I really am getting out more. I’m more relaxed about how much my knee hurts while I’m out there and how much it will hurt later! That doesn’t mean I’m actually relaxed, but compared to a month ago, yes. As well, the rain and very dreary weather has pretty much eased up. We even have a sort of intermittent heatwave (which is actually a paradox). Standard moan – yeah, the flipping mask, the crutch, the bag or two, the camera, the phone, the juggling of the whole damned thing makes walking a challenge, and taking photos even more so. I take my photos in a hurry, I see things I just know stopping for to do my juggling act won’t cut it…I think to myself, if only I could just take these photos with my eyes, with my voice…and, you know what, there probably is an easier way and perhaps I need to explore that – or at least figure out why my Huawei phone doesn’t allow me to voice-activate with ‘Smile’ or ‘Cheese’ like my LG phone did. And that’s that! Krish bought me a Gimble, look it up. I know there are great opportunities with it, but I fret about how to use it and how to hold it and how to carry it around. Hmm.
I’d love to get out of my comfort zone a bit with these journeys, see somewhere or something new. At the same time, this is what I can manage, so accept the same old territory. I really do see new things, or old things with new eyes. It helps. For now, at least, I’m treading the same ground.
Anyway, I finally saw the Afghan dresses – fewer of them were displayed than I expected, but I saw them last Wednesday on the hottest day of 2021, at 27C. I went with my friend, Christine.
Above Honest Burgers at 12 – 13 Widegate Street, there are four glazed sculpted panels showing the various stages of baking bread – installed in 1926. They mark the location of the Nordheim Model Bakery, which rustled up beigels and other Jewish delights for those who lived in the surrounding alleyways and beyondKings Stores pub, 14 Widegate Street, is named because it was the site of a huge munitions store under Henry VIII. In this area is Artillery Street and Passage, as well as Gun Street
Inside Townhouse at last, we asked to see the dresses and went through to the small gallery building at the back – it’s the size of a small living room. The exhibition was smaller than expected, but the dresses were lovely. You can read what inspired the exhibit and the dresses’ owner here. I enjoyed seeing the ideas the dresses’ creators had. The mirrors, embroidery, extra braiding and stitching. I mentioned to Chris, it reminded me of the shirts I’d made Jimmy (my first real boyfriend) when I had no idea how to make clothes, but pieced them together in shapes, creating curves with my stitches and not my scissors. You could buy these pieces. They ranged around £250-350.
Townhouse is a lovely store with antiques and crafts, Fournier Street
I didn’t go with Krish to his appointment today. The timing was wrong. But I did go to Whitechapel to meet him. There were two things on my mind – take a look at Vine Court (near Ambala) and find a good biryani. (Hint – one out of two ain’t bad.)
Istanbul company Getir has a depot under the arches. It’s a new food delivery service. We deliver groceries in minutes, day or night.’ Their bikes – all with L plates – are everywhere
I took the bus up to Dalston Junction. Lately, the traffic is solid and slow all the way up from Dalston Cross. I have to allow lots of timeThe usual spacious train ride to Whitechapel, Four stops
Whitechapel Station is on the main Whitechapel Road but these days the station entrance is closed while they prepare for the Elizabeth Line. I chose to come this way since they have lifts at the entry and exit stations, but I didn’t count on the long walk from my platform to the side street where the temporary exit is.
I was really intrigued by the network of cables along the side of the tracks. It’s always there, of course, but I hadn’t looked it quite as closely before
Court Street, the temporary station entrance
I was a little surprised to see Whitechapel thronging with people. It was like Covid had never happened, except for the masks. It was Ramadan and everyone was milling about, buying things, including from the tables laden with fast-breaking food. If I’d not just started my walk and had someone to advise me, I might have been tempted to come away with a feast.
In Turin I had a recurring theme of foiled plans. In my last blog I talked about another foiled plan. In the history of foiled plans (mine at least) today was the mother of foiled plans – see the title.
There was perhaps a precursor in the morning. After sewing up my very first no-mistakes postman’s glove, I realised I’d left no hole for the thumb. At first I dug down into my thread kit for a seam ripper, confident I could take out the stiches and sew things up properly. Wrong. I’d used the same wool to sew it up, and I’d used a nice tight stitch so it wouldn’t unravel. Try as I might, it was impossible to see where the stitches were among the knitted seams. Rather than keep trying, I stopped, left it as is, and knew I had to knit a third glove to replace it. Gloom, but it’s only a glove, right?
As the morning went on and Krish talked about his plans to get to Guys for his psoriasis treatment, I let him know that I thought I’d come too unless I’d slow him down too much. He seemed really pleased and said we’d leave earlier and take the bus. I got ready.
The real Chapter of Accidents begins.
Paragraph 1 – when checking for the next bus, my app let me know that ‘There are no buses expected in the next thirty minutes.’ Right. It’s OK really, we’d just walk to the bus we’d need to change to. As we went to the landing to get outdoor shoes and clothes, the app cheerfully told me the bus that wasn’t expected was now due. Too late.
Paragraph 2 – As we crossed the intersection for the closest bus, ours – the 254 – drove up and left before we could reach it. We dug our heels in and waited. Bus after bus came, but not the 254. Krish said that it might be tight once we reached our second bus. I told him, when we get there, you rush ahead, don’t wait for me. I’ll let you know when I arrive at London Bridge. And we waited some more. Time was ticking.
Paragraph 3 – After a little bit of waffling, we decided that Krish should go get the train and leave me at the bus stop. I’d never be able to keep up with him. It was my decision to either return home or continue with my plan. I decided to continue after hearing from Krish he was on the train. My bus came. There was a terrible traffic jam and we moved slowly down to our destination, my next bus (this would be a two-bus journey) when the driver announced a destination change. We would be stopping in Whitechapel. Not so bad, I thought, but we didn’t stop in Whitechapel. We stopped before that at a stop that would bring my bus count to three. And I waited there again.
Paragraph 4 – Now there were no buses coming, not for a while. People were fidgeting. At least I had my bus pass and the extra buses wouldn’t cost me anything, but it was getting later. The 106 arrived and I jumped on, as quickly as a person with a crutch can jump on. It would take me to a stop by London Hospital and from there I could walk around to the main road for another bus to take me to my last bus. Easy, you say? So did I. On the main road I was met with a Bus Stop Closed notice. I looked for a temporary stop but there was none. Already hurting, I walked determinedly for another several minutes, past Ambala and on to the next bus stop. The journey that had just taken me close to ninety minutes usually takes about twenty minutes .
A ‘fun’ sight as I waited for my second busThe 106 stops at the London Hospital main entrance
The rest was easy. The bus stopped at the exact place to pick up my final bus. The reward for my pain and waiting came as we passed the Tower of London and across the Thames on Tower Bridge with the sight of City Hall and the Shard cheering me on.
The bus dropped me in a perfect location for my first plan of looking at how the George Inn was doing now it had some outdoor boozing. Encumbered by my backpack, my mask, my glasses, my crutch, the photos would be unlikely to do it justice but I’d made it.
The George Inn is the only surviving galleried London coaching inn. So there’s a long balcony along the stretch of the low building of connected bars. It was originally called George and the Dragon and was rebuilt in 1677 after a serious fire in 1676 that destroyed most of medieval Southwark. Its also featured in Dickens Little Dorrit and Our Mutual Friend. Dickens himself visited the site when it was a coffee house.
Different views from inside the George Inn Yard
Walking along Borough High Street, I felt a little dismayed at how shabby and broken down things were. This is a wonderful area and I’m not sure if some of the construction will be to spruce things up a bit. I do hope so. Across Southwark Road at Brindisa, an expensive tapas bar, people didn’t seem to mind that they were eating their £4 tomato bread and £17 lamb chops under the scaffolding and construction dust.
Enjoying their £4 Brindisa tomato bread under the construction scaffold
I really like Park Street. It runs alongside the south end of Borough Market. I stopped liking the market when the crowds got too heavy, but on Park Street there was the colourful Market Porter pub, the great Monmouth Coffee Company, and Konditor cake shop. Then off of Park Street is Stoney Street and the wonderful Borough Market branch of Neal’s Yard Dairy.
There were outdoor Europe-style (tented) patios bustling with people in all the eating places. Monmouth Coffee Company, where there are normally long queues of people and packed tables was deserted. I knew they didn’t serve decaffeinated coffee but I also found out that they don’t serve anything but coffee so that was out. Sadly, too, Konditor had closed its doors, with a very sad note in the window.
Poor Konditur. They now have only two branchesOn Park Street looking over to Stoney StreetEuropean style dining on Park StreetNot the dining experience I really want – Park StreetLooking west along Park Street – the road ahead leads to the Golden Hind, the Clink, The Globe and the Tate Modern
On Stoney Street, I stopped at Neal’s Yard. Only half of the store is open now, and a Wait Here notice greeted me. A man was buying a lot of cheese, but I knew I had only my very squashable backpack so, when it was my turn, I chose carefully: a small pack of cheese curds – I’ll try my hard at some poutine! – a small clotted cream to make some scones and fruit, and a jar of rather lovely looking marinated (with garlic and thyme) soft raw cheese.
Maybe my chapter was getting brighter.
The empty shelves in the larger part of Neal’s Yard Dairy
I was quite shocked to see the market very quiet. I’ve become very used to it being so crowded and noisy that I’ve avoided it more and more. It was quite empty, other than a ‘hot food’ area that I kept away from. It was very odd to see it this way, although the big plus was that I could take photos with few obstacles. I looked at the fruits and vegetables, the cheeses, sausages, breads, and herbs, and the alcohol kiosks, the giant pan of paella cooking, the fish stands…it’s like a different market, but some things are still familiar.
All I bought was some ‘milk bread’ – I can’t carry a bag anymore because of my crutch. My backpack was full.
Paragraph 5 – I feel so encumbered by everything I have to remember and carry around when I go out – first the Pandemic and then the Knee Contingency. Since I can’t carry my credit cards in my little bag, so they go with my travel card into a pocket in my backpack. However, after so many changes of buses and dealing with increasing pain from the chopping, changing, and extra walking on my journey, I’d become frustrated and put the travel pass in my pocket. Except now it wasn’t there.
I had a flash of hope, that I’d tucked it away after I’d arrived by bus, but every place I looked at while juggling my crutch and mask and phone and camera and the food I’d just purchased was pass-less. It was gone. I walked around, hoping to see it laying somewhere. I went into Neal’s Yard Dairy asking if they had it – no. I decided to do one last walk into the market and on the ground I saw the little granola bar that had been in my pocket with the pass. It struck me someone had left the bar and pocketed the pass. Done!
Time to head to the hospital to find a toilet and meet Krish. My knee hurt quite a lot so I rested outside a rather magnificent building. I wrestled with my phone to take a photo or two but gave up and limped over to Guys.
Funny doughnut names on Borough High Street. I was tempted by the Bruno MarsJohn Keats – educational! He was apprenticed to a surgeon in 1811. He broke off the apprenticeship in 1814 and went to London, where he worked as a dresser, or junior house surgeon, at Guy’s and St. Thomas’ hospitals. His literary interests had crystallized by this time, and after 1817 he devoted himself entirely to poetry. He died at 25 – what a life! And I didn’t know about Henry Stephens who was an English doctor, surgeon, chemist, writer, poet, inventor and entrepreneur. At medical school in London he was a friend of, and shared rooms with, poet John Keats, later wrote treatises on hernia and cholera, and conducted experiments to improve writing fluids and wood stains. (Long caption!)
I sat in the Bermondsey Wing café drinking a hot chocolate and feeling a little sorry for myself. I tried to order a new pass online, but the payment option wouldn’t work so I’ll call that a half paragraph in my Chapter.
Paragraph 6 – This would be five paragraphs if I were to tell you everything, but you may be getting tired and I know I am. We grabbed the 343 to head to Whitechapel where Krish would buy some food and I would wait until we could both get the 254 home. Foiled again. Part way along the route, the bus stopped – ‘trouble at Aldgate’ – and we had to walk to the next bus, more walking on my knee (I should give my knee a name, it figures so large in stories these days). A second bus, the 205, over to where Krish would get out and I would wait. When Krish came back with his bags of food our 254 had dropped from 8 minutes to being 28 minutes away. We jumped on the next bus that would take us to the road for the fourth bus heading home…and sailed past where we needed to be, and more walking on my unnamed knee. The fourth bus was annoyingly the 254, having definitely not taken 28 minutes. It crept along – it was rush hour. And the very last leg saw me taking a fifth bus to our door with Krish going ahead on the bus we had been on – he’s more able to walk. I’d paid two fares, since one trip fare is for a maximum of an hour.
So, if you’ve not been adding up, that’s a total of nine buses – close to triple the time it usually takes for the round trip – and a lost travel pass costing me £12. Krish has decided that from now on, he’s going to the hospital alone. Who can blame him? And the anonymous knee feels guiltily pleased.
It’s been quite a year for Krish. During his eye ‘adventures,’ which I now realise I haven’t really talked about much, he developed plaque psoriasis.
No one is quite sure what cases psoriasis. Stress is a trigger, but so too is steroid use (from his eye treatment) which also means his vitamin D level was compromised. Darker skinned people naturally have lower vitamin D because of their skin pigmentation. The darker your skin the more protection you have from the sun’s UV radiation, and that protection limits your ability to absorb VitD. Both stress and low VitD contribute to suppressing the immune system. Psoriasis is an immune-driven, hyperactive response.
It started with a small patch and within weeks, it covered his scalp his trunk and legs. Lots of home skin slatherings from several ointments and lotions later, he was referred to Guys Dermatology Centre for some serious treatment. At first he saw a consultant, and the 13th he started in the clinic. I decided to go with him for this appointment. We made plans to go for what looked like a 90-minute session and then do a bit of exploring.
It didn’t quite go that way! More foiled plans…
Guys is about five miles away. We can see the Shard from our windowOn the train to Liverpool StreetDistancing at the barriersA bit busier than last time at Liverpool Street StationMore distancing at Liverpool Street StationThere’ll be a new Eataly here! Outside Liverpool Street Station
Maybe it’s the pandemic and lack of chaos, but I kept noticing things on Bishopsgate that I’ve not seen before. I must have been there hundreds of times, so how could I have overlooked so much?
Fire Brigade Station – above the Tesco store on BishopsgateGreat Eastern Railway Hotel, now the Andaz
So much to see hear but the appointment time was getting closer, so we got the bus over to London Bridge Station, a stone’s throw from Guy’s Hospital.
Pandemic or not, I’m always excited to see the river. In my travels I’ve realised that I need to live in (or at the edge, at least) of a city but that city must be on a river, by the ocean, or a lake. A coastal city would be ideal for me were I able to afford to live there. Today, circumstances didn’t allow me to gaze at the Thames for too long, but I loved knowing I was there.
Instead, we headed straight for the Dermatology Clinic at Guy’s. First we had to head towards the new London Bridge station entrance, right at the Shard, and down an escalator to St Thomas Street and the beginning of Great Maze Pond – what a great street name!
Bike stand at the station. No rival to Amsterdam bike racks, but this stand would normally be packed with bikesLooking back at the London Bridge bus station, where our bus arrivedIt really was a ghost town at the usually all-day busy newly renovated London Bridge station. I need time to explore it all – this is just a small sectionPandemic travel rulesOutside the station, looking up at the Shard – I can’t see the bottom or the very topDown to St Thomas Street and straight ahead is Great Maze PondGreat Maze Pond plaque
The plaque reads ‘The “Maze” Pond, which used to be situated at the southern end of the Guy’s site, was fed by a tributary of the River Thames, now known as ‘Guy’s Creek’. Archaeological excavation of the site has unearthed an early Romano-British boat and Roman timbers edging the creek. In the Middle Ages farmers from Kent and Surrey used to drive their cattle up to London for sale at Smithfield Market. The fields around the Maze Pond were a focal point where the cattle were grazed and watered. “Mr Guy’s Hospital for Incurables” was built on this site in 1725. John Rocque’s 1746 Map of London shows the pond still in existence. The local street-names then included “Maze Pond”, ” Little Maze Pond” and “The Maze pond”, which subsequently became Great Maze Pond – the name it still has today.’
The hospital itself has an interesting history as does the Dermatology Centre. The hospital was founded in 1721 by philanthropist Thomas Guy, who had made a fortune as a printer of Bibles and then speculated his money in the South Sea Bubble. At first the hospital was established to treat “incurables” discharged from St Thomas’ Hospital.
The dermatology department is the largest clinical dermatology department in the UK. John Milton founded St John’s Hospital for Diseases of the Skin in 1863. He was a surgeon who suffered from hand eczema so severe it ended his career. His personal experience with skin disease triggered his interest in dermatology. St John’s Hospital for Diseases of the Skin moved to St Thomas’ Hospital in the mid-1980s. Soon after, it was formally renamed St John’s Institute of Dermatology.
Standing on Great Maze Pond with the Shard straight ahead and the entrance to the hospital on my rightImmediate skyline from Guys – the Shard pointing to the sky
There’s not a lot of fuss at Guy’s Hospital compared to my visit to Barts. There are a few banks of hand cleaners and a table with a few people in attendance. No one checked if I had an appointment and no one offered me a new mask, asked me symptoms questions or took my temperature. This surprised me. We went through this casual ‘barrier’ and on to Bermondsey Wing where the Dermatology Centre is.
Again, there’s a simple table and a guard but she doesn’t ask us anything, so Krish checks in at the desk, and we sit down in the atrium waiting area and start looking for Krish’s name to appear on the board.
The quiet waiting area at the Dermatology Clinic
Inside the atrium from my seat, there’s a lovely view of the top of the Shard
And wait we did. Eventually a nurse came looking for him – his name had never appeared. Off he went, while I waited. After a bit the messages started to arrive
-I’m sitting waiting now
-Totally covered
-Sticky
-Head to toe
-Wrapped head
I thought about this for a minute then I said
-Take a selfie
It occurred to me that social media phobic Krish may not know how to take a selfie, but he did. I’ll spare his dignity and your eyes by not posting those photos here but his treatment will be head to toe emollient, one hour wait, applied pure coal tar (which he described and sounded like a hot wax treatment complete with popsicle sticks), one hour wait, then a shower, then steroid ointment before leaving. He’ll be going back for this three times a week for three weeks (minimum). So, if you get severe psoriasis, expect some or all of the same.
His appointment is five hours and the plan to walk about afterwards is vanishing. Walking painfully with a crutch means I really won’t attempt it alone, but I’m OK. Instead I go for a very short look outside and to try to find a snack. I didn’t find one out there but I did take a look for as long as my legs would carry me. And there’s a lot including a reference to a buried Roman boat under the Cancer Care Centre, and some fantastic ironwork opposite the main entrance. Otherwise, it’s a bland council estate area with nothing remarkable, at first glance anyway. Continue reading “Guys Hospital – psoriasis adventures”
I think about my blog every day. I think about writing for it every day. A day becomes a week becomes a month. I’m at once restless and lethargic, and how do I come to terms with that?
I’m not exactly sure.
My mother always told me, Janice, you think too much. She was right. What I think most about is other people. Who are they? What are they doing? Why don’t I know them? Where do they live? What do they eat? What are their lives when they are not in front of me, inside my head? Yes, all of that and more.
The short version of the story is I’m not getting out much and I’m not seeing that many people. Lockdowns combined with a deteriorating knee keep me indoors and away from things I normally love to do. I try to think about people who have written whole books while being (what I consider) prisoners of home and even bed. My hat’s off to them. Yes, the stories are still in my head but I lack the motivation. I’ve heard that inspiration is something being taken in, and motivation is about movement – a driving force. Motivation is more closely connected to external stimuli, while inspiration is based on the internal stimuli. I’d say that right now I do feel inspired, but not really motivated. So if I’m not getting out that much, external stimuli are dampened, and the thoughts stay inside my head. So let’s get them out a bit.
I say I haven’t been out much, but I’m blessed by living in an area that is infinitely walkable (even now, and even though that might be limited) and infinitely fascinating. Those who feel at one with nature have a hard time understanding that. In nature I understand the peace and beauty, but as large as the vista might be, it’s harder for me to examine. Where are the people? Maybe I don’t want to face the person who is there – me. Hmm.
Right now ‘me’ is a person who can barely walk. My knee has given up and more than a few minutes on it becomes unbearably painful. Except I do bear it, and don’t want to. I’m doing my best. If I don’t try, then I’m missing out on so many things. Throughout the pandemic, I’ve managed what I could. Now my radius is shrinking and I’ll still do what I can. So let’s look at what I’ve managed to do and think positive and look ahead.
Not in order but a smattering of life chez moi at the moment.
We are still mourning the loss of a favourite haunt, Poetto – a nice pizza and pasta with friendly service. Gone a few months before lockdown. Maybe it was a blessing for them.
Krish noticed a dragon standing over a building – now building supplies but we’d love to know what it was before. I’ll keep researching!There was apparently a tram depot in Clapton and this is the yard. Nowadays it’s a collection of rental studios for film and photography called Hackney Studios. Notice the ghost sign, centre right.After the tram depot, we visited Tram Shop. You can normally have a meal here, but right now it’s a general store. We found a few things to buy, none were food.I wanted to buy something at the Dusty Knuckle in Dalston. By the time I made it there (damn you, bad knee) the shelves were bare. Absolutely everything had sold out. This is the alley leading down to the bakery yard.
I hadn’t been in the Curve Garden for months! It was looking very green and wasn’t too busy. So Melodie and I sat by the Stik wallart and Melodie, who used to be his landlady, sent him texts, unanswered. I’m still a groupie, it seems.When Krish had his vaccination, we made time to visit Fremont Street, home of my great grandmother and father, and where my maternal grandmother was born. Along the way we saw Five King Edwards Road, once a women’s fashion factory, now fancy flats.We think this grand facade was likely the offices for the factory. Such elegant stonework.
6 Fremont Street. My maternal great grandparents lived here. It seems strange that I am now only 1km away from an ancestral home. Strange but fitting.My maternal great grandmother, Phoebe, with my maternal grandmother, Charlotte (looking incredibly like my mum)
Tesco Morning Lane. In just one year the world has changed. Shopping is a new experience and sometimes it feels like it was always like this, especially when I see people looking like they are used to it.
I have always been a bad needleworker, but I enjoy creating things, watching them take shape. I made these ‘postwoman’s gloves’ from a simple pattern and decorated them. I’ve now made a third pair in light orange.I went for an XRay on my knee and made sure I stayed a while in front of the Stik mural in one of the courtyards. On 28 March the clocks went forward in the UK. The evenings are longer. The trees on Sandringham Avenue will soon be in leaf, and the skies will stay lighter.
Low Traffic Neighbourhoods have taken cars away from some smaller streets and forced them to the larger streets, like mine. Every day starting around 3pm the parade of cars begins, ending almost four hours later. Continue reading “COVID – Restlessness and Lethargy”
