The House Husband

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.

Some days, while being very busy, nothing much happens. Today was one of those.

The highlight was this view on the way to the station (given it’s now dark when I walk home and I see nothing).

View along Borelli Walk - to the station

Of course I went to work and amended another 50 odd records – a plethora of feeding cups; some interesting, most not – but this was about it. The most exciting thing that happened was at lunch when a woman upset an entire plate of salad.

She was with two chaps (maybe one was her husband, maybe both were, I don’t know), a pram and a small child. I had already been stuck behind them in the sandwich selection area (just wide enough to be completely blocked if one person stands in front of it) as she read every label, on every sandwich. They also spent a very long time deciding how many trays they needed. They started with three and wound up with one, after a lot of debate and tray shuffling across the entrance to the food service part. I managed to skip ahead of them to grab my coffee and took a seat.

They then arrived adjacent to me and plonked themselves down. I had also noticed another museum employee (other than me, I mean) who had pushed ahead of the queue of people at the cash register who was sitting a few seats in front of me. I noticed because, firstly I was annoyed and secondly because I couldn’t work out what gender it was.

I shuffled off these minor concerns and settled back (as much as you can in the cacophony of noise that is lunchtime at the Science Museum) to read. Suddenly the woman cried out and I was just in time to see her plate of salad take flight. Most of it landed on the head of her child in the pram which elicited a surprised response. The rest of it hit the floor.

This wouldn’t normally be such a big thing but the salad had quite a few cherry tomatoes included with it and they rolled everywhere, valiantly attempting to avoid shoes. Many were lost – I can imagine the tomato history books describing it as the Day of the Squish – but a few managed to roll free, straight to the seat of the non-gender specific person who jumped up, indignantly, head swishing left and right, searching for the culprit. The woman, meanwhile, was happily ignoring it all. She was eating the remains of her lunch as her child gurgled around bits of lettuce, dressing running down it’s nose.

Suddenly a café person appeared, distinguishable by her uniform, speaking to the indignant employee. She joined in the search, spotting the trail of salad which led to the pram. Just as sudden as her appearance, she vanished to return shortly with a broom and one of those dustpans on the long handle. Expertly she swept up to the woman until she moved, grudgingly.

While this had all been going on, the child had managed to invent a new game. It’s called ‘Chuck all the salad that mummy threw on me everywhere under the table, seeing how inaccessible it could get’. There was a lot kafuffle with the woman having to remove all her bags from under the table as the restaurant woman swept and swept and swept.

Placated, the employee of no specific gender finally sat down again as peace returned (that’s pretty relative as peace is not something you normally get in the restaurant at lunchtime).

So, effectively, that was it for my day today. I’m avoiding talking about the feeding cups as they were so dull, I’d rather not be reminded.

In order for my readers to visualise where I work, I include the photo below. I work in a basement, topped by a skylight so that when I lean back in my chair and have a good old stretch, this is what I see. Inspiring, eh?

View from my Monday desk

This is only on Mondays, of course, as I sit at Kevin’s desk on a Friday. He has no skylight.

Dear God. It was awful. Working in the museum district at half term is bad enough but you can multiply that a thousand fold when it’s a glorious day. Ailsa warned me on Friday. Don’t eat at the cafe in the museum, she said. I just had to look at the masses of tiny heads to realise she had been right. I decided to forego my usual lunch and wander round a bit.

But even this was plagued by little people. They were everywhere. And so noisy with it!

I decided to eat and drink at Starbucks and ended up stuck behind a man with a wife and two boys who didn’t know what they wanted or how things work in Starbucks. (Which reminds me of something that happened yesterday. I was standing at the cash register, waiting for the barista to serve me and this little old lady confidently walked up to the end of the counter where the drinks are delivered. She stood there a while. Eventually the barista asked her what she’d ordered. The little old lady was quite indignant, claiming she hadn’t been asked for her order yet and she’d been waiting for ages – it was about 2 minutes. The barista then told her she had to line up like everyone else to be served and that the drinks were delivered at that end of the counter. The little old lady suddenly went all huffy and stormed out!)

Anyway, back to today. The family in front of me couldn’t make their minds up. When I walked in, I was second in the queue; by the time I was served, there was a line of people stretching out the door behind me. Most of them looked like people on their lunch break with limited time. They must hate half term more than me. At least I only have to go through it twice this week.

Walking back to the museum I thought the Natural History Museum looked quite nice in the sun so I snapped a shot of it. I was going to blip it but thought I’d post it here instead.

Natural History Museum looking pretty in the sun

I realise I’ve posted a shot of the NHM before but I think this is a better shot.

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Months ago I had an email from Lynden saying he was coming over in October. I wrote back to say he might like to come over on a Tuesday night, stay over then go into town on Wednesday. I heard nothing further. And then, yesterday, I had an email to say he was here and wondering how to get to me in Fulham. I’d forgotten it was this week. So he’s coming over tomorrow (Nicktor is in Switzerland) and I thought I’d share the delights of the 6 Bells with him.

Obviously I told him that we don’t actually live in Fulham…

Dawn has a new man in her life. I met him today. He has taken up residence in the ‘good room’. Nicktor hasn’t said how he feels about the new situation but Dawn assures me he likes Seymour enough to be photographed with him. So I guess it’s cool.

I started the day by steam cleaning the mattress. Not my favourite job in the world, particularly when it comes to untying the electric blanket. Why do they have to have such tiny cords? It doesn’t matter how you tie them, they just get too tight; the only way to release them is to use the biggest needle in the needle-wheel. This took longer than the rest of the job.

Steaming done, I went up to Farnham for the shopping then back to take the poodles up to the castle. Carmen decided she needed a bath and took great pains to find the biggest FSI she could.

I then jumped on a number 19 bus to Haslemere to meet Dawn at The Mill. The trip takes an age usually but Garp saw it over much quicker.

I arrived at The Mill to find the normal entrance blocked with drop cloths and paint pots; a couple of chaps were busy cementing a bunch of bricks together in the door frame. I wandered round the front and walked into the bar.

I ordered a pint of TEA and read while I waited for Dawn and listened to quite a few people being told there was no food today because the kitchen wasn’t finished as it should have been. A lot of disappointed lunchtime visitors at The Mill today!

At Chez Cansfield I was surprised at not being snapped at by Polly. In fact, she let me pat her and didn’t even bark. After I was introduced to Seymour, we had a lovely salmon and salad lunch and a good natter before heading out to take the Westies for a walk.

It was a lovely lunch (I haven’t seen Dawn for ages) but it was all too soon over and I headed home. After a suspicious welcome from Carmen (I assume she could smell Basil) I headed out to mow the lawn and burn the rubbish.

Yet another busy day.

Dawn stares lovingly at Seymour, her new man

A year ago I arrived, fresh from the plane from Munich, still smelling of beer and sausages, at Northampton Square, eager to register at City Uni. I wandered, bewildered and, quite frankly, lost with all the other first day people.

Today I returned, no chance of getting lost, no need of a map, surrounded by eager faces all heading for registration or the red t-shirts of the ‘Free Campus Tour’ students or the many trestle tables set up with signs such as ‘How to join the Student Union’, ‘How to use the Library’ and ‘Free laptop insurance’ above them. For it is registration week once more.

I was there to hand in the two printed copies of my dissertation to Helen in the Programmes Office. Silly me. I thought being able to submit my work electronically was such a wonderful thing and that I wouldn’t have to spend mega-quid on getting the 98 page document printed and bound twice. How wrong I was.

I had a frantic couple of hours yesterday bartering with our local printer to get it quickly run off in time for me to take it up today. Fortunately he accepts files via email. I was then off first thing this morning to collect the copies, hop on a train and high tail it up to London. I have to admit, it looked quite good all prettily printed and slippery papered.

Once on the train I opened my saved treat and started reading it: Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving. I had almost weakened last night and peeked into it. but I was strong. I waited. The train trip into town was over all too quickly as I immersed myself in the life of loggers in 1954. Irving is SO brilliant.

What will possibly be one of my last trips on the number 4 bus proved equally quick, as the pages of my novel flew by.

Having successfully delivered my package, I was off to meet Mirinda for lunch, it being a Wednesday. Apparently I need to smarten up. My casual, holiday-like attire is embarrassing her. She said if I continued to dress like a mad artist in Tahiti at the turn of the 20th century, we’d have to meet well away from her office. Next week I’ll wear a suit. I think the looks I get are of jealousy. Mirinda calls me eccentric. Eccentricity is a small price to pay for comfort, if you ask me!

Anyway, we went to Pod today. A chain (I assume it is a chain, anyway) of little lunchtime eateries that specialises in healthy Thai food in little containers called ‘mini-pods’. We had green curry chicken which was fantastic. Just the right amount and delicious on the palate. I thoroughly recommend it.

We then went for our customary walk, this time around the seedier parts of Tower Hamlets. We ended up on Brick Lane, the Bangladeshi capital of London. Even the street signs are in English and Sandskrit. It’s a thriving place. The sort of area you feel you’d like to explore but not at night. I could be wrong.

To get there, we wandered through a typical dour council estate which had an interesting arch, originally been built by Four Per Cent Industrial Dwellings Company Ltd in 1886. It was built by a bunch of Jewish-Anglo philanthropists as a form of cure for the slum dwellings in the Jewish Quarter of London. The original buildings that went with the arch were pulled down in 1970 and the council estate built instead. if you want to read about it, you can visit here.

Brick Lane is so named because of a huge brickworks that once successfully created its wares from somewhere along it. The rich clay of the Thames banks was perfect for bricks (apparently) and so they renamed the street after them (it was originally Whitechapel Lane) back in the 15th century. There was also a lot of successful brewing in the 17th century.

it has been home to many types of immigrants but latterly is home to Bangladeshi’s. The history is quite interesting and can be found on Wikipedia, here. Most interesting is that one of the Whitechapel Murders of which Jack the Ripper was accused, took place just at the end of Brick Lane. In the photo below, Osborn Road, where it happened, is just beyond the taxi. The body and police tape has long since vanished and now the whole place is full of bustle and hum.

We gradually made our way back to the Gherkin where Mirinda went to a meeting and I made my way back to Waterloo for home, devouring more John Irving on the way.

The beginning of Brick Lane

I’m supposed to be having a Nicktor Night tonight and found a John Irving quote which I thought was somewhat apt:

“Ketchum and your dad liked to drink together,” Jane told young Dan. “I don’t know what it is that men like about drinking together, but Ketchum and your dad liked it a little too much.”

Says it all ,really.

There’s a lot of it about today. It is with some horror I realise that I am so acclimatised that this is nowhere near as bad as Sydney was when I lived there. Long nights lying atop the bedclothes, sweat constantly dripping from me. No, it’s not that bad here. However, it is still bad. Particularly on days like today when there’s the occasional cloud cover.

Being a Wednesday I journeyed into London for lunch with Mirinda. As I had some essential summer supplies with me, the plan was that I would go to the flat then walk to the office. Then, as I was about to leave the flat, my phone rang. The office had been plunged into the dark ages, the electricity having been somehow disconnected. We decided to meet at the flat and find somewhere nearby for lunch.

We ended up at Eat, not far from the flat, and then started walking up to Holborn. Gray’s Inn was lovely. An iron railing full of hollyhocks, all out and welcoming the summer sun, people sitting on the grass of what once may have been a jousting ground, a big marquee, advertising al fresco lunches (the Marquee in the Parkee, as I called it). It all looks so lovely and inviting in the summer.

Almost at Holborn, Mirinda decided she was feeling a bit ill so we walked back to the flat, where she would work for the rest of the day. Ideal, I said, mentioning the fact that the pool was just down the stairs and there may be a nice breeze on the roof terrace.

She’s off to the Barbican tonight to see a dance thing with Sarah from work, so I suggested she take it easy. The flat is very hot, though the fan I bought her yesterday should alleviate that a bit.

Being at the flat meant I could catch a bus back to Waterloo – always preferable to the Tube in summer – and I was soon on a train, putting gently through the Surrey countryside, the sun at bay behind the chill of the air conditioning that I just knew I’d regret once I arrived at Farnham.

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I spent the late afternoon pottering around the garden. I planted some pretty yellow flowers called Lady’s Slippers, I think and cut back another one which bled white gunk all over me. Naturally I watered everything.

As I watered, Carmen lay on the patio, watching intently. She isn’t that bothered by the hose while Day-z is intrigued and will often stick her nose into plants as I’m watering them.

Anyway, I was happily watering the beds near the back door when suddenly a sizeable frog jumped out of the bed and landed about four inches from Carmen’s nose. They both stared at each other for a bit, the frog blinking, Carmen’s head on one side, until Carmen put her paw out to see if it was real.

The frog jumped away from her, towards the bigger bed and Carmen was up and chasing, her tail wagging like an outboard motor on full throttle. She chased it up to the fence before I could grab her. Naturally, Day-z wanted to know what was going on so she joined in the frog chase as well.

I’m pretty sure it managed to escape though I did have to keep telling Carmen off for trampling the cosmos we planted last weekend!

I should explain something. A ‘rescue’ dog, as I referred to the other day, is a dog that has come from a dog’s home after suffering some sort of abuse or neglect. Our neighbours, and indeed quite a few people in Farnham, taken them on to help them re-adjust to a world that doesn’t involve some sort of physical and/or mental pain.

Anyway, that has nothing to do with this entry. Today we went to Ben & Monali’s for lunch. I haven’t seen them for ages. Given that Imogen has grown a year we figured it’s been a year. I have seen Ben once in there, when we went out to dinner with Mirinda’s work chums, but Monali and Imogen were not there. According to Imogen, she’s “not a baby, I’m 2!“. She’s also quite pleased with her potty skills.

So, I was looking forward to one of Monali’s wonderful Indian feasts. But here’s the thing. Ben didn’t give her much warning that he’d invited us for lunch so she had to throw something together.

Now I have always said that Monali is one of my favourite chefs in the entire universe but that opinion has always been based on her Indian food. Well, her British/European food is bloody brilliant as well.

Slow roasted lamb that melted off the bone, mashed carrots, a sauté of vegetables, mint sauce…fantastic. Super delicious. Loved it. Mustn’t forget the dessert. A chocolate pudding with pears. Sounds rich and it was. With just a daub of ice cream. Perfect.

We had a lovely afternoon. Imogen has become very entertaining in the last year. She’s very articulate and very cheeky with it. I didn’t have to sit through any DVDs but did spend quite a bit of time watching her ride her scooter round and round what Ben laughingly calls their back yard.

When we arrived home, afterwards, we played lots of music, very loudly and sang a lot. Hopefully that annoyed the neighbours.

Mirinda and Imogen

I had a lovely day today. Apart from the usual shopping, dog walking and talking to mum and dad, I had lunch with Dawn.

Normally we go to a pub for a meal, either over here at The Albion or over in Haslemere at The Mill. I thought this was silly when I could easily whip up something similar so I suggested we have lunch in the garden. This was especially tempting given the lovely weather we’re having at the moment.

I decided to make tabbouleh with a crisp leaf salad and oak smoked salmon. Actually, I only decided on oak smoked when I saw the packet in Waitrose.

I remember a long time ago, going to a family party, celebrating the successful escape by some Armenian political refugees, given by James Balian who I met…to be honest I can’t remember how I met James but he was a film student and I was in a few of his class projects.

One of the things about Armenian family parties is that everyone mucks in with the food preparation. I was given a big bowl of minced up meat and, what I can only describe as ‘stuff’, and told I was making the kofta. It was very squishy and quite difficult to make stick on the skewers. Everyone thought it was very funny and a few helpful ladies gave me pointers. Now I make my own koftas and I thank them for showing me how to do it properly!

Anyway, while I was squishing around in my bowl, one lady was busy chopping up bits of tomato, cucumber and mint very, very finely. She had a nice pile in front of her. When I asked what she was making, she said tabbouleh. She then let me know how difficult it was and how it was very important to get everything cut up nice and finely. I fell in love with tabbouleh that day.

In saying that, I’ve not had any for many years so decided, a lovely summery day was just the time to re-acquaint myself with it. I found a rough sort of recipe and adapted it to what I had then spent the morning preparing it.

I feel obliged to say it was pretty good! Dawn was so impressed she asked me for the recipe and insisted she was going to force feed it to Nicktor, who, as we all know, doesn’t do salad. It made a lovely accompaniment to a gloriously (not too hot) sunny day, on our patio, under the big umbrella.