The House Husband

Stephen Hendry retired from International snooker competitions yesterday. He was knocked out of the world championship at the Crucible by Steven Maguire, a fellow Scot and he made the announcement almost straight away.

This small event probably doesn’t mean much in the scheme of things but Hendry has been around for as long as I can remember snooker. Though I was always firmly in the Jimmy White camp – mainly because, like me, he wore an earring – Hendry was always there, with his own brand of methodical cuemanship. He was always a force to be reckoned with.

He is the youngest player to ever win the world title (aged 21) and ended up winning it seven times, throughout a career that included every major tournament in the snooker playing world.

He’ll be missed on the international circuit. Not just by the fans but also by his fellow competitors because word has it he’s also a very nice chap. Nothing shows this more than during his final match when he shared a little chat with his opponent, something that very rarely happens.

Stephen Hendry managed to finish in great style by scoring a maximum 147 break during his previous match, a feat I was lucky enough to see. It seemed a fitting way to end a shining career.

Thank you, Stephen, for many hours of enjoyment and inspiration and, in part, for making snooker what it is today. You may be missed but you’ll never be forgotten.

A great snooker star

In other news…I had my weekly lunch date with Mirinda today. We met at the flat and went for a lovely stroll (albeit under steely grey skies) around the Mill Quay.

We spotted a few birds, including this duck with the rather odd bill decoration. Is this some sort of strange bird piercing?

Does my bill look big in this?

We also saw a preening cormorant but he refused to spread his wings out for me. He was on the Tern Float, in the opposite corner to the coot on the nest I photographed a few weeks ago. The coot was still there, by the way.

You lookin' at me?

After the usual lovely lunch at our Lebanese restaurant, we walked back to the flat before I made the long journey home.

Mirinda had book group today so I took the opportunity to go up to the flat to (finally) get the wheels sorted for the coffee table. There was also the urgent issue of the DVD player needing replacing. Her old one (which wasn’t that old but was very cheap) decided to give up the ghost last week and, given the sorry state of ‘live’ television and her need to watch what she wants when she wants it, we had to replace it ASAP. So, yesterday I bought a new one and today I took it to the flat and plugged it in.

The train trip in was uneventfully pleasant – given I had no time restraints, I caught the wonderful 9am 444 which meant I had a table and non-crowded with commuters journey. As we pulled into Waterloo, I checked my London Underground app for the latest tales of woe on the Tube but was very pleased to note that all lines were showing a good service. It’s interesting that the best service is a good one rather than excellent. I guess they never want to boast.

I took myself down to the depths of the Jubilee Line and caught a train almost immediately. It was pleasantly devoid of the usual hordes. I sat back and read some more about the origins of the English language.

I became a bit concerned when the train remained at Southwark for much longer than required. The doors were open and the train was doing nothing. Eventually a platform announcement filtered in declaring that the Jubilee Line was not running at Southwark station. My ears, as well as those others not clogged up with earplugs and headphones, pricked up.

We then had a fairly unintelligible announcement from our driver. I heard this announcement many times over the next 40 minutes and it seemed to say that we were being delayed because a passenger had been on a train at Finchley, causing delays out of London Bridge. This made no sense as one would assume that passengers on trains were more the norm than reasons for delays.

A few of my fellow passengers left the train in disgust. I was on the verge of following them when a new announcement came that the doors were closing and we were about to leave. As the train started pulling out of Southwark, the looks on the faces of the people who had abandoned it showed their disgust had only increased.

We then had a long, stop and start journey to Canary Wharf. A trip that normally (whatever that means) takes 20 minutes was increased two fold (or 200% as Nicktor would undoubtedly claim). At least the train wasn’t in the least bit crowded. I just read. The comatose chap opposite me simply listened to some tinny rubbish living on his phone.

Finally at Canary Wharf, I discovered the reason we were delayed was because someone had been under a train at Finchley rather than on one, which I have to admit is more probable cause for disruption. I’m pretty sure my train was one of the few that managed to get through and I thanked the devilish sprites that haunt the Tube network for sparing me an even worse experience. Clearly it wasn’t my turn this time.

All my bits and pieces ready and waiting

I dumped everything at the flat then headed back out to do Mirinda’s food shopping at Waitrose where the check-out lady took great delight in reading my badges. When she read (out loud) the one that says “Say yes to vodka” she let out a delighted cheer and held up her hand for a high five. I happily obliged, saying “Every time”. Even though my days of neat vodka are well behind me and I’d be more likely to say “no” I didn’t want to disappoint her.

On the way back to the flat I, stupidly as it turned out, stopped at Starbucks for a coffee. The Canary Wharf branch has a new worker. A young guy with very little skill. All he had to do was to take the orders and write them on the cups. He was so incompetent that the barista checked and redid every one. This meant every order took twice as long as it should. Which meant I was there far longer than I should have been. The guy who made my coffee took pity on me and gave me a voucher for a free coffee. Which I’ll never use.

These free coffee vouchers are pointless for me. They entitle the holder to a free tall coffee, which is the standard small drink. Given I drink a grande, triple shot, hazelnut latte, makes them pointless. Nero does the same with their loyalty cards. I have a growing collection of free drinks which I regularly give to the poor.

Eventually, coffee in hand, I returned to the flat and set about putting the wheels on the coffee table. I organised my tools and the replacement bolts then removed the axles and overlong bolts that came with them. All was looking good. I marked out the, now upside down, table and retrieved my cordless drill. I started drilling. After about four revolutions, the drill stopped. The battery was flat.

Rather than throw the drill off the balcony in indignant frustration, I immediately raced down to Robert Dyas and bought a new one. Of course, this had to be charged so, while I waited for the trickle to become a torrent of energy, I had lunch. I then set up the new DVD player, making sure it worked. I also set the set top box off, scanning for the new channels that had all disappeared with the advent of the death of the analogue signals in London. Eventually the battery was sufficiently charged.

A new battery, ideally, needs about six hours for the first charge but I figured with only four holes to drill, that I could get away with a lot less. The first two holes were fine but then I had to put the drill back on to charge for the final two.

Just one of four

Finally I had the coffee table rolling back and forth across the new carpet like a bulldog on a skateboard. It was a great moment. I paused for a moment to glory in the achievement and then cleaned up before packing my bag and leaving.

As usual, I’d wanted to do more but the energy problem forbade such luxury. I headed down to the ferry (not wanting to risk the disappointment that is the Jubilee Line) for a gorgeous trip back down the Thames to Waterloo and home.

A friendly ferry sign

Quite a successful day, really.

Earl Scruggs died today. He was an amazing banjo player. He played banjo on the theme tune for The Beverly Hillbillies along with Lester Flatt who, together, formed the Foggy Mountain Boys.

Earl was born in 1924 and popularised the three fingered banjo picking style which is what makes bluegrass music sound the way it does. He was so influential it became known as the Scruggs Style.

Here’s a great bit of plucking from Earl, Steve Martin and a few others.

Apart from thinking about bluegrass and hillbillies, I spent quite a bit of time in the garden today. I actually mowed the lawn – the first time since I broke my wrist. To be fair, it didn’t really need a mow until last week as it was settling down from the path but, even so, it was pretty lush. It now looks much better.

I also weeded then dumped a whole load of horse manure on the hot bed to give it a good feed. The day was hot and sunny so it was no problem working in it.

Speaking of which, yesterday Mirinda and I had lunch in Canary Wharf and had a lovely walk around in the sun. The whole place looked sparkly and new. Lots of people were out enjoying it, even the joggers, who normally look like they’re pushing the agony barrier.

Of course we saw lots of birds. These were my favourites. I think they’re Egyptian geese. They look like someone has pushed all their feathers up to their heads. They were involved in a bit of argy bargy and looked for all the world as if one wanted to pass the other but was refusing to move out of the way. Given they were in the middle of a huge basin of water, this was a bit silly.

Do you mind moving out of my way?

We also watched a pair of coots adding building material to their nest aboard the Tern Raft. The male gave his mate this long bit of twig but she wasn’t too certain. She also threw other bits off, which he’d take away for her. I reckoned he would then bring the same bit back, telling her it was a different twig.

And what am I supposed to do with this?

I like all the rubbish they’ve collected for the nest. And the little shrub they’ve planted for a bit of shade. Here’s their view back up the marina.

Looking back from the Tern Raft

We watched them for quite a while, before heading off for lunch at our favourite Lebanese restaurant. This weather is really spoiling us.

When we purchased the Canary Wharf flat, the beige carpet in the living room had a rug on it. I can only assume it was meant to break up the beige-ness, given the carpet and the similar walls. Whoever chose the rug clearly only saw things in black and white (or merely shades of beige) and decided a rug the same colour as the carpet would be just perfect. It has irritated Mirinda for as long as we’ve owned the place.

A couple of weekends ago, Mirinda finally decided on a rug she liked and I was tasked with ordering it and then organising delivery at the flat. After a bit of a hiccough last week when they wanted to deliver it on a day I’d not be able to take delivery, it was rescheduled for this afternoon.

I duly accompanied Mirinda on the train into town, making a trip to Waitrose for food before letting myself into the flat.

I had decided that I would make myself very useful today. The delivery was timed to be between 1 and 5pm so I could have a long wait. There’s a number of outstanding jobs around the flat which I needed a few articles of hardware to do so I went to Robert Dyas. I have to say that the Canary Wharf branch of Robert Dyas is pretty close to useless when it comes to wall anchors and drill bits!

My next stop was Waitrose. For the second time. Mirinda wants an iPod docking station with a CD player attached. Should be easy to find in the electric department of John Lewis, one would think. And easy to find is exactly what it was. I found one that would fit the bill. Finding a shop assistant, however, was not as simple.

I waited for ages, looking like I needed assistance, desperate to give them some money in exchange for goods. Eventually I approached the nearest cash point. There was no-one there. I was about to give up when a chap appeared, arms full of boxes. I asked if he could help me since he ignored me somewhat. He pointed, with his chin, at a man with a baby, mumbling something about serving him.

There then entailed a lengthy procedure of the man with the baby trying to buy a cable. Every time he came close to completing the transaction, the child decided to run off. The man would retrieve the child and start again. I think the child has perhaps just started to walk and is full of inquisitive wanderings. The man had a stroller which made me wonder why he didn’t use it in such a situation.

Eventually, though, the man took his package and left. The shop assistant then turned to me and asked what I wanted. He was very polite but failed to smile or make me feel he actually wanted my business. I explained I wanted to buy a stereo and took him to the one on display. He then searched all the shelves I had already scoured, turning up nothing. He then went to his terminal, punched a fe numbers in and turned back to me.

“Sorry, sir, we don’t have that one.” He explained, clearly bored.
“Well, I wonder that it’s on display, if you can’t actually sell one. What’s that about?” I asked with incredible restraint.

He had no answer, merely shrugging. I left for the escalator going down to the homewares department.
Apart from the bland rug, the flat also contains the most useless collection of glassware I think I’ve ever seen. Unless you want an eyebath or a glass of champagne, the vessels are next to useless. Mirinda wanted some nice bright tumblers – the kind of glasses that normal people have in their cupboards.

The Olympics have a lot to answer for in this city. Apart from thinking everyone who drinks beer only drinks foreign, fizzy, tasteless rubbish, they have also infiltrated the homeware shelves of John Lewis. If you really want glasses or mugs emblazoned with the Olympic logo or weird mascots, then you’re more than adequately catered for. If, like me, you just want some normal glass tumblers, the choice is not so wide.

After a search that Dr Livingstone would have been proud of, I managed to find the only coloured tumblers (not in a box mind you, unlike the Olympic ones) and bought four. The shop assistant (aged about 30) called me young man for some inexplicable reason but at least she smiled and seemed pleased to be serving me.
It then occurred to me to try Curry’s for the iPod/CD combo. I looked at my watch and I had an hour before the rug was due. I could have saved myself the trip. The only one they had was ridiculously overpriced and was unbelievably ugly. I walked out of the store before anyone could accost me. Not that anyone looked in the least ready to accost me but I like to pretend I’m visible sometimes.

Even Starbucks was incredibly slow. This was mainly due to the fact that an employee was buying a coffee (obviously his day off) which meant everyone had to chat with him rather than serve everyone else in the queue behind him.

Starbucks have started asking for your name when you order a take away coffee so they can write it n the cup. I have no problem with this and am amazed at how many variations for ‘Gary’ that there are. ‘Gheri’, being my favourite at the moment. Because I was in a rug-arrival hurry, I just said ‘G’. The girl looked at me quizzically but my expression made it plain I was in no mood to dally. When I collected my drink, the cup had ‘Gee’ written on it.

The rug arrived at about 3:30 and I immediately spread it where the beige on had, until recently lay. It looks fantastic. In the words of the Dude, “It really brings the room together.” Here’s a photo I took with my phone, which I sent to Mirinda, prompting her to immediately ring me to discuss it.

The new red rug

I managed to get the 4:30 train home. Apart from the rug and four glasses, it wasn’t the most successful of days! Though, I did find Wally. he was outside Waitrose.

Where's Wally Faberge Egg

The dogs were sent to the kennel, the house tidied for a viewing, my hair washed and face shaved and, finally, I was off to London to meet Mirinda for our monthly trip to the West End.

Today we saw the amazingly wonderful One Man Two Guvners at the Adelphi Theatre. It’s a modern reworking of the Goldini play The Servant of Two Masters and is hilarious. We laughed so much we thought we’d explode. I understand why tickets are s hard to get hold of.

I can also see why it transferred from the National after word on the street alerted the population to the fact that it is brilliant. It was on a limited run at National but the theatre going public demanded more performances!

And not only that…it’s soon to transfer once more, this time to the Theatre Royal Haymarket. And if the performance we saw today is anything to go by (a matinee completely full) then they could just run and run…except…

I think part of the reason behind the success of this play is the fact that James Corden is playing the lead role. He is excellent as Francis Henshall, the ‘man’ of the title, to the extent that I feel sorry for anyone who will not have seen him by the time his run has ended.

But I am getting just a little bit ahead of myself. As I reached the Strand, I realised there was a bit of a demo going on. I figured I’d have a problem crossing the road, thinking back over other demos I’d been caught up in. Zurich, Paris, etc – we’d always end up being on the wrong side of the road. So it was only natural that I was afraid I’d miss meeting Mirinda at our preordained meeting place.

I watched as the monstrous crowd of about 150 protesters marched by. It was a bit difficult to work out what they were protesting about except maybe the humanitarian efforts to save the pink bear from extinction.

Hippies, especially in pink bear outfits, should be avoided

After the police vans, which outnumbered the demonstrators by about five to one, I managed to easily skip across the road and meet Mirinda outside the Adelphi Theatre, which was just a heaving mass of humanity.

Which brings me back to the play! Which was brilliant…which I believe I’ve said. Mirinda claimed it was the best thing she’s ever seen (again). Very highly recommended for anyone who wants to ache from laughter.

As I said, James Corden really makes the stage his own and the play will be very different with a different lead but, like the transition from David Tennant to Matt Smith, we can only hope that the casting is sufficiently different to make it work.

I would just like to thank Ben, profusely for insisting we go and see it. Boy, was it worth it.

After the play (during which we missed the horrendous downpour) we headed down to the ferry then took the slow boat to Canary Wharf where we rested up before our dinner date at Amerigo Vespucci.

Great food (lovely Italian), great service and great that it’s very close to the flat. Which is why we’ve dumped the dogs into the kennel. You see, this weekend is not just our monthly going to London and watching a West End show type of thing…it’s also our living in the UK anniversary. 14 years. That’s how long we’ve been here. We drank a toast then carried on talking about Mirinda’s French lessons.

The meal was fine apart from there being too much calamari in the starter. Way too filling!

All in all, a lovely day. Tomorrow we’re supposed to be going to Greenwich…we shall see.

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.