How do you make rye bread, you ask? Well, you take some starter, add rye flour, salt, and water, mix just till the flour disappears, plop the whole lot into an oiled loaf tin and you’re done! Seriously, good bread is made with flour, water and salt – that’s it. (Even the starter is made with just flour and water and allowed to ferment.)
In December I went to a Christmas wreath making workshop. I’d done the same workshop the year before and, despite how many hours it took I loved it. So I was back. It was at the Geffrye Museum – recently controversially renamed to the Museum of the Home! While the museum is being renovated and enlarged, workshops, front garden events, and almshouse visits are continuing.
Walking up to the workshop at the Museum of the Home – see all the greenery waiting outside?
This year there was less greenery than before so my idea to make a wreath with some bare twigs, trailing eucalyptus and flowering branches and such, evaporated. However, I had lovely tablemates this year, Heather was her usual helpful, competent, and friendly self, there were chocolate bicuits, tea, and mince pies, and I happily – and more calmly than last year – got to it.
To create the trailing effect that I’d seen on Instagram, I chose some lighter pine in with the sturdy spruce. The messy result ensued and people must love mess based on the number who came by the table and remarked on how they were soooo going to copy my ideas. Another job done.
My finished wreath
To create a wreath, you start with a wire frame and pack it tightly with live moss, which you firmly wire to create the round shape. Then you staple a plastic backing to protect your door. You take your greenery and push it firmly into the moss to create the wreath, and then add finishing touches – ornaments, ribbons, spices… Mine this year was made with spruce, pine, pine cones, artificial red berries and a subtle white and gold bow. It’s bigger than I’d planned – second time that’s been the case – but it looks good on the living room door. Continue reading “I love to make things – messy or not, here I come!”
Travelling into The City after my Somerset House exhibition had been an afterthought when the rain hijacked my other plans.
An everyday miracle happened when I reached my stop. I walked the correct way towards Leadenhall Market. I have a notoriously bad sense of direction and confusion and retracing is a big part of my explorations. When I’m alone I am mildly frustrated, when with others the confusion can become too large and panic-inducing. Today I nailed it, although at the very last minute I wondered if I’d overstepped Leadenhall. No, it was there!
Was it the rain, my mood, the cold or the reality of election day that dimmed the colour and atmosphere of the market? I’m not sure. The year before people had thronged the arcade, music was playing, the tree was magnificent and it felt like Old London had come alive. Although my photos show it quite well, I thought it oppressive, gloomy and I left quite soon after arriving.
Leadenhall Market, subdued
I still had a lot of time left before I had to meet Susanne. I decided that I’ll head to Spitalfields Market to see what Christmas looked like there.
The cheeriest sight so far – snack wagon by Spitalfields MarketA quite lovely sight – but where are all the people?There was a small crowd inside the new marketThe new market’s lights were Torino-esqueA few selfie lovers preceded meLooking out from the market – no crowd to be seenOutside – shiny and WET
I think I enjoyed things as much as I could in my cold and dampened state. It was good to be here and I tried to still the voice in my head that was telling me to head Susanne off and just go home. One foot in front of the other is always the other little voice in my head.
A year or two ago – when? – Carolyn and I went to the Dennis Severs candlelight at Christmas night. I loved it. I’d considered going again but decided against it. However, I did want to have a quick look at the door. It’s always on my must-see list when I’m showing people around. So I took a look, moved determinedly on and wended my way across Commercial Street towards Andina on Redchurch Street, where I’d meet Susanne.
A little detour – Dennis Severs House on Norton FolgateOff Commercial Street, a taste of urban art. I must head back on a better day
Under the railway arch at Shoreditch High Street Station – what is it that stirs me about these scenes?
East end Triptych
Bless Susanne for being there already when I arrived early. The restaurant was warm and dry and noisy. The food was good, not extraordinary, the drink was delicious. Chatting was just what I needed. We lingered and then we walked to a nearby hotel where more chat and a welcome pot of tea awaited.
This might not be Andina!And this dessert was Christmassy
The day I had to go to Somerset House, it rained…too much. It was rarely pouring but the darkness and the showers and the cold wind made it difficult to ignore and enjoy things. It felt as if even the lights and the colours struggled to assert themselves. I had imagined that, with three hours of spare time I could slowly look around – I thought maybe Bond Street and Soho would be nice – before I had to meet Susanne for dinner. When the day actually came, the most tempting thought was ‘stay home, wrap up, do nothing,’ especially when Lisa had suggested she may not make it. Bah humbug.
But off I went. I took advantage of my early arrival – once I know I’m going somewhere I just want to get out and deal with the extra time when I get there – to get a SIM card for my new phone. In Dalston the same venture had been painful the day before and I’d remained SIMless. And this was the Strand.
When I was just 17 I got a job there. The job itself was clerical and bottom of the ladder. But I was 17 and each day I’d travel in to Waterloo Station from Woking, where we’d moved one year earlier. From the station I’d walk along the South Bank – a shadow of what South Bank is today but walking along there, taking in the sights on the other side, watching the river, before arriving at the Royal Festival Hall and then going up to street level was exciting every time.
Crossing Waterloo Bridge was the low and the highlight. Low because it seemed long and, when windy or rainy, quite challenging. High because the view from up there was, and still is, the finest in London for me. To the east Saint Pauls, the power station, and Tower bridge. To the west the sweeping view towards Westminster and the Parliament Buildings. Quintessential London was spread out.
The building I worked in was at the head of the bridge, taking up the corner of Waterloo bridge and the Strand. The office was a few floors up. From my window I could see the working side of the Savoy Hotel and, on my breaks, I could go out onto the large balcony and see that east and westward view from a height. I never tired of it.
Every day I’d use a luncheon voucher, which I somehow remember might have been a couple of shillings – part of most London wages in those days, and take myself to lunch. I got in the habit of going to Lyons Corner House along the Strand and buying a tomato sandwich and a drink, which I’d take along to Trafalgar Square and eat in that wonderful setting. While the tomato sandwich was delicious, my method was to hold back some of the money from the voucher and once a week have a magnificent lunch somewhere. It seems to me most of the time this was a European cafe on the east side of the bridge, where the flavours were mysterious and fancy.
Sometimes I’d go to a cafe in what is now the touristy Covent Garden area – something with chips, perhaps egg, sausage and chips. And sometimes I’d meet my dad on Fleet Street where he’d treat me to steak, chips and mushrooms. I was grown up and ‘rich’ and acutely aware of how exciting life and this city was.
So how can I ever go to the Strand and not think about my youthful adventures there, the place where my love affair with London was cemented? (And perhaps where the seed of my love affair with food was planted.)
And yet that day, happy to be there, I also wanted to flee. Somehow I grabbed the minutes I had and did what I could with the soggy time.
The disused Strand Station – I remember the escalator there seemed very longI think of Simpson’s as Liz’s place – roast beef and dusty decadence. It was sparkly todayThere’s something about a line up of buses…In Whittards I considered all the tea but enjoyed a delicious sample of spicy chaiCovent Garden’s decorations were the same as last year but beautiful nonethelessBetween the Strand and Covent Garden the streets were colourfulTo be honest, none of these places live up to their gorgeous exterior promiseAt Somerset House, the buildings melted into the rain – the rink hadn’t opened yet and people just hung aroundInside Somerset House, the Gingerbread City exhibit
A festooned door on the corner of the Strand and Aldwych – inside it was gorgeous but I couldn’t find my way in
Instead of my planned leisurely walk around the west end, I caught a very cold bus at Aldwych and headed north and east – to The City.
