The House Husband

This morning, I decided to put a load of washing on before I went shopping. I filled the basket up from the bedroom with a black load and was about to put it in the machine when I realised I’d forgotten something. I put the basket down and went back upstairs to retrieve my trackies. Upon my return, greeting me with a mischievous grin was Carmen, all curled up and snugly in the basket, soaking in the human smells.

But I like it here!

I can’t remember her ever doing this before (although, Day-z can often be found curled up in a pile of dirty washing if it’s left in a pile on the floor) and wonder if she’s somehow telling me not to wash our clothes because she prefers them smelly.

I asked her if she wanted to get out now but her only reply was to lay her head down and feign sleep. She moved pretty quickly when I picked the basket up and leapt out looking a bit upset.

I suddenly realise that I haven’t mentioned Dawn’s marmalade. She posted a blip the other day and, in her comment, mentioned she’d been making some. She’s not exactly what you’d call a country kitchen, Kirstie Allsop, WI, jam making type so it came as a bit of a surprise. My comment in reply was that I hoped I’d get to taste it.

On Thursday she handed me a jar with the warning that it was too thick. I told her it was probably in her imagination because it looked fine. I can confirm that she’s mad. Thick? It was perfect! Not too sweet, nice and orange-y, tangy in the right way, perfectly spreadable. I’m not a big marmalade (or jam for that matter) fan but it sure tasted good on my toast.

I think she should add a secret ingredient and call it Dawn-alade.

Ignoring the dire weather warnings from the BBC (we have been on an amber alert since last night; not that I know what that means after all, on the roads it means make sure there’s no pedestrians and proceed as if green) I caught the train into town to visit with the patient at the quarantine hut. It was very clear first thing this morning, looking like anything but snow but as I left home, the clouds, with big bulbous bits of grey had appeared.

The trip across town was, remarkably effortless. Generally, the Jubilee Line is not my friend on weekends but it was running a good service today and I hopped on a tube train almost immediately. Strangely, I can’t say the same for Starbucks. Very unusually, they took an age to get the coffees out. It could have been because one of the staff was a trainee.

At the flat I was very glad to see a much improved Mirinda. She claims it’s a combination of a vast collection of drugs, not leaving the flat for four days and the absence of stairs. Unlike home, if she wants to move from bedroom to lounge, it’s just through a door. At home she’d have to climb up and down the stairs.
Whatever the cause, she is a lot better and should reach her goal of returning to work on Monday. Of course, the other reason for her improvement could be the ingesting of ice cream and cup cakes, a universal cure if ever I heard one.

While I visited, we watched a wonderful film called The Chorus. Susanne recommended it to Mirinda years ago and we’ve only just got around to watching it. It’s a lovely French film that we thoroughly recommend to anyone who loves a story about ordinary people making a difference against the odds. It is beautiful. The music and singing is haunting. And the acting is superb. How they manage to get such brilliant performances out of little kids, I’ll never know. I always remember the youngsters Mirinda tried to teach in the mountains. They hid any talent for performance well away from any public scrutiny.

It was nominated for the Best Foreign Language film at the Oscars and I’m amazed it didn’t win. The one that did was a Spanish film called The Sea Inside which I’ve never heard of. It’s the true story of a guy fighting for 30 years in favour of euthanasia and his own right to die. Doesn’t sound very entertaining if you ask me. I prefer The Chorus.

Anyway, all good things must come to an end, even visiting hours, so I was all too soon on my way back home. The weather had turned even colder. Mirinda stepped out on the (steel) balcony in her bare feet and instantly regretted it. Fortunately I wore my big Russian great coat so was snugly and warm.

Coming out of the Jubilee Line at Waterloo, I walked by the big entrance and it was snowing. Very lightly and without much effort, but it could have been a portent. A big electronic sign in the main station proclaimed that all was well but if the weather was to deteriorate, things could get bad. That’s like saying, if you stand under running water, you’ll get wet! A stupid sign if ever I saw one. I texted Mirinda to let her know and missed a wonderful cultural reference she made.

As is normal in England, the train was very toasty. What’s not normal is that it was announced 20 minutes before it was due to leave so I didn’t have to stand around on the breezy concourse for very long.

During the trip home, Mirinda sent me a text to say the snow had started at Canary Wharf. By the time I reached Farnham, the snow was starting to settle. I knew I’d timed it right. Any later and I think this post may have had a different ending.

Walking across the railway crossing was a slippery affair so I decided to get a taxi home. This turned out to be a very good idea as our street was covered in snow, forcing the taxi driver to slow right down. I almost slipped over just walking across our drive. It would have been an awful walk home.

Of course the poodles were outside and covered in snow.

Our street, just before I went to bed

A very sick Mirinda texted me at some unnatural hour of the morning to say I shouldn’t wake her up but, rather, make sure Ben had received her message presumably just before mine. Task complete, I started the usual tidy up required when we have a viewing for there is one scheduled for tomorrow at 9am!

Actually, I received the call from the real estate agent yesterday over lunch. I was watching an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm at the time that he rang. Unfortunately my ring tone is the theme from Curb Your Enthusiasm and I thought what I was hearing was coming from the TV rather than my phone, which was sitting on the coffee table. It wasn’t until the land line rang that I knew someone was trying to contact me.

Here’s a bit of Larry:

The phone was across the room and I had a lapfull of poodle so I figured it could wait until the episode and my lunch were over. When I checked, it was the real estate agent who had also left a message on my mobile wanting a viewing today. I had to put him off. When he called me back (as I stood shivering at the bus stop waiting to go to Grimley) he’d rearranged it for tomorrow at 9am.

Eventually Mirinda called to say she was awake. That’s not entirely true. She croaked that she was awake and feeling terrible. She blamed Ben who, it seems, has infected vast swathes of the workforce with his Death Flu. I was then given a shopping list that went from three small items directly connected to health resurrection to an entire week’s worth of groceries.

Then followed the scramble for a pen. Normally I use the shopping list in my smartphone (a great app if ever there was one) but my man fingers can be a bit too big when I’m holding a phone in the other hand so I opted for paper and pen. Since we both tend to use various electronic devices for the dissemination of information in our house, finding a scrap of paper and a pen isn’t always easy.

In about an hour, I found both and asked her again for the beginning of the list. I then went in search of a pen that actually worked, settling, finally, on a pencil. I asked her again for the beginning of the list. Naturally, once I was off the phone, I put the items on my smartphone shopping list app.

I ordered a new DVD player on the weekend and had received an email telling me it would be delivered sometime today with all manner of threats that they would deliver only to me. They list the various things they will not do with the parcel – leave it with a neighbour, leave it in a box, leave it by the front door – and insist if I wasn’t there, they’d drive it back to their depot. I figured I’d not worry about it and then reschedule it for Monday.

Late last night I received an unexpected email telling me that my parcel had left the warehouse and that I could find out my hour slot by the next morning. This was a bit of a game changer. I figured if the parcel was going to arrive at a decent time, I’d wait in and move lunch with Mirinda a bit.

Then, this morning, I received an email telling me what my hour slot was: 11:21 – 12:21. Seriously! How ridiculously accurate is that? Well into Mrs Bale territory if you ask me. I decided to wait for it and then leave for Canary Wharf to visit and shop for the patient.

It arrived just before 12. I dearly wanted to ask the delivery guy about the pinpoint accuracy of the time but figured I could make the 12:30 train if I left immediately. I did and I did.

I’m fairly certain that Waitrose at Canary Wharf, hates me. For instance, the only soups they didn’t have were chicken or beef broth, which they normally have in abundance. And then, in a ridiculously long aisle devoted to breakfast cereals, a wide gap in the display (the only gap in the display) was where the Weet-a-bix used to be.

My first thought was that Ben had obviously been infecting the locals over this side of London as well but when I reached the check-out, grasping my organic Weet-a-bix and creamy chicken soups, the woman in front of me brazenly brandished a normal Weet-a-bix box before my eyes as if taunting me. I almost stole it from her as I left the store.

At the flat we had lunch – roast chicken (which always puts me in mind of dad and his roast chickens at the shop) and lovely fresh crusty bread – a chat and I did the mountain of washing up during which I told Mirinda the entire plot of Whitechapel starring Rupert Penry-Jones (you may remember him from such things as Spooks)…all three episodes (highly recommended, by the way).

The train trip home was crowded and, largely uncomfortable. It’s always the people for the first stop who are happy to stand up for 20 minutes at the Farnham end of the carriage. I bet there’s seats further up the train. Crazy people.

There was a lovely big yacht sitting outside our favourite Turkish restaurant. I quite fancied buying it but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be allowed to park it in our street. I settled for a photograph instead.

Just the right size

The O2 arena (the Millennium Dome) looked rather good in the sun too. I have never been there and think it still looks like they’re building it.

A bit of the O2 Arena on the Thames

Finally, warm and cosy at home, I set up the new DVD player and completely rearranged the media equipment to make it less wired and more discrete. It took me an hour but then everything worked fine and now looks a whole lot better, hidden away in the cupboard.

OK, the title of this post may be a bit of an exaggeration but it sure felt like it. I should have known it would be bad. Shopping at Waitrose in Canary Wharf between 5 & 6pm is always going to be bad. The entire population is in there. It’s a sea of trolleys, baskets and crazy people. I have no idea how people can enjoy going to the sales if it’s anything like what I witnessed today.

The day itself started off quite scary. I was woken by the umbrella in the patio table being ripped out of the weighted base and being hurled across the garden by gale force winds. It was pretty horrendous. And things just grew worse. Two of the obelisks had fallen over and the garden was strewn with, what were earlier, the last remaining leaves on the trees. In fact, the only remaining flowers in the garden were covered in the dead leaves of the palm tree.

I also noticed, when checking out the night’s devastation, that some of the tulips have already started coming up. This is just ridiculous and shows what a mild winter we seem to be having. The world has gone mad!

The path (our wonderful, wonderful path) made my tour of inspection so much easier than in years gone by. There was no mud on my wellies as I wandered back and forth, seeking out any damage.

My trip to Waitrose was highlighted by great gusts of wind and horizontal rain. The weather seemed to have kept everyone else at home because shopping was a breeze and I was soon home again; wet but pleased. We had to take another walk in the tempest so Mirinda could show the junior doctor her knee but generally we remained inside and dry.

Then, after lunch, we glanced out of the lounge room window and the sky had suddenly turned a bright and welcoming blue (“Our weather is so changeable” Dr Chasuble remarked). The mighty winds had blown all the nasty weather away somewhere continental.

Then it was time to pack up everything (forgetting Mirinda’s little friend – gasp) and head up to Canary Wharf on a train that was pleasant and unhindered by fallen trees. I say this because almost every other line in the country seemed to have suffered as a result of fallen trees…but more of this later. We arrived at the flat and, having settled Mirinda and her knee on her sofa, I set out for the shops for her supplies.

Unfortunately, this is where my day rapidly deteriorated. It was as if the entire population had somehow sensed I was going to Waitrose and decided to taunt me by doing the exact same thing at the exact same time. And they all knew the layout of this Waitrose and I didn’t.

I managed to force my trolley through the thickening crowds, grabbing what food I could, gradually reducing my shopping list. Frustratingly, Canary Wharf Waitrose doesn’t carry the same stuff as Farnham Waitrose so I was in a bit of a pickle, having to make substitutions all over the place.

One of the things I noticed was how miserable everyone was. At one point a woman was serving two office type guys. All three looked totally miserable; the men didn’t even look at her, merely pointing to what they wanted, grunting. I felt sorry for her and made a big fuss of ordering, beaming at her in thanks. I’m glad to say my efforts elicited a smile from her. This was my one glimmer of joy.

Something else I discovered in Waitrose was that my phone has no signal inside the shop. It’s all underground with many floors above the food hall so I guess it’s really no surprise but it’s downright annoying when I needed to call Mirinda to ask her to verify any changes I needed to make. It also meant I didn’t get her message to remind me of something I managed to forget.

Needless to say, I managed to haul it all home (in one bag, because I’m such a good packer) and explain the strange selection of goods as I popped them in the fridge.

There was no time to relax, however, as I had to get home. Before we left home, I had a call from the realo, saying he had a guy wanting to come round for a look at the house at 11am in the morning. There was some tidying up to do. I high-tailed it off to the Jubilee Line.

Standing on the escalator, my heart sank. At the bottom, a train had arrived and a steady stream of commuters were disappearing into it. It looked like thousands. I thought the crowds at Waitrose had been bad. It looked like all the shoppers had grabbed their mates and decided to catch the train with me as well.

When I reached the bottom of the escalator, the doors of the train shut and the packed train left the station. The next one was long behind and I joined the hordes on this one. At least I managed to get a seat though I felt a bit squashed against everyone else in the carriage. I’m so glad I don’t do have to do it every day.

At Waterloo I managed to just miss the 7pm train so I bought a coffee and waited for the 7:30. I boarded it as soon as it arrived and claimed a nice enough seat and waited. And continued to wait, along with the the rest of the train as we were told we were being held up at Waterloo because there were many trains before us because they had all been held up by fallen trees. I’m not sure this is entirely fair as our line was saved any such blockage. Still, we waited.

When we finally did manage to leave the station, our journey was slow and painful as we limped from one station to another on a long drawn out trip home. The trip was made all the more joyful by the three drunks that joined us in Woking, having been there drinking for three hours. The whole carriage found this out when they told us all. A carriage full of sleeping commuters groaned in unison as their sleep was disturbed by three loud and obnoxious drunks.

Still, eventually I made it home and collapsed on the lounge, enjoying the total quiet (ignoring the snuffling and puffling of the poodles) of the house.

And I almost forgot that today was Nicktor’s birthday. So many happy returns to Mr Cansfield with hopes of a birthday dram when next we meet.

I met Mirinda at the flat today and we decided, rather than have Turkish for lunch (as we have done many times) that we would go for a walk and find somewhere different. And so we found ourselves in Limehouse and the surprisingly inappropriately named Narrow Street.

The section of the Thames Path near Mirinda has been closed for a long time due to the seemingly endless construction of a building close to Canary Wharf dock. For as long as Mirinda has been at the flat, walking to the dock has meant going via rather ugly, traffic strewn streets or making a huge detour through the Canary Wharf business district.

Last week, however, Mirinda found that the Thames Path had reopened along this section which now gives her a much more pleasant trip back to the flat, the Thames on one side all the way. In celebration, this is the way we decided to walk, which is how we found ourselves in Limehouse.

Along the way, Mirinda pointed out the various balconied flats she’d like to live in (only the ones with a river view, of course) when she tires of her present abode. This is always a pleasant exercise.

Crane like flats with massive balconies

We have both been as far as the dock but further along the Thames Path was all new to us. Where warehouses once loomed, is now flats. Each building, designed to blend in with a once largely mercantile area, now line the path, giving it all an aura of respectability and high cost. A wonderful turning bridge (the Narrow Street Swing Bridge), flats designed to look like long-removed cranes, peace and quiet broken only by the occasional jogger and cyclist. It was all very pleasant.

Limehouse Basin, the other side of the swing bridge

Through a gate (open 8am to 9pm daily) and through to Narrow Street, Limehouse.

Judging by the street names and the age of the buildings, Narrow Street has changed an awful lot since redevelopment has visited the non-river side of it. A giant seagull, mouth open in an eternal squawk, keeping company with a strange old man in a wheelchair who could almost have been left over from more seagoing days, sits in bronze glory at the head of what reminded me more of a Parisian park than something in London. This means it was covered in gravel and the trees are very sculpted.

We spotted Booty’s, a small river side pub that promised great food and real ale. A small sign informed us that while it may not serve the best food, it certainly sold the cheapest. We didn’t let this put us off and entered.

What a fantastic find! A wonderful old pub that seemed to be inhabited by the ghosts of long ago crews and pipe smoking salty dogs. At the other end to the street, a swing door opened onto the river, a ladder (I presume) leading down to anyone arriving by boat. A big Union Jack, fluttering in the breeze and the waves lapping at the underside of the building every time a ferry went by at high speed made for a wonderful lunchtime spot.

Limehouse was so named because lime kilns (Lymehostes) were built there in the fourteenth century. It has been a natural docking place since the first wharf was built in 1348. During Elizabethan times, the street was indeed extremely narrow, buildings separated by just a few metres either side of what could only be described as a lane.

We ordered jacket potatoes and I had a lovely pint of Oxford Gold (a Brakspear ale I particularly like) as we sat, looking out onto the river. We fantasised about living on the other side of the river, a boat moored in front of our house and rowing over to our local pub. Mirinda then expanded this to include me rowing her to work each day with Carmen forming the figurehead and Day-z on her lap. The thought was a pleasant one, I must say. Once I’d swapped the oars for an outboard motor.

After a lovely lunch, we wandered back to the flat, in time for Mirinda to turn around and set off once more for an after lunch business coffee with someone from the office while I headed back to the dock and the ferry home.

One sad note to the lunchtime was this rather sad and neglected pub which, I’m pretty sure, ‘Hope’ has abandoned. It looks like the owner’s held out against the modern developments happening around them but, eventually, just lost interest and moved away.

The Anchor and Hope, a bit beyond TLC

Wednesday. Lunch date with my wife. Time and place, the usual. I waited. And waited. No wife. Tried all manner of communication channels to find her. No luck. An hour late, she turned up, all apologetic. She had been involved in one of her high powered meetings and couldn’t get away. Naturally I forgave her. We went to lunch.

It’s sometimes tough when you’re married to such a high powered wife. There’s all these irritating people who want to make deals with her. They steal my time! Still, this one was very successful and she managed to convince them she was right (she does this SO well).

We had lunch in a little cafe near Embankment then had a lovely stroll up to Holborn (she had another post-lunch meeting which, at it’s end, she still didn’t know what it was about). It was such a lovely day in London – no sign of rioters anywhere. A lovely day for a wander.

Of course, I’d been to the flat beforehand, taking over Mirinda’s stuff she had taken to Oz. (It’s only since reading Baum’s Oz books that I realise how magical Australia can be when the name is shortened.)

I was running late (oh, irony of ironies) so didn’t take the ferry for our lunch date, having to take the DLR then the LOOOOOONG walk underground to Monument. For a change I decided to get off at Temple and see if it is any closer. It isn’t. I’ll not be doing that again.

Still, as WS Gilbert said: “Faint heart never won fair lady!” I trudged along the pavement heading for the usual spot, outside the Savoy and opposite the statue to Sullivan (Gilbert’s chum). The one with the semi-clad lady.

On the way back from lunch, I snapped a few photographs around London. Here’s a few, just to show it isn’t all smashed up.

Corner of The Strand & Aldwych

Actually, this was my blip for today but I thought it worth repeating as it looks so peaceful.

The Thames from Waterloo Bridge

Underpass at the IMAX, Waterloo

I always find this intriguing. It’s the massive IMAX cinema on the roundabout near Waterloo and is all modern and high tech. Then, all around it are these vines seemingly growing from a jungle somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I do find it oddly imaginative.

Back at home, a sad and sorry sight was waiting in the garden. The gladdies had become saddies as their faces were facing the ground, their stalk bent over. Now, it would be very easy to blame the poodles, a squirrel or a cat but I actually think it was the wind. It was very blowy today and the stalk is quite high. Needless to say, it has been staked. The stalk, not the wind.

Gladiolus - day ten

I can’t believe I’ve been posting pictures of the gladiolus for ten straight days! Extraordinary. I’ll have to stop soon.

Oh and, to be honest, I really blame the cat.

Every morning, when I wake and go downstairs, the poodles throw themselves against door. It sounds like a mob of policemen trying to shoulder the door from its hinges. I open the door and the redirect their onslaught onto my legs. I manage to force my way to the back door which, when opened, is rushed by Day-z in search of her celebration toy (or, rather, whichever piece she finds first) and to relieve herself. Carmen stays with me as I put the kettle on, having the sort of cast iron bladder us lesser species can only dream of. How she leaps about, wiggles and generally shakes her entire body at me is a wonder to behold. I know I couldn’t do it.

This morning, however, things were slightly different. Instead of staying with me, Carmen joined Day-z in the rush for the garden. I made my coffee and retired to the long lounge to watch Breakfast.

Usually the poodles will join me, falling asleep so fast you’d think they hadn’t just slept through the night, but not today. After half an hour I went to see what they were up to.

On the lawn, beneath one of the birdfeeders, was a small collection of black and white feathers. Standing, staring intently at the hedge that separates us from next door, were the poodles.

Official SOCO image #0001

Mirinda thinks Carmen is a bird killer. This is based on very little evidence apart from the fact that she once brought a dead bird to the back door. I still believe she found the dead bird and was showing us, in order for us to discover the real killer.

The poodles never bother the birds. In fact Day-z can sit for hours just watching them. Squirrels are another matter but they are way too fast and clever to be caught so it’s just a question of chasing them off when they get too bold – like coming within 10 feet of a poodle.

This morning was evidence of Carmen’s innocence. The bird that had once owned the feathers could not have been attacked by a poodle as they were inside all night. The culprit had to be a cat.

Later, once I’d woken up properly, I carried out a fingertip search for any further evidence of avian slaughter but couldn’t find any. Day-z eventually came inside and went to sleep but Carmen maintained her vigil, just staring at the undergrowth at the limit of the electric signal. I can only assume she has remained alert for the entire day.

During the investigation, the poodles look to me for guidance

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After talking to Mirinda, I set off for the flat. There was a bag of rubbish waiting to be let out and the mail to retrieve. Also Mirinda wanted me to order some IKEA, wash the windows and measure some stuff.

Rain was threatened (becoming pretty regular this summer and quite unfair since I had it in Queensland as well) so I sweltered in my raincoat. The train ride was uneventful as was the Tube and I arrived at the flat by about 2:30.

I half expected to be greeted at the door by the rubbish, seeing as it had been hanging around long enough to evolve into a life form, and was surprised that the flat smelled fine. Mirinda wasn’t 100% sure what was actually in the rubbish and, after her stories of growing fruit trees in her schoolbag many years ago, I’m never entirely certain what I’ll find. But the rubbish was both life and harm less.

I set to my tasks, ordered a Billy bookcase in the correct colour, measured things – I was pleasantly surprised at how neat the flat was. After I ordered the bookcase, the delivery date returned to me was next Wednesday. Given it was getting on for 3:30, I decided to leave the window cleaning until then, as I’d be there anyway. I left and caught the DLR to Bank.

A while ago I purchased a new media centre but didn’t have the right cable for it. The one I did have needed something because the sound reproduction was rubbish. I needed to get to Maplins (Malpins for the purists) to sort out the right one. Not that I need an excuse to go one of my favourite shops but it does help if I actually need to buy something.

They had a bewildering display of leads with an equally bewildering collection of connectors but I found the one I wanted and headed back to Waterloo in time to catch the 444 at 4:25. The rain started just outside Woking. My raincoat poked its tongue out at me.

Apart from the half term crowds (it seems to me that there are far too many half term periods in England; when do the kids learn anything?) it was the perfect day to visit London. Even the train journey into Waterloo was enjoyable. Well, apart from guard who insisted on telling us that the arrival time into Waterloo was “oh nine fifty nine”. While that was tiresome, I’m the first to acknowledge he was 100% correct – as I left the train, the station clocked over to 09:59. Impressive!

I didn’t have long to wait for a Jubilee line tube either. I arrived at Canary Wharf 20 minutes later (10:19). When I emerged from the bowels of the earth, the first thing that struck me was the extreme blue of the sky and the skyscrapers glinting into it. Everything looked absolutely stunning.

Halfway across the sexy bridge at Canary Wharf

I was so struck, I blipped the impressive HSBC building and its sexy curved corners. But I had a mission before meeting Mirinda at the flat. I was searching for ODHs. I didn’t know they were called ODHs. I was looking for those sets of hooks that go over doors. Eventually, at John Dyas (which is what I call Robert Dyas…or the other way around) I found what I was looking for. Four glinting ODHs, made specifically for the most common of door widths.

This harks back to my attempt to purchase door hooks for the flat at Poirot’s place. The ‘common size’ hooks didn’t fit. I assumed that was because the Poirot flat was built in the 1920s and, therefore, was of an older, thicker commonality. Modern doors are clearly thinner (40 mm according to ODH literature). I managed to bodge the hooks a bit – not easy without a vice, dolly and ball-pin hammer but I sort of managed, though the door had to stay open.

The flat at Canary Wharf, however, was built in 2005 and so the doors (you’d think) would conform to a more modern standard; particularly as there appears to be well over a hundred flats in the complex, each with at least four internal doors. You’d think so, wouldn’t you. Well, you’d be wrong.

Either the builder decided to buy a few thousand non-standard doors or the ODH people have no idea what they’re talking about. None of them fitted. The doors are thicker than 40mm. They are the same as the doors at Poirot’s flat. Perhaps the builder bought a job lot from a stripped out building from the 1920s. That seems far more likely than the fact that the ODHs are not of a standard size. Surely.

Anyway, casting aside the disappointment of the ODH fiasco, we eventually left for lunch at the Turkish place (Tavez café/deli) not far from the flat where we had a delicious pide each, some Turkish salad and coffee.

Actually, Mirinda had a latte while I had a real, sludgy Turkish coffee. It instantly took me back to James Balian and his week old brew of splodge sat atop his hob, bubbling away like a New Zealand mud pool. Sweet, thick, black and with a layer of something almost living at the bottom of the cup. This layer is not for drinking as it constantly releases more and more flavour throughout the life of the drink. It is also not a good idea to drink immediately after stirring Turkish coffee. Fortunately this is a lesson I learned many years ago. It was delicious.

From the café we strolled slowly down to the Canary Wharf dock to catch the ferry. This is Mirinda’s usual mode of commuting and is wonderful on a day like today. Though at this time of day, you are wrestling with tourists for the right to sit outside. Fortunately we won today and I took some video in order to show what a lovely journey to work she has.

It seems that youtube is now chucking ads into the videos! Just click the tiny ‘x’ if an ad appears. The music is Clannad singing Many Roads.

The train ride home was interesting.

A few phone calls…I had a guy having a conference call regarding a new computer install and the inherent problems associated with that. Five times he asked for a password to access something but they never let him have it. Another guy was having an argument with an associate about another person who never turns up for meetings. And a third guy who is in training and made about 30 calls trying to organise a training day.

A few chavs…an entire family of spotty, tattoo marked, feet on the seats, noisy, horrid chavs who I thought would leave the train at Aldershot but stayed on till Farnham and then couldn’t work out how to get their stroller out of the carriage.

That makes it sound quite unbearable when it was actually not too bad – I was typing this post and hardly noticed them!

Oh, and I noticed at 7pm that the pips are back. I need to find out more…

While today was a public holiday, it wasn’t really the beginning of our holiday as we stayed in Canary Wharf and do not leave until tomorrow. We went for a lovely long walk after watching the TV for what felt like an entire wedding.

We walked all around Mill Quay. Although certainly not hot, and with only occasional appearances by dear old Sol, it was still pleasant walking weather. The best thing was the almost complete absence of other people. Apparently they were all on the other side of London.

We did spot some of the inhabitants but they looked a bit like this…

Some sort of gull resting on the marina

There was also a group of around six male ducks chasing one female duck. The males were gradually reduced until only two remained, both wanting the female, who remained aloof and unconcerned throughout the entire rout. The most aggressive one stayed close to her tail as the other chap floated a bit further away, clearly intent on a surprise attack.

He pretended he was very interested in a massive swan that was floating by but this didn’t fool the other duck. He was on the other duck before he realised what had hit him (the aggressive duck’s webbed feet) sending him flying away.

Leaving the ducks to bill and coo and kiss on a balcony, we checked out a few possible river flats for Mirinda to move into next year as we wandered along the remaining part of the Thames Path. This ended at the massive building site near Canary Wharf Pier so we turned right and went for a late lunch.

There were a number of options for lunch/dinner but Mirinda decided we should try the pizza place that was closed last week when we were forced to be largely ignored at Cafe Rouge.

I’m glad we did. Lovely pizza, lovely beer and a great practice run before tomorrow.

Just outside the pizza place is this big statue of two big blokes sitting on a bench. I thought it good enough to blip (I just blipped a head) and even more so to have here in my blog.

Statues outside Gourmet Pizza, Canary Wharf

It’s a bit hard to gauge the size in that photo so I took a shot of my hand on top of one of the statue’s.

Gaz hand on giant hand

After lunch we went to Waitrose to do some linen shopping (the Waitrose at Canary Wharf is full of everything – it’s like Harrods only more reasonably priced…just) for the flat. Mirinda has been waiting for me to be with her so I can carry it all back to the flat. It’s because her arms are too long and the bags are too big.

It was a lovely easy day, just right as a prelude to tomorrow and the start of our multiple train rides.

Or so Mirinda said. She had a couple of meetings miles apart and barely time to register my presence. But before that…

She has decided to take her netbook away with us rather than the portable DVD player. This way she can load films/TV programmes onto the netbook and watch them through iTunes. All well and good and a lot less to carry when you consider the player AND the DVDs AND the fact that she’d probably bring the netbook anyway.

Trouble is, when we loaded something onto the netbook it didn’t render very well. It was all jerky and impossible to watch more than two seconds of content. It looked like it was going to be the extra suitcase full of technology unless I could do something miraculous.

So, stepping into a handy telephone booth I quickly changed into my secret disguise as Mr Fixitup and hightailed it up to Canary Wharf to secretly fix the netbook. Actually it wasn’t so quick. I spent a few hours last night working out what the problem was with the help of a few forums and techies that know stuff that I can only imagine. To be fair, I can’t even imagine most of it.

Arriving at the flat I immediately set to work (with the IPL cricket on in the background). It was a long, drawn out process (quite the opposite to the cricket) but I managed to fix it. And I take it back. As much as I hate all things Apple, it wasn’t their fault. It was the high spec of the netbook which needed taking down a peg or two in order to play the antique Apple generated files.

Meanwhile, Mirinda was starting a meeting which consisted of a ridiculous amount of individual five minute presentations with nary a breath for pausing. It was late starting and, eventually, late in ending. We had already planned an elaborate meeting which took ages to work out. The change in time merely meant I had longer to watch the cricket…I mean, fix the netbook. Which I did and then wandered across to South Quays station, where I hopped the DLR to meet her near the young ballerina sitting on her chair.

The view of the DLR tracks from South Quays station

This is the view from where I sat in the sun, reading and waiting.

A row of red telephone boxes

It was very pleasant, particularly as I was sitting beneath a rather scrawny but effective for all that, tree.

Eventually Mirinda met me with the rather irritated remark that our lunchtime would now consist of walking to her next meeting which was to be held in Portcullis House which is opposite the Houses of Parliament. She was meeting a man from the government to discuss something important (again, I am sworn to secrecy and all I can say is that it wasn’t David Cameron she was meeting).

The area around the Houses of Parliament is renowned for two main things: Firstly the crowds are always horrendous made worse by the ever present roadworks and, secondly, there’s very few places to eat. For starters, the Nero’s is so small it can only fit one bar stool in it and a barista. I guess they (the politicians) don’t want to encourage people to eat too much. What with the obesity levels the way they are.

For whatever reason, we ended up buying sandwiches from a girl in Boots who didn’t understand Mirinda when she asked if the building we were in was Portcullis House (it wasn’t). After Mirinda had left, the girl asked me what she’d said. After I repeated it, she was still no clearer.

We found Portcullis House and ate our sandwiches beneath one of it’s arches before I left Mirinda to enter the heavy security through which she had to pass to reach her top secret meeting. She tells me that during the meeting a loud horn went off and all the ministers jumped up and ran out, yelling over their shoulders that they had to get to the House and vote. Given the crowds out on the street, I can only assume they have a secret passage.

And then I went home (after picking up a certain fridge magnet that a certain person asked me pick up). And that was it. Mirinda has since apologised for being irritated. I told her she was a lot better than she was in her last job. It think that made her feel a whole lot better. And, by the way, she thought the person she met with wasn’t up to much.

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And just a glimpse of what Nicktor’s week in Germany was like. He tells me he drank the beer first.

This is the view from where we had intended to have dinner tonight.

The view from the outside seats at Cafe Rouge, Canary Wharf

I say ‘intended’ but we ended up inside. When we arrived there were quite a few people eating outside so we figured they would serve us as well. Some guys were even wearing shorts and t-shirts like me so we knew there was no dress code. Anyway, out of politeness, we asked an older chap who looked like the manager if we could sit outside and he said “sure” (or something like ‘sure’ – it was hard to tell as he mumbled and didn’t look at you when he spoke). We ordered drinks after he gave us the menus and he left.

After a while we wondered whether anyone would take our order. We gave all the right signals and there was a bunch of them standing by the door at various times but no-one seemed to want our business. Eventually we moved inside where we had to ask to be served.

Again we were served by the older chap. We ordered dinner which he didn’t write down and subsequently got wrong and chuckled about it. Obviously they do a roaring trade and therefore have no need to actually serve Monday night stragglers. There was a table of four not far from us who were getting the same sort of service as we were. Not a lot.

The reason we were eating at Canary Wharf was because we decided to take our luggage to the flat for our Italian trip. We don’t leave till Saturday but we thought it smarter to leave from the flat. We left home after lunch and had an almost uneventful train and tube trip. It was ‘almost’ because the tube train decided to stop in the tunnel for what seemed like hours (to Mirinda) but was actually about five minutes (in real time).

Most of the morning was spent washing clothes and packing, trying to fit it all into one suitcase. I’ve come to the conclusion that Mirinda always packs to the size of the suitcase plus half. We wanted to try and limit our luggage this trip as we’ll be going by train and it just makes it easier to move around from city to city. So we decided to use the big silver one. When we’d finished, we had the silver suitcase plus a smaller case. So, one plus a half.

Next time we try this, I’m going to go for the three quarter size suitcase we have, knowing that Mirinda will fill this and then have a ‘half’ pile beside it. I will then pack it all into the silver suitcase. As long as she forgets this post, I’m betting it will work.

Anyway, we eventually had our meal (lovely as usual) but decided to forgo dessert as the time was getting on. I walked Mirinda back to her flat and then made the long journey home to the poodles.

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I forgot to mention our hornbeam. It is in blossom and going insane, spreading its little seeds everywhere. It sort of resembles dandelion seeds except there is an awful lot of it. Every time the wind blows, it releases another cloud. Consequently, our garden (and most rooms in the house) is covered with it. Here is just a small bit of it.

Blossom from the hornbeam

When the conservatory guy came on Saturday, his bald head was covered in it, giving him a sort of blonde afro hairstyle.