D-Day Commemorations

It may be you have had enough of D-Day for a bit, I certainly found the Cathedral service too much to put up with, organ music is not my thing sorry.  I went out to see if the local lads had done anything to commemorate the event but nothing was to be seen here.  Possibly round at the war memorial there was something.  Most Legion men here are Korean and after not WW2 however.

As always there is much slop talked about these men.  Too much of the 'Our Boys,' 'Heroes,' and 'Brave men all,' came to me who had little comprehension of what these men really felt.  Growing up amongst men who served, and as kids hearing only 'Boys Own' stories rather than the bad bits until we were older, we still got a glimpse of the 'stiff upper lip,' and the 'You have just got to get up and do it' attitude that so many had.  Few would want to do it again, few called themselves 'heroes,' most just thought it was a job that had to be done.  Hitler was bad, the nation was threatened, fight was the only way out.  None of that would sell a movie or a newspaper today.  
My father was not at D-Day, his artillery battalion was so far behind the lines they were in danger of coming upon the Japanese rear!   It has not been possible to find where they were but I know he crossed the Rhine.  He told our insurance man, remember when they collected weekly, "We sat for two days while the armour went over, then we crossed!"  His unit had a lot of ex-soldiers like himself in it, they knew the ways.
His attitude was like many men, go if you have to, seek peace not war.  He, like most in the craft crossing the rough sea, would not like to be near the 'death or glory' man, taking sensible care was the order of the day.  This left him shouting abuse at many an American movie during the late 50's.
At least British actors had been in the war.

It is interesting listening to the ex-servicemen.  No glory hunters, though one did try to chat up the Trump woman, all spoke sensibly about war and what they did, downplaying their part often and avoiding glory.  One clearly still upset about the killing he participated in, 'fire first or die' attitude shared by most.  Like those from the Great War these men tend not to be free with their many experiences, most of what they saw remains in their heads. 
Some, like Spike Milligan, told their stories, a good way to get it out of the system is to write down, longhand, the tale and sort things out in the head.  Many did this but like Spike they either 'jazzed it up' as he did or avoided the 'too tough' bits altogether.  Some things must die with us.
I was conscious of the welcome the old men w ere being given while as dad pointed out in 1946 he was given a suit, a hat, a few pounds, told "Thanks" now get on with your life.  There was no help for him or the several million others who may have had problems.  If dad had them it never showed but many never forgot their experiences, especially in the front line.  Being a bit further back allows you to enjoy war a bit more, many did of course, and the chances of survival are greater if not guaranteed.  

 
Lots of talk has been about the emotions of the men on the boats.  With many small craft sea sickness spoiled the emotions somewhat as suffering leaves you with other things to concentrate on. There must be apprehension, especially for those with no experience, dear must control you but once the doors open the NCO's take over and training kicks in.  The confusion on some beaches compares with a swift landing on others, each would have the adrenalin running for different reasons.  I would fear more if there was no opposition while wondering what they were up to.  At least under fire you know you need to just hide!  Men were killed, 4,450 or so that day and a great deal more wounded however out of 150,000 this was a good result.  The death toll would rise as they headed inland and opposition grew.   Winston Churchill was mighty relieved at the days result as it meant the war was heading for an end and the danger of losing maybe 90,000 dead lay heavy on him as Gallipoli was always on his mind.  This day was the last great British military moment, from this day on the Empire was dead.  Two other powers had come to the fore and only the 'Daily Mail' and 'Express' reader miss what has been lost.

Dakota

Wiki

The day has been spent filling the TV screen with commemorations for D-Day and watching DC-3 'Dakota' aircraft lifting themselves into the skies to deliver parachutists into France.  This is a plane I have always liked.  Something simple yet attractive about it.  These have been flying nearly 80 years!

So far the commemoration has been filled with the usual dignitaries, even Trump behaved, old men in their 90's remembering, often badly and some willing to party and misbehave if they could, and considering the thoughts of those who 75 years ago prepared to invade France.

Sadly the flight of Dakota's  passed 15 miles away from here and all we saw was a glimpse of a fighter aircraft that roared past not long ago.  Possibly the Hurricane but difficult to tell from this angle.  Not that long ago all such aircraft came over our heads but they sadly changed the air route to benefit holiday makers returning from Espania to Stansted.  Most annoying.

Tomorrow we will have more of such memories as the commemoration in France takes place.  

 

I ventured no further than the town for the needful.  Just as well as the cloud cover made taking pictures difficult and there is little to see here anyway.  Unlike the other day when the sun shone and poppies bloomed.

London Musings

One thing I found strange about Saturday was how much I enjoyed London.  This I did not expect.  In my mind it was still overcrowded, pushy, selfish and far too busy, which indeed it remains but even so I found I quite enjoyed it.
One problem I always hated, increasingly as time went by, was the sheer distance you have to travel sometimes to get somewhere.  While public transport is generally good it takes for ever to get about.  When working in North Finchley it could take nearly two hours to get home, travel at night via the 'tube' could take just as long including changes on the way.  For one day it was OK but to do this regularly does my head in.  I suppose the travel being straight forward on Saturday eased my little head in this.  I also found the train busy but not too much so that helped, bus travel might have been slower with traffic problems.  
London does offer a great deal however when living there work interfered with this.  Having spent a week amongst the miserable workforce the thought of trailing out somewhere lessened somewhat if distance or rain or cost was involved.  The need to eat, buy food or other essentials all cut into the time available, this along with the need to pay for everything lessened the enjoyment of London.
At the weekend I began to think how much of me remains in London.  Possibly, like so many others, I remain in 'my London' not the one that actually exists around me.  It seemed to me living there was not such a bad idea after all, there is so much to do, so many places to go, a huge city all around.  
Reality however demands half a million for a poky flat, huge costs to live, and then the reality of Londoners themselves.  Daily life in reality is not like that in the imagination.
London however does make this area look boring even if we can actually see the sky! 

 

Day Trip to the 'Grove.'

The train arrived around about noon at Liverpool Street.  A peaceful journey for a Saturday, one with no rail engineering on our line to hinder us, somewhat unusual at the weekends.  The sun shone, the hottest day of the year they say.

Grabbing a couple of quick shots of the crowds milling around the station and remembering the grime covered building of the not too distant past I grabbed the 'Oyster' card I had been given and headed for the 'Tube.'

  
The London Underground, the smell of er the Tube, the rush of air as trains arrive or leave, the squeal of wheels,the panic to board before the doors close, always someone just too late!  No-one notices.  The sudden increase in speed as the train rushes from one station to another, the jerk as the connection fails, bodies swinging from side to side, not so much swinging during commuter rush hour obviously.  The lack of air, yesterday the oppressive heat, voices talking in unknown languages, women, usually Spanish, talking very loudly, all creating an atmosphere difficult to replicate.

 
Notting Hill Gate, nothing like the film which somehow managed to avoid any black people appearing, but does on Saturdays gather together the tourists and the show-offs, dressed to kill, to the market.

Being lunchtime the pubs and trendy overpriced restaurants were full, I hesitated to think what price a pint would be around here, and struggled through the mass of tourists desperate to see the sights so long read about in tourist guides and seen on foreign TV shows.  My cynical years tell me such sights are not what are presented by well paid er, presenters, but still we go and they come and get in the locals way, hindering traffic and hopefully spending their money as if it meant nothing to them.  
I spent nothing.

As you know the top end of Portobello Road contains a row of little houses like these.  One is available for you at a mere £3 million ono.  I liked the plants growing around the house here offering a little protection from the tourists although many were photographing the houses and fantasising their next 'never to happen' move.     

George lived a few doors down from this house at one time.  He did get around, Empire serving in Burma was it? Paris, the Outer Hebrides, and this house which I suspect he rented as folks did then.  I wonder if people knock on the door and request a peek around?  I suspect I know what the answer would be...

This sign has intrigued me for years, only now do I realise it is carved into the wall which explains its long life.  I had a quick look for info but so far have discovered nothing re the man, the 1851 census has not show anything so I will have to look further.  In 1851 I suspect this road was still a muddy path to the farm at the far end, certainly pigs were being kept in Westbourne Grove at this time by those living in hovels, not buildings such as this.

Not much has changed down Portobello since I was here last  The 'Pink Fairy' selling Afghan coats in 1970 and silver jewellery in the 80s has long since departed.  Most shops look the same but owners have gone and new ones have come, prices remain devious.  'Alice's' once sold ex-army dress uniform to trendy types in the 60's yet has survived the slings and arrows of outrageous governments and remains the same colour as before.  The expressions on view have not changed either.

 
This end of the road has always been where the expensive stalls are found.  It is the far end where folks such as I looked for bargains.  In between came the fruit stalls with their crooked owners, often slappers I found, ready to overcharge for spoilt fruits.  At the far end we could see the stallholders who know their business scouting for bargains to take back to the top end, once burnished up they would offer a decent profit.  I looked for things I needed, but often it was possible to find things cheap that you cannot live without, even if you don't need them.  Too far for my knees today so we remained at the top end among the fancy people.  The lead soldiers on display were once popular with the middle classes children, others could not afford them.  Today these would be banned as dangerous for kids.  I shoved through the crowd to get a picture as a voice spoke at the far side "No, not Russian madam, 'Prussian' you see he has a Picklehaube helmet."  I did not hang around to hear the fantasy price he was going to ask for.

  
'Finch's' on the corner, a pub I once spent time in around 1971.  The place usually had a fiddler, a box player, sax or trumpeter or whatever jamming in the corner.   A hazy smell would often appear and the barman was desperate to clear it out before the 'fuzz' crashed in killing his profits.  We arrived one night when A large Black African was arguing with a small Asian man, both known to us.  We gently interfered and ended the slagging match before the wee man got dealt with. "I say what I think," said the Asian, "I don't care what he says, I say what I think."  His face was a mass of bruises, a cut here and there, a plaster, a bruise.  I heard myself mutter "Sometimes tact is required."  It was a great wee place then in the far off days of yore.  A bit ordinary now I suspect.  

That year I began as a volunteer shifting folks from one flat to another.  The charity owned several of these buildings, I doubt they do so now, and the people we moved usually went from the 5th floor in one building to the 3rd floor in another, or vice-versa.  I remember the ease in which we carted large objects up and down stairs then!  I also stayed for a while in the basement, sorry 'garden flat, of the last house in the picture.  I suspect it would cost £500,000 today.  There again the previous tenant to us had painted the front room black and left a skeleton image hanging behind the door.  Hmmm I wonder what went on there...  Opposite on the shop wall someone had scrawled 'Get high on dynamite!'  Graffiti that remained there for many years.

As London expanded in the second half of the 19th century these buildings appeared and Westbourne Grove was a shopping centre of high repute.   These 'Upstairs, Downstairs' houses were popular but they did not go much further north at the time.  The wealthy stopped about here and further north the lower classes were moved in.  Until recent gentrification it remained that way.  An entire building might be available for sale but usually these flats go from between £500,000 to double that and above.  It appears however the market has reached a point where it can no longer sustain such prices.  I will wait until it falls considerably.

  
By the 1880'sthe area was at its height, the  streets flowed with well dressed women annoying badly paid shop girls everywhere while trawling from one shop to another on their way to leaving their 'carte de visite' at the home of someone of importance.  A bit more elegant than a text I think.  The shops today I note are no less expensive and 'exclusive.'  The prices are made to make you think you have made it when you pay over the top for run of the mill clobber.  People of course fall for this, increase the price and people think it of a higher standard, life is often deceitful.

Now if you have followed so far you, like me, need a break!  Here it is.

Now, back to work...

These shops have stood here for well over a  hundred and odd years.  While the Post Office is now something that I could not understand and the shop that once sold art nouveau lamps has gone there are many places where the silly girl can look her best and pay through the nose for it.  The lamp shop had many exquisite young ladies, dressed, or usually undressed, in Edwardian or 1920's style.  These usually were lamps of some sort but for the girls sake it is nice to know it is cooler in the shade.

I eventually reached my destination, to the great pleasure of my knees.  I spent many years in this church building.  Eventful years for the most part with several difficulties.  God was there and much happened.  In time all that ended and a new thing happened, many moved on and God continues his work in a new way here.  The building was renovated giving a huge collection of rooms, large and very small.  The ministers wife's training as an architect helped with the design.  Tremendous use of rooms and the two showers installed.  On Mondays street people get a tea and biscuit and a shower, for many it is the only one they will get.  Advice is offered if anyone can give it and a chance to just meet people of the street.  On Saturday it was the monthly 'Lobby Lunch' something they have done for many years.  Street people, and others, come to tea and sandwiches, to chat and lonely folks from the area drop in, London as you will know is a very lonely city. 
The church spaces are also used for art exhibitions and Chris, the minister, had some of his work on show and that was the purpose of my visit.  The one time staircase turrets were put to good use making spaces to show pictures or spend time alone in prayer.  There were several of these and other cubby holes around the building as well as office spaces and larger halls, it had been very well designed and a huge development considering what the place had been like before.  At least now there was no more need to personally paint doors, walls, or any other running repair.  How many doors I painted in past times.  On the top you can just make out the pricey flats that have been built in to pay for it all.  Great views from up there.
Only two of the girls working the kitchen, that's what women were made for surely?  Only two of them I knew, Rosie spoke with all the keenness of someone wishing she was elsewhere and Rosemary did not recognise me.  l did not think it worthwhile explaining as it had been 23 years since I was there, few remember.   

Going around the exhibition and wandering up stairs and through doors I forgot to take pictures of the art on show.  It is not a massive show but when he tells you how he took the pics it takes time!  His eye is better than mine and he sees pictures everywhere.  This pic is taken after 'Lobby Lunch' was cleared up and the last guest was chatting about some problem.  It shows the space in this first hall, vestibule I suppose, and as I sat chewing on the last piece of cake they cleared away the 8 tables and this man and the other regulars sorted things out.  In spite of the vast wealth in the area there are normal people around also.  rich or poor they all have similar problems and the 'up and outs' need help as much as the 'Down and outs.'  This church is willing to cover both in a manner Jesus wishes them to.

Here is the boss admiring his work through the window into one of the tower spaces.  At the rear is one of his offerings.  At night the picture shows up clearly to the passer-by but the reflection spoiled the show today somewhat.  It will run until the end of June and the church is always open these days unlike in the past.  One complaint was the doors were always shut but when open these grumblers did not enter, now it is open daily but do they enter? 

Chris and I then went 'just around the corner' about a ten mile hike for my knees, to a cafe where we sipped coffee while he ate apple strudel.  My diet forbade this, and all the other delicacies spread along the counter which my greed longed for.  It is many years since we had met in the real world and it was good to hear how satisfied he now is with the church building, the 'programme' if that is an acceptable word, and the staff, all part time, who help run the place.  The congregation is small as is the case in such churches, while around 50 attend on a morning over a three years period that 50 will vary with time and over a hundred may have been regulars.  London life brings people in and chucks them out at a great rate.  He needs to bring in some of the media types from round about.  They of course hate Christianity because it exposes their sin, not to public scrutiny but to themselves and this they fear greatly.  Don't we all hate knowing what we are?
It was good to know he is where he ought to be and the church is facing the right direction.  I was glad he is content with his lot, especially as he has so many troubles each day, often new ones to surprise him, and Jesus takes him through them.  His success revealed clearly my failure.
One thing was clear this is not the 'Grove' I remember.  Not just because of the building work but because the people have changed, most were not born when I was last here, and the outlook is while similar to the past very different also.  God reaches out to what is there now, not what was there then.

 
It was time to shake off the cafe and head for the 'tube' again.  Once more I saw sights I had forgotten while pushing through chattering tourists oblivious to others sharing the planet with them.  I avoided the young thing tempting me with T-shirts claiming 'I have been to Portobello Road' and ignoring her and avoiding death on the road by using the zebra crossing and almost getting killed as the driver could not see past the tourists crowding the roadway I headed home.

This row of shops was at one time shrouded in the fragrance, if that is the right word, of the 'joss sticks' that one of the Hippy shops burnt daily.  Looking at what is there now I wish the Hippies were back again.  "Peace!"  Anyway I must push through this crowd and make my way down all those steps to catch the next train.

 Blast, Missed!

This will do.  I just have to keep awake and avoid ending up at Hainault, wherever that is.

I slunk around the station, usually I jump on the first train and head for Chelmsford and change there.  If anything happens and a delay occurs I can change to the bus and get home easily enough.  Today I just could not be bothered and instead searched W.H.Smiths for a cold drink.  Eventually I found a tin of something cold, I was too tired to care to read what it was called and it was one of the few actually cold drinks in the fridge, and with only 'self-service' in the shop, the staff to lazy to take the cash, I paid £1:89 for whatever it was.
As I left the shop the Somali (?) security guard asked which team I was supporting in the evening game.  Neither I said and wished I had expressed my real thoughts that it would be a poor game with few goals and a waste of time.  However I said little.  He asked what team I supported, I explained and he looked blankly at me.  "Scottish team," I explained.  "Oh," said he, "Scottish."  He let the word roll around his head as I moved off while he tried to work out what "Scottish" was.  England does not know Scotland, London knows it even less.

 
I greedily guzzled the cold drink, it had claimed 'energy' on the tin but I saw little of that, and slouched off up the long platform to the front end of the train, one of the newer replacement ones for the old out of days trains.  At this time of night I considered it could not be busy and I was right.  However each one who boarded ensured they bumped into me until I moved to a safer seat.  

The journey takes an hour mostly dropping people off as opposed to gathering them on.  The sun shone through the window, the coach was quiet, four young kids got on and noisily off soon afterwards, they had the difficulty of explaining to one of their number he could not get on the train where he intended as the railway did not go there.  
I was not convinced he was joking.  
Home by 8 in time for some of the football and a plate of corned beef and chips.  At this point the sight of the cafe specialities lined along the counter returned and caused me a deep moment of jealousy.  That cafe did not exist while I lived there, hopefully he will move out here one day.
The dinner was woeful, the football so woeful I played with the pictures instead.  My knees were woeful and wished me to know this, my tiredness was woeful and as I remembered clambering up 5 flights of stairs carrying furniture all those years ago I wondered if it was all a dream?  
Soon I was dreaming and even sooner it was 5:15 am and I was awake again....

  

Clerics

Daily Mail

One thing I have learned is that the Church of England is not like any other church I have belonged to.  The Church of Scotland has some weirdo's in it today, some who ought not be allowed through the door it must be said, yet for all its troubled history the CoS has not produced eccentrics with the ease the CoE has done.  
This book lists some of them.
The author is a curate in the CoE and therefore comes across some eccentrics daily I would imagine, in my short time here in the Essex wilderness I have discovered the CoE encourages such people.
The book offers a collection of clerics from recent and distant past times, some appear to me to be quite good chaps in truth doing the job they were paid for, perhaps that is why they were considered strange?
However the first one mentioned 'Robert Hawker' can only be classed as 'strange.'  While engaged in his clerical duties at Bude in Cornwall he took to the sea.  He would sit on a rock just of the coast wearing a wig maid of seaweed and with an oilskin wrapped around his legs he would sing as mermaids do.  This curate action confused some of the locals though they gathered around to watch and listen until a local farmer, or perhaps the weather brought him ashore and quietened him down.  Having moved far from Bude to a lonely parish he became famous for there he invented the Harvest Festival in a vain effort to get his parishioners into church.  The majority of the congregation however remained his 10 cats who followed him in each Sunday.  One caught a mouse on a Sunday and was excommunicated for this.   In spite of dressing in a peculiar but coloufull fashion he considered it his duty to rescue bodies which were constantly washed up on shore from the treacherous waters around him.  He also tried to rebuild the vicarage in his own quaint style but his behaviour and his addiction to opium along with the bizarre poems this inspired stopped him from obtaining money to rebuild his church.  He died in 1875.
Michael Ramsey became Archbishop of Canterbury and was known to begin the day by bangng his head three times on his desk muttering "I hate the Church of England," I suspect all those who followed him have also followed this practice.  George Harvest suffered from memory loss, he forgot to arrive at his wedding as he had gone fishing, not only but also he made a second wedding arrangement and got caught up in conversation with a stranger and missed that one as well!    
There are many such in this book, including one who built a fence round the church to keep people out and I suspect some vicars who having read that will wish to do similar.  
An entertaining read which only the CoE could produce. 

No idea what this is but the bush in the park over the road gives off a delightful scent.  The wind is carrying it eastwards today but when the wind is low the fragrance fills the area.  We need more of these.
 

No football tonight.
After tomorrow there may not be much for a while.
What will I do...?
I might have to speak to people if I cannot avoid them.
Oh dear...

Morning TV and on...

I was surprised to see a return of the series 'Love Island' on the early morning TV news today.  I was surprised because I had not known it to have gone away before.  This programme, like so many others that get a great deal of publicity is one I have not actually watched.  I suspect if I did find it on my television I would watch with the sound turned off.  That way it might have more purpose.
Another giant of the screen was 'Game of Thrones' (I think) which has mesmerised many but unfortunately not appeared before my eyes.  Occasionally it is mentioned online, on forums, and by people I meet but too me it appears not worth watching.  I find such programmes a wee bit childish now though I suspect I would watch them in the past.  There again having read so much about the real world I find it hard to escape into such fantasy as this.  Viewing pictures of war, a bible reading and such programmes are seen as well, cobblers!  This means I cannot watch them for more than five minutes before allowing sarcasm to begin.
Between 1978 and 1986 I did without TV altogether and was constantly informed of wonderful programmes which I missed.  When I eventually saw such programmes I was not impressed.  It is possible that reading books instead of watching TV or just living in the real world had influenced me against them I know not, however TV did not hold me as before.  Most TV is puerile to me now, only occasionally, like this morning, do I switch it on and find channel after channel offering me 'tele-shopping' and that for items for which I have no use.  Most of the rest are just junk, I mean who needs to watch 'Coronation Street' early in the morning?
There is a place for TV in this world, there are some decent programmes if you spend time scanning for them, but on the whole most are wasting my time.  At the time of asking there is only one programme worth watching and my TV refuses to pick it up!  The other 50 channels are not being switched on.
And don't get me started on the adverts...

One of the items this morning concerned the Birmingham school where parents, mostly Muslim, object to the teaching of homosexuality to five year-olds.  The two presenters discussed this between themselves both taking the same viewpoint and allowing no disagreement with their opinion.  Further voices were heard all supporting the gay viewpoint and encouraging teaching children about gay sex, including four and five year olds!  Anyone who offered a different point of view was called 'bigot,' as indeed the head teacher behind this teaching was quick to say.  This appears to be acceptable to Sky News early in the morning but does not equate to journalism nor objectivity on any subject.
Now we understand the media is full of people who are gay or loose with their sex lives, few have a grasp of the world beyond their university and childhood and all share the fashionable viewpoint of life, they appear to have heard no other.
Esther McVey, a good looking but not one to trust Conservative possible PM did claim parents should have a 'final say on what they want their children to know.'  This of course has led to the usual gay lobby bots objecting on Twitter. Clear evidence, as if it was required, that disobeying the gay lobby brings condemnation for speaking the truth.  The totalitarian society is just around the corner.