The House Husband

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 us 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.

Now that Mirinda’s office is painted the correct shade of blue, we figured it was time for her big pictures to grace the walls. We had already moved them from her old office to her studio flat, where I hung them and then across to the Canary Wharf flat where they’ve sat, bound up in bubblewrap, waiting behind an upright mirror. Given it was a Wednesday, it was decided I would go to the flat, pick up the pictures and meet her at work.

And so I set off beneath steely grey clouds, hoping the rain would hold off falling on me during any time I was outside. On the way to the station I spotted a lovely sea of daffodils and snapped them for a possible blip today, little knowing this was one of the only bits of bright joy I would see today. I have recently started blipping yellow subjects and these were a likely candidate. As it turned out I used something else but include the daffs here.

A sweeping sea of daffodils

The train into Waterloo was uneventful (I actually slept for most of it) and I headed down to the Jubilee Line where my travails began. There were no trains between Green Park and London Bridge. People were milling and moaning and asking obtuse questions so I headed up to the Waterloo East line, thinking I could get a train to London Bridge and easily transfer down to the Tube from there. My thinking, while correct, should have been employed to deciding not to collect the paintings this week!

I was not alone in my plan. Hordes of disgruntled passengers waited on platform A at Waterloo East for the next train. I wonder why the platforms at Waterloo East are letters rather than numbers? It’s quite odd. I guess it’s to differentiate between Waterloo proper, which has numbered platforms (like normal) but it’s a long way between the two stations and the lines are separate enough that you’d never get mixed up. It’s probably something I’ll never know.

So I’m bundled onto a less than comfortable train for the usual stop start trip to the next station. Behind me was a rather dirty looking fellow with a wheelie contraption which had a big toolbox attached to it. He was sweating and grumbling profanities under his breath. Although not quite enough under his breath as everyone heard his complaints. He then made a very loud phone call which began without the usual pleasantries such as “Hello” and instead started with “Is it ‘oomid’ or is it just me?“. he was moaning about having to travel all the way to Charing Cross with his tools and was now on his way deep into Kent. he claimed with the addition of another hour, he could be in Spain. He explained to the person on the other end of the phone that Eurostar only takes two hours. Fortunately I escaped any more of his entirely pointless conversation as the train arrived at London Bridge. And, just for the record, no-one could call today humid, ‘oomid’ or even mildly damp.

So I made my way down to the Tube to find a few hundred other unhappy travellers queueing politely at the doors. A Tube train sat in the station, doors closed, empty. It’s like having a chocolate bar suspended on a stick just inches away from your grasp. I joined a queue and waited. And waited.

The indicator boards kept changing their minds. Sometimes the next train was a minute away and then, suddenly without warning, it was 14 minutes. And then, the next train was out of service and due in 5 minutes. A message over the tannoy cleared it all up. A massive signal failure had affected all the trains between Green Park and Waterloo and someone ‘taken ill’ at Canary Wharf was causing problems in the other direction. The thought crossed my mind that I could still back out and walk to Mirinda’s office without the pictures. Sadly, I ignored it.

After a (long) while, a Tube worker told us all that the train in the platform was the one the person was ‘taken ill’ on earlier in the day and, therefore, not fit for passenger use. I really want to know what this person did to it! Tube trains are not the nicest places to travel on so it must have been pretty dire. Actually, given that, I really do not want to know. Anyway, eventually it moved off to be dipped in acid or whatever it required and we were told the next train would be arriving shortly. The indicator board did not agree but we heard the whoosh of the approaching train and it pulled in quite quickly.

We all piled on, squashing up against windows and doors and quite smelly, halitosis suffering passengers. What is it with bad breath? How can they not know how bad they smell? I stopped breathing through my nose for the rest of the journey. A journey that did not start fro another ten minutes as we sat in the station.

When we set off down the tunnel, the driver told us that the trip was going to be slow because we were following the ‘taken ill’ train and it was going very slow. I was beginning to think whatever this person was suffering had to be pretty powerful to affect the drive mechanism of a Tube train and was seriously something no-one wanted to catch. Let’s hope the train is completely stripped and rebuilt before coming back into operation.

It was a ridiculously slow trip to Bermondsey and then Canada Water. In fact, had we moved any slower, we’d have stopped. The driver tried lightening the mood by making frequent jolly jests about the inefficiency of the line. it worked…a bit. When we pulled into Canada Water, there was a groan from those closest to the doors as a group of about ten 8 year olds with one teacher boarded.

I happen to think the idea of a school system where kids are kept off the streets works really well: It keeps them off the streets, out of the adult world of real things. And so I weep when masses of children hop on and off public transport in order to attend excursions around the city. It must be hell for the teachers keeping watch over them. Maybe it’s to give them an inkling of what a city worker goes through when catching the Tube. And because this train was going so slow, they all sat on the floor.

Of course, when the train pulled into Canary Wharf, these kids were not getting off and were all in front of the door. And, naturally, the majority of the other passengers were getting off at Canary Wharf. This had two effects. Firstly, there was a danger of squishing a few of them which, while doubtlessly a pleasurable experience, would have meant a delay and, secondly, a lot of them leapt up to grab the vacated seats. It was mayhem.

I managed to swipe a few out of the way and struggled to reach the door before the doors closed. I’m pretty sure a few others didn’t make it. You can bet that a train which has no problem standing idle in a tunnel for 15 minutes will only give you 30 seconds to get off before slamming the doors in your bewildered face.

The fresh air was a delight as I left the Jubilee Line for the outside world. Fortunately the sun was still hidden by clouds, otherwise I think the bright light would have blinded me. I checked my watch. I was going to be horribly late. It had taken me over an hour for a trip that normally takes 20 minutes.

Normally I’d pop into Starbucks for a coffee but not today. There would be no popping in to anywhere for anything. Apart from the flat. I popped in, grabbed the pictures and popped out again.

My plan was to walk up to the South Quay DLR station, go to Bank and grab a taxi from there. As I reached the platform, a train pulled in and I hopped on. As I sat down, I realised it was the first time I’d managed to get off my feet for an hour and a half. The trip to Bank was uneventful (thank the gods!) and I managed to wander the miles of tunnels to the exit at the Bank of England, finding a cab waiting at a set of lights.

And now ensued the longest trip of the day. We must have caught every red light and sometimes didn’t move through green lights because of the traffic. I could have walked it quicker, without the pictures that I still clung to. 25 minutes late, I texted Mirinda to say I’d arrived.

It occurs to me that I could have easily caught a Tube train to Bank from Waterloo and taken the DLR to the flat. Call me an idiot; this would probably have worked perfectly. I am kicking myself as I type…not an easy task as I keep falling off the chair. Still, that would have made a rather boring blog post.

Anyway, we had a lovely lunch then played Dodge the Tourists at Covent Garden while avoiding the rain. I was going to visit the Foundling Museum but I quickly realised I’d really rather go home again. The poodles were quite happy with that.

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And an amusing snippet found online today. Here is a story about a house that looks like Hitler.

Apparently, St Peter’s Church is the only floating church in London (perhaps the UK). It’s a barge which was sailed over from the Netherlands after a refit in 2003. It sits in the water in front of the Museum of London Docklands, the other side of Canary Wharf. By ‘the other side’ I mean if you drew a line with the centre at Canary Wharf DLR station, the flat is one way and this church the other. They claim it’s in the heart of Canary Wharf but I’m not sure I agree with the general location of the heart if this is truly the case.

Anyway, it’s quite unusual and I hoped it would be quite pretty. Actually, it just looks like a barge. I wanted to get a really good photo of it to blip but some Christian had parked his car right in front of it on the dock, making it impossible to get a decent shot. Pity as it was such a lovely morning for it. So, sadly, this will have to do.

St Peter's, the Floating Church, Canary Wharf

There’s a little more history of it here. More impressive is the Museum of London Docklands right opposite it which Mirinda and I are going to visit when we stay in town for our London holiday.

Also in front of the museum is a statue of this chap:

Robert Milligan

His name was Robert Milligan and he was a merchant and was one of those responsible for the building of the West India Docks in 1802, so that lots of sugar, rum and coffee could safely arrive from the Caribbean. Apparently he was an amazing man but it seems he may have turned a blind eye to all the slavery that was going at the time. He also little cared for the dockers who worked for him. When the area was gentrified, there was some who called for his statue to be removed but it remains.

Of course, I’m not usually in Canary Wharf on a Monday but I was meeting BT at the flat again to get the Internet sorted. They said the engineer would be there between 1 – 6pm so, effectively, I spent the day up there. After a jolly fun wander around in the blue sky sunshine, I did Mirinda’s grocery shopping then went to the flat for the big sit-in.

The engineer turned up at 5:20pm. While I waited, I vac’d, attached Mirinda’s new electric blanket, had a good sweep and watched Prince Caspian which I forgotten and thoroughly enjoyed for the second time.

The engineer was a very pleasant chap, as my experience of BT engineers has proven time and time again, and came equipped with a load of impressive computer equipment. He tested and checked, stripped and rewired and, eventually, said the problem was probably at the exchange and would go off and check that instead. He left at about 6 and I wasn’t far behind him.

I was amazed at how crowded Canary Wharf Jubilee Line tube station is at this time of night. Extraordinarily thick queues waiting on the platform. people don’t even walk down the escalator. It was like being lowered into the depths of hell. I figured I was in for a long wait. I couldn’t have been more wrong. A train was filling up as I made my way down and by the time I was at the doors, another train pulled in and I hopped straight on. granted it was very crowded (mostly with French business people) but the trip took the usual 20 minutes and I was onto the 6:30 train home at Waterloo. Again, this was very crowded but at least I had a seat.

I then received a call from BT to say that the engineer had finished and asking me if it was working. I told the operator (clearly another Indian) that I wasn’t there but would check later. She is ringing me again tomorrow to check. Then, a few hours later, the engineer called me (see, I said he was a nice chap) to say he’d checked the exchange but it needed a part replacing, which would happen tomorrow. You wonder sometimes why these people don’t communicate properly.

So, the up-shot is, it should be fixed for tomorrow. My fingers are firmly crossed. I have a busy week and do not want another day at the flat!

We spent a delightful Sunday this week. We had already planned for Mirinda to spend the night at the flat because of her first week at the new job, which included a conference which, while being the low point at the end, we decided to make as pleasant as possible.

After the usual trip into Farnham for lunch and other requirements as well as a Bob report on Claire’s latest progress, we set off for Hankley Common for a walk with the poodles.

It really is one of our favourite places. Apart from the beauty of the heathland, it is generally pretty much deserted and, on a fine day, glorious in the sunshine. And the day was beautifully blue. Hankley was as lovely as ever.

Hankley Common

The amazing thing is that, even though the heather is wearing its drab winter foliage, it’s still beautiful. It also helps mask the burnt bits by blending in perfectly.

True to form, there were only isolated pockets of dog walkers and walkers and a couple of girls on horses as we walked our usual route. It is so delightfully quiet – possibly one of the only places in Surrey where this happens with such regularity!

Back home, we had lunch and watched a few delightful episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm (we love Larry) before getting ready to head into town.

I was amazed that, for the first time in I don’t how long, the Jubilee Line was running a normal service on a Sunday. It would be a first for me. And then, it happened. A train or two broke down at London Bridge and the entire line was struck dumb. By the time we reached the barriers, it was suffering ‘severe delays’. We made a quick considered decision to donate a couple of fairs to Transport for London via our Oyster cards and headed back out and down to the ferry instead.

Of course, the sun was nearly down and the South Bank was as crowded as ever. The wheel looked lovely in the dying rays with a few contrails seeming to cut through it. I couldn’t resist taking a picture.

London Eye at sunset

The ferry ride was far more enjoyable than a sucky old tube train! Well, if you ignore the less than tepid coffee. According to Mirinda this is not generally the case so I can only blame the girl behind the bar. But, you can overlook such awful things when the view is so wonderful as the ferry chugs along the Thames. As we moved under Tower Bridge, all the tourists leapt forward to get photographs. It’s a lovely bridge, even with the scaffolding under it – I think they’re painting it.

We left the ferry at Canary Wharf and walked up to Waitrose so Mirinda could do her week’s shopping. On the way I stopped to get a photo of the tall illuminated buildings and their reflections in the water.

Canary Wharf on a Sunday night

Shopping at Waitrose in Farnham on a Sunday, means getting it all done by 4pm. I always thought it was a law that big shops had to close at 4pm. If this is the case, it clearly does not apply to Waitrose in Canary Wharf! Not only is it open till 6pm, it is also crowded with shoppers! In fact, the whole mall of shops below Canary Wharf was buzzing with activity. It could have been any day at any time. It felt alive. Like New York feels alive. Wonderful.

We dropped the shopping at the flat then, after settin’ a spell, we wandered down to Cafe Rouge for dinner. It was my choice and I fancied the duck. It was, as usual, delicious. Mirinda wondered what happened to the rest of the duck as Cafe Rouge only serve up a leg and thigh. I reckon they attach aluminium legs to the bodies and have Robot Duck Wars in the abattoir.

We also noticed they were offering a syllabub as a special dessert. Now, I make syllabub every now and then and it’s not normally available at restaurants (not that we’ve seen, anyway) so we thought we’d try it. We both wished we hadn’t. My tummy was still complaining by the time I made it home.

Anyway, we said our goodbyes outside the Tube station and, while Mirinda returned to her flat, I made my way back to Waterloo. Surprisingly, I made the train by about a minute. Talk about lucky.

After a long, lonely ride and chilly walk home, I managed to calm the poodles down before ringing Mirinda to say good night. What a lovely day…apart from leaving Mirinda in town, of course.

As I was at Waterloo today, I stopped off at the Cuneo statue to get a photograph of the mouse. It is peeking out from under a book called Sketches by Cuneo. There’s an awful lot of dust around it, I must say! Clearly the cleaning staff at Waterloo do not think it worth their trouble.

Cuneo's mouse

To answer mum’s question: The original painting of Waterloo is 10ft x 9ft and the image I used yesterday had been reduced so much, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to spot a tiny mouse. If I ever make it to the Railway Museum, I shall try and remember to look for it.

To answer Mirinda’s question: I haven’t been able to find out why he chose a mouse. He started including mice (sometimes cartoon-ish, sometimes realistic) from 1956 and people scour his works, looking for them. There was a cartoonist in Sydney (I think) who always included something in his drawings and people would spend ages trying to find it. It wasn’t a mouse.

The reason I was at Waterloo was because I’d offered to take a load of clothes up to the flat for Mirinda. She’d packed a load for Australia from the flat and they’d wound up at Farnham – I was merely re-adjusting things a bit.

This meant a few train journeys. In fact, I was amazed when I returned home that it had taken me almost six hours! It was all very straightforward – for a change the Jubilee Line was running (at least the part I wanted was) – and my connections were pretty good. I do need to include hoovering time in there as well and statue photography but even so…it seems a bit excessive.

Not that I was missed at home. Mirinda had her first guitar lesson for ages this morning and then went down the gym for a wrestle with some weight machines.

One of the main things wrong with catching trains on the weekends is the weirdos who travel with you. Today, on the way back, in front of me was a strange Spanish looking chap in a cape and very pointy shoes. His hair had a strange brown streak through it, the majority being black. I doubt that I’d have noticed him except that he spent the entire trip on his phone, talking to five different people.

Sometimes this can be really annoying because you hear the same conversation each time but he didn’t do that. He was bored so I think he just rang the first five people in his phone. He spent a lot of time making small talk, to wile away the hour to Farnham. And not just local, either. He spoke to one person who was clearly in a different time zone because he went on and on and on and on about them already being drunk and it was only 8am.

Another caller was roundly berated for eating nothing but chocolate: “Oh, but you are very naughty, baby. Chocolate? That is bad, baby. But let’s stop talking of chocolate, baby.”

The third person he called was his sister to wish her happy birthday. I know this because the second caller reminded him it was his sister’s birthday.

All of this is perhaps just annoying however, what really got up my goat was his insistence in mispronouncing baby! He said it in a very odd way. Think the two words ‘bear’ and ‘bee’ and run them together. That’s what it sounded like. And he used it at least once every sentence, sometimes oftener. It really, really grated on my nerves after a while (5 minutes) and I was forced to play with my new phone rather than read.

I guess the worst thing was that it was a quiet carriage.

But, rather than end this post in a negative way…here’s the statue of Cuneo from beneath:

Terence Tenison Cuneo at Waterloo Station, London

What a day. I feel like I’ve spent most of it travelling. I guess I did.

I’d planned to go up to town today and pack up Mirinda’s personal things from her office (in preparation for her leaving). I figured I’d just need a small bag. Fortunately Mirinda straightened me out on that.

I had to go to the flat first because our big wheelie bag was sitting there, taking up carpet space. So, train to Waterloo, Tube to Canary Wharf. All well and good. I went to the flat, collected the bag (and the piles of junk mail) and took off to Holborn.

While happily sat on the DLR, an announcement pretty much ruined my day. The Central line was a mess because of an ‘earlier incident’ and was suffering huge delays. This was the line I’d have to change to at Bank. I took a deep breath and decided to walk.

Thank Bernard D Sadow & Robert Plath, I had a wheelie bag, that’s all I can say. It’s quite a hike from Bank to Holborn, particularly when the weather’s a bit dodgy. But I managed it.

Packing the case didn’t take very long though I was a bit surprised at the size of the precious vase – for some reason I thought it was a lot smaller. Fortunately, Mirinda keeps an entire wardrobe at work, so it was an easy job packing round the vase to ensure a safe journey. I am still amazed at the quantity of shoes in the filing cabinet.

Having filled the bag, I put the black brief case over my shoulder and the stupid cowboy hat on my head, and headed out to hail a cab. Quite apart from the problems on the Central line, I didn’t fancy vying with commuters for every inch of space. And it was a nice, leisurely cab ride with a driver who actually knew the road where the flat is. In the past, I’ve had to direct them.

I then unpacked everything, being very careful with the vase; arranging the shoes along one wall of the bedroom. There really were a lot of shoes. I sometimes think my wife wants to be Imelda Marcos. I then popped down the Spa for some milk. I had to bring the suitcase home with me so I had decided to wait a bit later in order to avoid the rush hour.

I needn’t have bothered. The Canary Wharf Jubilee line is still packed at 7pm and the 7:30 train I was going to catch home was full to the extent that people were standing in the aisle! This used to happen on the slam door trains a lot but I don’t think I’ve seen it on the 444s. Well, before this one, that is.

I decided to miss the 7:30 and catch the 8pm, which was far more pleasant. I discovered that a train to Surbiton had been cancelled so, some genius at Waterloo had decided to attach an extra carriage to the 7:30 and add a stop at Surbiton. A whole train into an extra carriage. You do the math.

Getting home was a relief, even though it was later than I’d expected. The poodles had been waiting in the rain (why do they do that?) and were, of course, ecstatic I’d returned to them.

This marked my first time at the flat in the dark. The night skyline is great. So I snapped a photo, resting it on the balcony rail to keep it steady. it sort of worked.

View from the Canary Wharf flat