The House Husband

My stupid cold has gone. After a night of two nightmares, a horrendous thirst and a bit of tossing and turning, I woke up feeling much better. As the day progressed I only improved. Except my voice, which is delightfully husky. Although the foul tasting strawberry Strepsils may have reduced it to its normal tones.

Today was our first lunch date for ages. Mirinda was working from the flat so we went for a wander around Mill Quay, dodging joggers and prams, spotting lots of birds to photograph before realising I had no memory card in my camera. It always takes me ages to realise it too. I hate that. And I took some brilliant photographs.

Anyway, on our walk, Mirinda outlined her super master plan to me which will revolutionise the world of education as we know it. It’s complex and simple at the same time. It is beautiful. The Official Secrets Act forbids my repeating any of it here.

For lunch we went to a Lebanese restaurant we’ve passed many times but never ventured in. it’s opposite the Lotus. It’s called the Byblos Harbour and is fabulous. We had one of the set lunch menus which features lots of different things. My favourite was the Kibbeh (ground lamb and onions filled in a meat and wheat jacket) which was absolutely divine. It’s sort of like a falafel but so much more. Dad would hate it but mum might like one.

After a lovely, long, leisurely lunch, we strolled back to the flat where I left Mirinda to work and wandered down to the ferry stop.

Generally I can’t get a seat outside, due to all the tourists, but today there was no-one there. Which meant I had a lovely trip back up the river and the chance to take some photographs that weren’t taken through glass. I tried for a few seagulls in flight (I blipped the best) and some interesting buildings. I also managed to find a seagull with a double chin.

I'd fly away if I wasn't so heavy

I’ve not noticed this building before, which is surprising given the huge sign on it. It was once a riverside warehouse but was converted into flats in 1970. It’s in Wapping and is grade II listed. You can pick up a nice three bedroom flat there for a mere £2,500,000.

On the Thames, at low tide

It was built in 1870 for George Oliver and was used, mostly, for tea. It was one of the first serious flat conversions along the Thames. I found a website for an American pub in Baltimore that claimed it was used to house pirates and ‘vagabonds’ in ‘Merrie olde England’, which only goes to show you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet.

And here’s the Mayflower, a pub I went to many, many moons ago. I was told it was where the Mayflower set off from. Apparently this is true. The Mayflower was moored nearby and did, in fact, leave from here in 1620. It was called the Shippe back then as it had been when it was built in 1550. It was then rebuilt in the 18th century and called the Spread Eagle and Crown. In the 1960s it was renamed the Mayflower because of the associations with the original ship. Oddly, it’s licensed to sell postage stamps.

A great pub for a beer

Finally, here’s Metropolitan Wharf. It is, like Oliver’s, grade II listed. It was purpose built as four warehouses between 1862 and 1898 and was still used in conjunction with the river up until the 1960s. It was refurbished in 2005 with the idea that it would house business space for ‘start-up’ companies. It also has restaurants, cafes, shops and other general meeting places for the daring young professionals who are busy starting up.

Great location for your first business venture

And that was about it for my day. I won’t bore my reader with the super dull train ride home (nothing happened) or the details of my dinner which wasn’t a patch on Byblos Harbour fare.

I was sitting in the Victoria Embankment Gardens, happily reading about the Medici family, waiting for Mirinda, when two guys in flouro tops approached, wielding big blowers. There was a lot of fallen leaves. I say ‘was’ because these guys were really moving them on. At one stage I looked back to where they’d been and wondered what they’d done with them all. Then I saw this and realised they were returning them to the soil.

Blowing leaves around

Once they’d moved passed me, it was rather nice sitting in the gardens. The sun was out and the day was unseasonably warm. This helped the fact that I was feeling a trifle seedy after last night/this morning. Eventually, Mirinda joined me and we went to the cafe in the garden for a lovely lunch and financial discussion.

Before going back to the office, we took our usual stroll. Today it took us the length of the Victoria Embankment Gardens and to a memorial I’d not seen before. It is to commemorate the airmen who served and died in the service of the Fleet Air Arm – naval as opposed to Air Force planes.

The statue sits atop a very tall plinth, inscribed with wars and the names of those who fell in the two world wars. It stands proud with wings outstretched, a cyborg looking creation. It is Daedalus, the legendary Greek craftsman who created a set of wings in order to escape King Minos of Crete.

James Butler's 2000 memorial statue to the Fleet Air Arm

It’s quite striking so I’m amazed I’ve never noticed it before. You can read more about it here.

Sadly, as I journeyed home, the weather grew increasingly worse. About half an hour after getting home – about the time the poodles calmed down – the rain started. When the sun went down, the temperature plummeted as well.

At least it was nice for lunch. This is how it looked earlier:

Embankment on a lovely autumn day

So lovely.

Today was pretty near as perfect a day as you could wish for. Even the weather proved reliable…if you ignore the wet bit, which didn’t really dampen our spirits any. Even the mad person who accompanied us in the first class carriage as far as Surbiton, didn’t put any negative spin upon the day.

Actually, before I start waxing lyrical about this perfect day, I should explain that I do not work alone at the Science Museum. I merely mentioned that Nick (and everyone else except Barbara) was on holiday last week and, therefore, would not be there. He was there this week and will be (holidays excepted) every other week after that.

Anyway, enough of that…today we took an early train up to London for a wonderful day of various things we love doing. First up, we journeyed over to Shoreditch to visit the Geffrye Museum. This involved catching a bus along with a couple of ladies who were out and about, flaunting their bus passes and bragging about their free day out in London.

There was a chap on the bus who turned out to be doing a survey of people travelling on route 243. He was slightly odd because he didn’t bother stating what he was doing. I thought he was a ticket inspector and held out my Oyster card obediently but he then started asking how I paid for it. Now, this isn’t as simple a question as you’d expect because I don’t, exactly, top it up, this happens automatically when it falls below £5 in credit.

Eventually, after babbling away for a bit and realising he didn’t actually have any idea what I was going on about, I told him it wasn’t a weekly. This seemed to make him happy. After a few more questions, he moved on to the two ladies in front of us, the ones out for the day for free, and they went through the same palaver.

Eventually we reached bus stop KA (I really have no idea what this means) and hopped off, waving the odd chap goodbye and wandering down the road, pursued by the two ladies, heading towards the Geffrye. This part of Kingsland Road was surprisingly quiet. It’s hard to imagine that a little over a week ago, there were riots a little way further down.

The Geffrye Museum is an amazing place. Mirinda has been before a couple of times and told me about it but nothing really prepares you for your first vision of this huge expanse of land in London just across the road from a load of 1970′s brutalist style council flats.

The Geffrye Museum, Shoreditch

Originally, the building was a series of almshouses in the 18th century. They were built in 1714 by the Ironmonger’s Company with money left to them for this purpose, by Sir Robert Geffrye. They were used for nearly 200 years by up to 50 people at a time. In the early 20th century, the area had become quite horrible and unsavoury so the building was sold and the almshouses moved.

The buildings were destined for demolition but were saved at the last moment by a petition organised by the Arts & Crafts movement, who wanted the whole place preserved as a peaceful green area in an otherwise densely populated pit. It worked (the petition) and it was turned into a museum which opened its doors for the first time in 1914.

What makes this museum so special is that each room along the corridor is furnished and decorated in different periods, showing the development of the middle classes of society. I stress the lower case ‘middle classes’ as they are referring to people in the middle of the socio-economic world rather than the Middle Classes, with leading caps, that the Victorians created.

Each room is accompanied by wonderful cut away diagrams of a typical house of the relevant period, showing the development of houses into what we have today. The older ones were all very dark. The Victorians filled theirs up with as much stuff as they could. My favourite was the 1930-40 room.

I’ve tried to get a shot of two rooms in order to show how it’s laid out. These displays are in the modern extension rather than the original building, though, to be fair, the original isn’t curved so it’s impossible to get two rooms together. The room on the left is 1950-60 and the one on the right is today.

1950 - today at the Geffrye Museum

As well as the rooms there is an extensive garden (we’ll have to see that next time as we ran out of any today) which has an interesting garden room that overlooks it. It is a lovely curving room that has just enough room for seats all around and a selection of books to read while you pretend you live there.

The Garden Room, Geffrye Museum

The interesting part is the mural. And the interesting part of the mural is the mysterious duckwoman.

Strange mural creature

I have no idea what this means. The rest of the mural looked fine but, after Mirinda pointed this out to me, I had to get a shot of her. It’s not just the fact that it is a duck in a dress, wearing a bonnet but the strange parasol as well. She is holding it as if it’s some sort of long distance microphone device, pointing towards those making their evil plans. There was nothing (I could see) that explains her. I call her Duck Woman.

We also popped downstairs to the special exhibition which is due to finish soon. It is a Japanese house. Sort of. It shows how our general view of the minimalist house in Japan is a myth. That the Japanese have houses full of stuff, just like us. In fact, if you really want to buy a Japanese person a gift, make it something edible or drinkable because they truly will appreciate it. Honestly. That’s straight from the Japanese.

They have more storage than living space. The more things they acquire, the greater the need for storage and the decrease in living space as their storage boxes take over. I realise we in the west do the same but the Japanese seemed to have made an art of it.

My favourite part of the Japanese home is the entrance hall, where a cupboard stands, upon which are placed charms and statues which ward off evil spirits, keeping them out of the rest of the house. I bought a lucky cat in the gift shop to go on our junior Jali, alongside the red Buddha from New York. I don’t want Aunt Vera coming inside to get me.

Time had well and truly flown and we had to make swift tracks to make it to the next part of our day. Lunch. But not just any old lunch. Lunch at the Savoy. However, first, Mirinda insisted in answering this woman’s survey about the museum just on the threshold of freedom that is the main entrance.

Mirinda in the keyhole

That’s her, inside the big keyhole, gritting her teeth and answering questions in order to tailor the museum experience more to the liking of the casual visitor who answers surveys. I waited outside almost taking a self portrait by a tree. I took too long to decide to do it and was interrupted by Mirinda’s arrival and subsequent dash for the bus.

The Savoy was beckoning. Actually, the Savoy somehow knew my name. When I booked lunch the other day, the woman on the phone asked for my phone number, which I gave her and she then called me Gary Cook. This is odd for a number of reasons. Firstly I hadn’t given her my name, secondly, I’ve never been to the Savoy before and thirdly, the phone is in Mirinda’s name. It seems the Savoy knows things that other restaurants (and hotels) can only dream about.

The Savoy is interesting because the land it stands on was given to Peter of Savoy by Henry III in 1246. peter built what became known as the Savoy Palace on the site. Of course this has long since gone but the name has endured. The hotel that stands there now, was completed in 1889 and was the first luxury hotel in Britain. It was built on the proceeds of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas that Richard D’Oyly Carte produced at the Savoy Theatre next door.

We were booked into the Savoy Grill for 12:30 and what a lovely place! I felt a little under dressed though the dress code is smart casual and I was pretty much that. Still, I was a bit conspicuous for being about the only male without a tie. Still, the staff still served us and smiled and were generally happy.

Under dressed at the Savoy

Mirinda was very happy with the food, I was not as enthused. Not that it was in any way horrible. In fact the dessert (Eton mess) was fabulous but the main meal was let down by the lack of a fruit sauce and the starter was a bit weird. However, the wine was superb and the service excellent.

But, most important, I had crispy pigs head croquettes for starter, grouse breasts with bread sauce and wine jus on a bed of watercress and pate for the main, and the Eton mess. Mirinda had mint and courgette soup with walnuts for starter, the grouse for main and bomb Alaska on pineapple for dessert. It was, actually, really lovely. But I was unable to describe how crispy pigs head tastes.

We spent about an hour and a half at the Savoy, eating, drinking and chatting before it was time to move on to our next event. As we started to leave we were informed that it was pouring with rain outside. I went outside and, it was. All the porters were lined up outside, waiting for taxis, not wanting to venture out beyond the roof. This chap decided to try and scrape something off the side of the fountain. I don’t know what or why but thought it looked interesting given his outfit.

Porter at the Savoy

Eventually, we made it to a Boots store where we (along with a few others) bought a couple of umbrellas and then wandered across the Strand and headed up to Aldwych. We had booked in to see Butley at the Duchess Theatre but Mirinda had slotted in a bit of walking around time before we were due to sit in the theatre. So we wandered around Covent Garden in the rain, trying to avoid the thousands of tourists huddled in the little available shelter.

Butley is a play written by Simon Gray. It’s one of those parts that I really wish I could have played. I think I would have suited him perfectly. Still, I wasn’t in it today and, instead, we saw Dominic West who was pretty good. Though I did think he was acting a slob rather than being one. It’s a rather fine detail but pretty much the only criticism I can find for his performance. In fact, he was excellent.

Although the play was written in 1970, it hasn’t aged and is relevant today as it was then. It is also incredibly funny. It’s the first time either of us have seen it performed on stage. We have both read the script and I have seen Alan Bates in the movie version.

Also superb, I thought, was Penny Downie who played Edna. A difficult part and one that needs to get the audience onside which she did very well. I liked her performance very much. Particularly her final scene with Butley. When she tells him she no longer visits Ursula in her cottage in Ockham in ‘that way’ because Ursula got married, she oozes lost chances and regrets.

Martin Hutson as Joseph was also very good. As a foil for Butley, I thought he worked extremely well. It isn’t easy when the character you’re working with is so big and all encompassing but Martin managed it well, I thought. He makes a lot of the humour work as he plays the straight man to Butley’s clown perfectly.

We both enjoyed the play a lot, laughing almost continuously (except for the bits that weren’t funny) from start to finish. I am SO glad we went and saw it.

And then, finally, it was time to wander across Waterloo bridge, climb aboard a South West Trains train and head on home.

We decided to pay the small upgrade fee in order to sit happily comfortable in first class. We hadn’t allowed for the lunatic that entered the carriage just before we left Waterloo. This guy jiggled and sang and tapped out a beat and generally made annoying gestures to the wall in that way that people with personal stereos sometimes do because they don’t realise the rest of the world can see but not (really) hear them. Except he didn’t have a personal stereo. Whatever he was hearing was locked deep inside his head. I think it was an evil spirit. He needs a lucky cat.

I watched him slyly as I pretended to read. His face alternated between screwed up pain and fear and delirious happiness. He was clearly possessed and we were very, very pleased when he left the train at Surbiton. The rest of the trip home was, thankfully, uneventful.

But what a day! And, I think, my longest blog entry EVER! As Mirinda said, it’s basically an essay.

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.

If you’re ever in a position of choice between taking the tube from Embankment or walking across Waterloo Bridge, I’d always choose the latter. At least that’s what I thought before today. Sadly, this is no longer true. My newest aphorism is “if in doubt, catch the Tube”.

I’d seen the weather report so cannot plead ignorance. Even sitting in the restaurant where Mirinda and I had Italian for lunch, the rain was heavy enough for me to see it without my glasses. Did I heed the warning of Apollo or hear the glee of Thor? Not a bit!

We had a lovely lunch in a new place (for us). The thing about the location of Mirinda’s office is that there are enough restaurants within a lunchtime radius that we will probably never run out of a new one every Wednesday. We wander, Mirinda spots somewhere, we eat. Brilliant strategy.

I would normally have a Fiorentina pizza in an Italian place but the special salmon in a lime, coriander and butter sauce was too good to pass up. Apart from the calorific content (about the weight of an adult yak) it was perfect. I guess that really means it tasted great but was very, very bad. Too bad, I say! In all senses.

Earlier in the day (before I left home) I realised that someone had stolen my umbrella. Given that the last time I saw it was hanging from a hook by the front door, it could only be one of three and I’m pretty sure the poodles would have difficulty working the opening mechanism.

As I looked out from the restaurant window, smiling at the poor tourists running from shelter to shelter and the lunchtime workers battling against the wind with their oversized golf umbrellas, I remembered I didn’t have mine anymore.

Normally I’m rather reticent when it comes to umbrellas. I think they are dangerous and pretty useless when there’s even a puff of wind. However, it’s always nice to know there’s one in my bag if I’m ever caught up in a drench emergency. Like today.

After lunch, the rain having eased off to the faintest of faint drips, I walked Mirinda back to her office and then set off back to Waterloo. I stood at a metaphoric crossroads in Embankment Park. Left to Waterloo Bridge or right to Embankment Tube. Stupidly, I turned left.

15 minutes later I was standing in front of the platform indicators in Waterloo concourse, soaking wet with no-one to blame but myself. Never mind, I thought glumly, the train will be announced shortly and I can strip off my wet outer garments and be relatively comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you can be on a South West Trains 450 carriage.

The announcements at Waterloo station are terrible. It’s not a language or accent thing because generally the announcer has clear diction and an easy to understand accent. The problem with the public address system at Waterloo Station is one of pitch. A voice needs to be of a certain tone otherwise any long information will become indecipherable.

For instance, today the train was delayed for some reason – it said so on the indicator board – and some bright spark figured it would be a good idea to let us know why. The message sounded a little something like this:

For those passengers waiting for the 13:23 train to Alton this train gmbld nmukl grmmb drddldrd grmp dmp dmp [this actually went on for ages but you get the idea] very shortly.

I’d like someone to tell me why that was necessary. It wasn’t just me, there were plenty of other passengers looking completely mystified, some asking other people what had been said and getting only shrugs in reply.

Anyway, eventually the indicator changed and I boarded the train on platform 11 (where a train had been sitting all the time I’d been waiting) and, apart from leaving a few minutes late, had an uneventful trip home.

Here’s one of the only decent photos I took today. It features Embankment Pier where Mirinda catches her ferry (one very similar to the one in the shot) and, if you look carefully, you can see her building.

Embankment Pier

While it started off a bright blue day, I managed to get soaked at lunchtime as a heavy shower battered London. Fortunately we had finished eating on the outside balcony of Chez Gerard at Covent Garden.

I was instructed to collect a purchase that someone had left at Waitrose…or, as I was reliably informed, that Waitrose forgot to mention. Apparently they have a ‘Left Behind Book’ where, you guessed it, they write down items that have been left behind by customers. Sometimes it’s the simplest technology that works. Which it did in this case.

OK, it did take a while and I did have to talk to quite a few people but, eventually, the purchase was given to me (it had been put back on the shelf so I have no idea what would have happened if it had been sold again) and I went back to the flat with it.

Yesterday I found some ODHs (remember those?) that fit the non-standard, standard doors at the flat and I spent about 15 minutes fitting them – they needed to be screwed together and I didn’t have a screwdriver. Being resourceful, this presented only a minor hassle and I eventually had them all doing what they were designed to do.

This made me a tad late for lunch but all was well thanks to the effectiveness of texting and the fact that the Jubilee Line platform at Canary Wharf has one bar of signal – most of the Tube is, thankfully, mobile signal free.

After a wander around Covent Garden, we sat down to a lovely meal almost next to Noel Edmonds (here’s his wiki entry). Another diner, sitting behind Mirinda, actually went up to Noel and asked to have his picture taken with him because his mum loved him. Likely story! I felt a bit sorry for Noel as he was about to have his lunch. Still, he was very gracious and smiled for the camera. Sometimes I feel sorry for celebrities. A bit.

It started sprinkling as we waited for our coffees so we moved inside with dozens of other patrons and sat at the bar. As we left, the rain started and continued all the way down to Mirinda’s office. We were both pretty much soaked. I said goodbye and headed for Waterloo. As I stood waiting for the train home, the sun came bursting out, flooding the concourse with bright light, the clouds all gone. Mr Chasuble was so right.

Reflection in Chez Gerard, Covent Garden

And, of course, it rained on me on the walk home from the station!

Clocks. That’s what horology is. Today I saw a lot of them. A-ticking and a-tocking; a great clamour there was. Fortunately none of them struck the hour as the room wasn’t that big.

Of course, I was in London for lunch with Mirinda. We were going to meet at the D’Oyly Carte sundial outside the Savoy but a load of loud and obnoxious drunks (of both sexes) had taken up residence on the semi-circular benches so I sat reading in front of Arthur Sullivan instead. It was very pleasant surrounded by all manner of flowering plants. It was almost possible to ignore the traffic.

We wandered up to an outdoor cafe in the Embankment Park and had a BLT and a CLT (that’s chicken rather than bacon) before going for a lovely walk by Cleopatra’s Needle, along the north bank, crossing Westminster Bridge and then back across the river to Embankment.

The London Eye and Aquarium from Westminster Bridge

It wasn’t the nicest of days (a bit grey) but it didn’t rain and it was a lovely walk. Ignoring the noise, of course. And the thousands of tourists which coincides with the bloody extra long Easter holidays for kids.

After Mirinda returned to work I hopped on the Tube and headed for Bank. From here, I walked up to Guildhall where the Worshipful Company of Clockmakers museum is housed. I’d researched a chap at work last week who was a big clock and watch maker and found out about the museum then. So, of course I had to go. Plus the fact that I will be graduating at Guildhall in May, I thought it would be nice to work out how to get there.

Guildhall, London

I’ve been a few times before but not recently. Not that I needed an excuse to go to the clock museum. I was very keen on doing that!

The clockmaker’s company was granted its charter in 1631 by Charles I. Prior to this, anyone involved with the making of timepieces came under the blacksmith’s company. I guess because they worked with metal rather than a forge. Anyway, they split and it’s been that way ever since.

The museum is small but wonderfully obscure. The history of clocks and watches is spread out in a series of display cases showing some wonderful antique timepieces. As you walk around you are also taken, century by century, through the world of time.

Sadly the bookshop was closed so I was unable to obtain a guidebook. There’s also no photographs allowed. For these reasons I can only relate one thing. (Like Homer, I have only room for one fact because each new one pushes an older one out.)

It seems that the British manufacturing industry has always been a victim of its own success. Because craftsmanship, skill and care are expensive commodities, once the first few products are created, someone from the continent will always make them cheaper. The market then buys the cheaper mass produced option and the home grown industry gets more and more exclusive before disappearing up it’s own workshop.

This is exactly what happened to British clock and watch makers. They were world leaders at one time. They produced the most amazing clocks and watches; inventing new movements and more accuracy. But then the Swiss stole the entire market. Actually that’s not entirely true but they did their fair share and it sort of explains why they are now world renowned for watches.

Still, it is a wonderful museum and very quiet – clearly there’s not a lot of interest in horology. I was alone for all except the last few minutes. The museum has a website here.

In Gough Square, just up from Fleet Street, there’s a statue of a cat called Hodge. Hodge didn’t do anything particularly spectacular like save someone from a burning building or hang around at his owner’s grave for 20 years. He sits on his pedestal looking at one of his master’s houses during his time in London.

Hodge belonged to Dr Samuel Johnson, the man who wrote the dictionary (among other things). Johnson lived in 20 Gough Square while he wrote it, renting it for £30 per year (this is roughly £3,000 in our money, so still pretty cheap for London). It is a lovely four storey building mostly made from timber (on the inside at least) brought back from America as ballast aboard emigrant ships, returning empty.

Dr Johnson's house, Gough Square, London

As usual I met Mirinda for lunch and, after a lovely panini and surprising wander from the Strand to High Holborn, I decided to check out Dr Johnson’s house. I’ve been meaning to go for ages but today was really the only chance I’ve had.

First of all, it’s quite difficult to find. Gough Square nestles inside a maze of little streets and alleys which turn you round and confuse you completely. But then you find Hodge and all is revealed. Across the square is the house.

The volunteer at the desk was more than happy to fill me in on lots of detail about the house, telling me the video on the third was well worth a watch, as I think I was probably one of only a few people he’d talked to all day. Anyway, armed with his words and a guide book, I set off through the rooms.

The house was basically left to rot until 1911 when it was restored. The Germans had a good go at levelling it during the bombing raids but, fortunately, were unsuccessful. The rooms are pretty empty of furniture though a few bits (like Dr Johnson’s chair from the house of Elizabeth Carter which he found so comfortable he asked her for it and she let him have it) while not being particularly amazing, have great stories attached to them.

The restoration was undertaken by Cecil Harmsworth MP who, going against the advice of his two brothers, bought the house and set to work on it. He also built a house across the square to be for a curator. It was Harmsworth who decided that the house should remain as original as possible and instructed the builders to use the existing panels at the property. This presented a bit of a jigsaw puzzle for them as panels were strewn all higgledy piggledy everywhere throughout the house.

The video, when I reached the third floor, was interesting, with two actors playing at being Johnson and James Boswell, his biographer, getting out of a black cab at the front door and taking the viewer through each room, chatting about things that happened to them back in the 18th century. It had a few laughs in it but generally was just informative and not very well acted, to be honest. Though, to be fair to the actors, the script wasn’t that easy to work with! It was, however, an informative half hour.

Johnson lived in the house between 1748 and 1759 while he wrote the dictionary. His first estimate was three years but it ended up taking nine! Subsequently, his time there was pretty dire, steeped in poverty. Mind you, he managed to have six clerks working on the top floor pretty much all day, writing up his notes and adding quotations he supplied from his extensive library. Apparently, Johnson had a wonderful memory and could just go to a source document for information. For instance, he would know if the word ‘cat’ appeared in Shakespeare, which play it occurred in and where to find it within the text. He would grab it and give it to the guy doing ‘cat’ to add to the book.

Funnily enough, I can never quite picture Dr Johnson without thinking of the Blackadder version, remembering Baldrick helping to re-write the burned manuscript. Blackadder gives him ‘C’ to do. When asked what he’s managed to come up with, Baldrick responds with “big blue wobbly thing.” The Blackadder Johnson is a mean and nasty man who beats people with a stick and has the pox on his face. The portraits of him throughout his house tend to confirm this version…apart from the beating with a stick bit!

The reason he chose the house was because the top floor has windows all around it, giving lots of natural light. He had a huge table placed in the centre for all his assistants to sit at while they scribbled, earnestly away.

The house, overall, is really quite lovely with the original and narrow staircase winding its way up and specially constructed doors closing off various levels – I assume for warmth.

Anyway, all in all, Dr Johnson’s house is a wonderful property for a visit and I highly recommend it. They have a website here. There’s also an extensive Wikipedia article on Johnson here.

And here’s a picture of the noble looking Hodge with, what appears to be, oyster shells at his feet. Which seems a somewhat excessive diet for a cat.

Samuel Johnson's cat, Hodge in Gough Square, London

It was an odd game of football last night. There were long periods where Aldershot completely dominated the game with good crisp passing and a goal. Lincoln City were left looking stunned as we went to a 2-0 lead. But then we went to sleep in the second half and started the stupid big kicks up field which never work. They quickly scored twice, catching our defence out both times and making us look like waxwork dummies.

The final ten minutes were all spent desperately keeping them from scoring a third. Fortunately we did and the game ended in a draw. The highlights of the game (apart from our goals) were the Lincoln City goal keeper who never stopped shouting but could never be understood and the player who came on late in the second half called Moustafa Carry-on. I’m sure it’s not spelled that way but it definitely sounded like it. It brought general mirth and merriment to an otherwise sullen Slab.

Back at home, we watched a brilliant British film called This is England. While the subject matter sounds rather dark and unpleasant (England in the 80s with skinheads and racism rife) the film is not. While there is a lot of implied violence and one of the characters is not in the least pleasant, it is a wonderful coming of age story of a young lad growing up without a father, looking for a substitute and needing to belong.

There was not a weak performance in the entire film and we both enjoyed it thoroughly. If you can get passed the swearing (which, to be fair, is of the time), this is a wonderful film. I saw the writer/director, Shane Meadows, interviewed on Breakfast when it was released and he went to great pains to say how autobiographical it was. It shows. His deft hand gives us a glimpse of an unpleasant world while making us care about the main characters.

At the end of the film I wanted more; I wanted to know what else happened to the main character to shape such a wonderful film maker. Thomas Turgoose, as the 12 year old Shaun, is superb.

Of course, we also drank too much whisky and went to bed far too late but it was worth it. Normally we see pretty crappy films so this was an unexpected gem. And then I was up at 7 to wake Mirinda for work.

Fast forward to lunchtime and we had Italian today, again at Covent Garden, this time in Ponti’s. During our stroll around the small lanes we came across this rather interesting pub sign – sadly the pub was boarded up.

Pub sign, London

We also spotted a rather lovely building in Leicester Square. It looked rather odd, being so ornate but the colour scheme was lovely and these heads nicely incongruous.

Forget the deer, let's put human heads on the wall

As usual, we spent a lovely lunch hour (and a half) and, after we parted I high tailed it back down to Waterloo. I was going to visit Dr Johnson’s house afterwards but I’m going for a drink with Stevie tonight and needed to get home to feed the poodles. I figured Dr J could wait.

As Mirinda has now returned to work, so I have returned to our Wednesday lunch dates. Due to the timing of a couple of meetings, we had to squeeze in between them. Fortunately this was around lunch time.

I sat and waited in the bright and airy lobby of her new employer. A security guard asked me if I was OK at one point but otherwise I remained unmolested. Finally my smiling wife appeared, refusing to kiss me hello on the premises while I insisted on wearing my hat. This was remedied as soon as we walked outside. This is even though she doesn’t really know anyone yet!

We decided to have a wander around Covent Garden. Every time I visit, I think of dad as a boy and how different it is now. Forget the fruit and veg! All tourists and funky shops. Here’s a photo I took (it was a rather gloomy day so it’s not the clearest shot). I’ve also made it sepia for easy comparison.

Covent Garden 2011

And here’s a postcard I found on the web showing Covent Garden (on a different angle but you can see the same roofs) in the early 1900s.

Covent Garden 1900s

Looks a bit different now! That’s Mirinda in her new coat, by the way. Not that you can see her very clearly.

Anyway, while we were there, we popped into St Paul’s church, which is where all the actors go to pray…apparently. This is according to an ancient chap who decided to tell us who was remembered in the church. Not buried, just remembered. There are plaques everywhere with all sorts of famous names.

The church is an Inigo Jones design, originally completed in 1633. In 1795 there was a huge fire which destroyed most of it and it was restored to Jones’ original designs. It was further restored in 1872.

The reason why it’s become the Actor’s Church is because of the building of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane which isn’t very far away and was built around the same time. I guess they’d pop over before a Sunday matinee and ask for a good show. A further link lies with Samuel Pepys, who noted in his diary entry of 9 May 1662 that he watched an ‘Italian puppet play’ under the portico of St Paul’s. This was one of the first performances of what turned into Punch and Judy, apparently. it also explains why the pub in Covent Garden is called The Punch and Judy.

Anyway, it’s become the thing to be remembered in St Pauls if you’re an actor. Ellen Terry’s ashes are there as are those of Dame Edith Evans. Here’s some of the plaques.

Plaques in St Paul's, Covent Garden

According to our knowledgeable friend, Charlie Chaplin’s plaque was originally refused entry into the Anglican church seeing as he was Jewish. The old chap also thought it was because of his preference for rather young girls. I don’t know. I didn’t even know he was Jewish. I do know he was bought up in Elephant and Castle as I’ve had a drink at his pub.

We managed to escape from the old chap who seemed to view history as a long line of connected people, and had a lovely sushi lunch in Itsu. I really love the sushi at Itsu. It also means I don’t need a big dinner.

We slowly walked back to Mirinda’s work and parted (she kissed me well away from the front door). I had thought I’d go and check out the London Transport Museum but the day was so miserable I decided to just walk down to Waterloo and go home. The poodles were quite happy about that as it meant a late walk.