One day I will be tired of Brick Lane. Not yet, though.
On Friday, 31st January, we thought of walking down Hackney Road that day, taking the bus from Pembury Circus and wandering down – our eventual destination the cash and carry Bangla Town by Hanbury Street. From the bus, though, we noticed so much construction that the street suddenly seemed less walkable. It wasn’t roadworks but a number of new building sites in various stages of construction. What this means is the street art and curious buildings were disappearing.
So we stayed on the bus to Columbia Road.
New construction along Hackney RoadSome parts of Hackney Road are unchangedColumbia Road at Hackney Road
Perhaps another day I’ll brave Hackney Road again and see what’s left. That day opened my eyes to the increasing disappearance of the old, a microcosm – or not so micro – of London itself.
From Hackney Road we decided to walk over to Brick Lane by the back streets, taking note of all the changes and contrasts along the way.
New and old face each other in the Shoreditch back streetsQuiet Shoreditch is close enough to the bustle
From here, it was a less familiar view of Boundary Estate, from its easterly edge. Built as the nineteenth century merged into the twentieth, it’s stayed the same in appearance but not in its culture.
Boundary Estate is instantly recognisable – with its red brickStill Boundary Estate – looking towards Arnold Circus
Once past Boundary estate, it’s time to head over to Brick Lane. The streets here are mostly unchanged but there are signs of the future – construction sites and hoardings – and shops at the top, quiet, end of Brick Lane before you hit Bethnal Green Road are getting smarter. The hipsters are very firmly in place. How will it all look in ten, or even five, years?
Rhoda Street will be next to regenerateClose up of street art on Rhoda StreetThe lesser known top end of Brick Lane – very quietModern Bethnal Green Road at Brick LaneWay too busy at Brick Lane Beigel – the salt bagels were selling outFrom Brick Lane, regeneration is so closeOff Brick Lane
I may have said before that I’ve noticed a new phenomenon at Brick Lane. In most cities I’m familiar with, the ethnic ghettos are expanding. When I lived in North Beach, San Francisco, Chinatown was a short walk away. In more recent visits to North Beach, Chinatown has crept into its streets. In Toronto, Little India has started to creep along Gerrard Street so that you no longer have to go into its centre to find Indian culture. Brick Lane is changing in a different way – instead of exploding, it’s imploding. More and more non-Indian cafes and shops are opening, mingling with the Bengali and Bangladeshi businesses and threatening to overtake them.
What will happen next? When will the current residents move on, as the Huguenot, and then the Jewish immigrants have done? Where will they go? And will they be pushed out, priced out, or will they too climb out? Meanwhile, there’s still time to look around.
Cake on Brick Lane – encroaching on the curry houses todaySclater Street – demolition and hopeOne of Dan Kitchener’s geishas on Brick Lane – agingSticker art on Brick Lane
I volunteered for a Feldenkrais session with Charlotte, who I used to have classes with – Lisa had taken me along. I have to admit Feldenkrais – and Charlotte – come across somewhat flaky, but I like to experience new things and it sounded quite relaxing. It was also a chance to go to Homerton. It’s part of Hackney, and one of the more rundown areas. The biggest thing there is the local community hospital.
In the 19th century a 200 bed fever hospital was built at Homerton. It stood where the present hospital is until 1982. There were six wards for typhus, two each for scarlet fever and enteric patients. Two smaller wards were reserved for ‘special cases’.
Homerton Hospital is made up of one long H-shaped low rise building, and several satellite buildings on its groundsThis old barred wall from the fever hospital remains (More in the blog postscript)
There are remains in Homerton dating back to the 11th century but most of its history isn’t known until the 14th century. Like much of Hackney, Homerton has been farmland and it’s been a genteel Tudor hamlet of estates and grand houses formed from the former Templar lands. Around 1790 Sutton Place, now a Heritage museum, was built and remains as the oldest house in Hackney. There’s quite a grand history of religion and education with many lectures and sermons being held, some attended by John and Abigail Adams. Among its ministers was polymath, Joseph Priestley, discoverer of oxygen.
Homerton wasn’t so grand in recent times, though. I’ve seen pictures of a bustling Homerton High Street, whereas today the street is dirty and quiet.
Homerton High StreetHackney Hospital – it was once the Hackney Union Workhouse, became a hospital and is now used as a Mental Health centre – it’s very large so this is just one wingThe back of Hackney Hospital
Things are changing, as they always do. Older buildings are being torn down and newer ones are going up. The contrast is striking.
Charlotte’s place is by the back of Hackney Hospital, where there’s a lot of new development. I’m calling it modern industrial.
Flaky or not, my session with Charlotte was rewarding. I learned a lot about how my posture – above all my typing habits and even my eyesight – contributed to my aches and pains. No big surprise, to be honest, but a very good window into what I really need to do to change this. Not that I have yet but I do have the awareness.
I hear a lot of complaints about the UK Health System. I hear a lot of fear from my friends in the USA too, who seem to cower in the face of what’s termed socialism. I’ve had the privilege of living in Canada, the USA, and the UK so I have more of a clue than most about the differences. I learned that paying big money for something doesn’t necessarily equal shorter waits or better care. It sometimes equals prettier decor, though.
I can’t pretend to know enough about each system but I can speak about the NHS after close to two decades here. Overall, it’s pretty wonderful. Surprised? Healthcare is never actually free, not when it’s supported by government, who in term are supported by the people – us. When you get a service that’s not funded by lots of private money, it does look different.
Many doctor’s offices and hospitals look impoverished by North American standards but that’s changing. The newer places are every bit as sparkly, advanced, and attractive as you’d expect in Canada or the USA. Systems are automated, cafes are abundant, and the biggest difference is usually the number of people waiting to be seen, even on the appointment system.
Growing up, there was no appointment system for the ‘lower classes.’ You’d show up to a crowded room and your turn would come sooner or later. You learned who was in the room when you arrived and when the last of those people left the doctor’s office, you knew you were next. Sometimes it took up your whole morning or afternoon but it was just how it was. These days if you have no appointment, you go early in the morning and wait in line, take a number or report your name to the receptionist and sooner or later, you’re seen. Mostly, though, you’ll have an appointment time.
You get your appointment by phoning in, but there’s a great online system where you can book your own, self-refer to other services (pharmacy, physio, etc) request medication, fill in some symptoms and get a phone call or email response, and some new things I haven’t discovered yet.
Since Krish has run into some serious eye problem, we have been going to Moorfields eye hospital. There are many waiting room areas and reception desks. There may be 50 or more patients waiting to see 7 doctors in each area. Things run smoothly, the doctors are skilled and personable, but a blackboard is very clear about your waiting time – it’s usually 2 or 3 hours.
Waiting times for things like tests and surgeries depend on how urgent your case is. In Toronto I didn’t wait very long for surgery. I haven’t need any in London, but for things like tests and referrals to specialists (called consultants here) the wait has been pretty short – a week to a month on average. Some very specialised things, like the sleep or the tinnitus clinic, have much longer waits. A little chat with the hospital ombudsman has usually bumped me up nicely.
I went the less picturesque way to the doctor’s office, through a housing estateThe street where the offices are. On the left is a commercial building with storage, the doctor’s office is on the right
At my doctor’s office, there’s a rudimentary check in machine system. You click on your arrival, you click your day and month of birth and confirm your name – the machine lets you know if your doctor is on time to see you or falling behind.
You can check yourself inSomerford Grove Practice – very plain looking. A doctor’s office here is called ‘a surgery’Notice board outside
It’s a rough building and the clinic is barebones. The fanciest thing in there is the TV that shows all manner of public health service announcements in a loop. Yawn. There are three waiting areas and probably seats for at least 75 people,including a little secluded area I assume is for orthodox Jews or others who need privacy. I’ve never counted how many offices there are but there’s a receptionist window – they’re glassed in like we might attack them otherwise, and I have to say there’s never any recognition that I’ve been there before – bad! – there could be ten doctor offices and three or four nurses’ offices and off to the other side, where there’s a smaller waiting area, there’s a door leading to other offices that I’ve never been in. It’s a rabbit warren.
At the entry the receptionist window looms and the first of many bulletin boardsA small glimpse of the main waiting areaA little bit of the main waiting area with the receptionist window at the back. The crazy faces – my attempt at anonymising!
I waited twenty extra minutes for my doctor, even though the machine lied and said he was on time. I don’t worry about this most of the time. I know it means that somebody before me had a much bigger problem than I walked in with. I also know it means that my doctor may be a little stressed – he’s behind. In fact, this is the biggest concern for me – the appointments are just ten minutes long. It’s rarely enough. My doctor knows it but he also knows he has dozens of other ten-minute sessions to fit into his day. I’m not sure how much fun it is to be an NHS doctor. I do like this one, though, so I hold out for appointments with him even if it means a week or three’s wait. He’s tall and young, and dresses a bit carelessly, and he listens, and remembers. He’ll also try anything. When presented with something he feels is important but difficult or controversial, he lets me know that he’s presenting the situation at the weekly meeting and he’ll get back to me with the consensus opinion. This style suits me but I like my Toronto doctor who can take her time with me, knows my name and my son, has a little personal chat and a catch-up and doesn’t leave a stone unturned. Can I import her?
There are notice boards everywhere in the doctor’s office and here is where you see how socialism comes in. There are notices everywhere. This group, that club, this explanation of what your disease might entail, many community services available, and research studies to take part in. This time I find a new poster for Brocals. What’s that? If you’re a man, you can join other local men, who can be brotherly, friendly, do things with you, have a chat. Hmm.
Brocals!
When I first returned to London, I had to immediately get radiotherapy after breast cancer surgery. No one asked me any questions other than medical ones. I had to go for three weeks every weekday to St Barts Hospitals Radiotherapy department, at that time a very old building with very old waiting room chairs and wheelchairs and a gloomy interior. But the machinery was state of the art and the therapists were chatty and kind. I was offered cups of tea, all of my journey money refunded, transport I didn’t accept, and warm chats with a nurse from Macmillan Cancer Care. They also visited me at home, referred me to a complementary care facility where I had lovely herbal, homeopathy, and reiki treatments, all at no cost. They sent me a cheque for a new mattress and then one so that I could go on holiday after the treatment ended. The hospital environment undwhelmed, while the care and support overwhelmed. I can’t say enough for the warmth and generosity during a very difficult time. I went to groups and complementary therapy sessions for years, with free lunches, and new people to meet. I have no idea how much things may have changed but probably not all that much. I don’t like the big waiting rooms or the chance of not seeing the same doctor each time, but for bedside manner the UK has them all beat.
Maybe Brits, like others, don’t like what they have because they don’t know what it could be like otherwise. The weather, which has no real extremes, the transport system, which is huge and efficient, and the NHS, which all in all is inclusive and free.
There’s a private system. Anyone can use it without losing their NHS privileges. Some additional services are private if you need them, like my dental hygienist. Next week I’ve self-referred to a Physio clinic for an assessment. It costs £45 for a half hour session. I’ll report back.
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
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!”
