A New Camera

Original Routemaster Bus

I thought I might do something a bit different this week. Those of you who know me and/or follow this blog regularly, will have picked up that I like my little traveller’s tales.

A London Icon

I like being a tourist in my own town. I can make even the most mundane of everyday journeys sound interesting.

The "Walkie-Talkie" Building that goes out at the top

 

The other thing I very much enjoy, is taking photos.





 

St Paul's Cathedral amongst its modern companions

 

 

Every photo that has ever appeared on this blog is one of mine, and my walls are filled with pictures of my travels.

 



St Brides Church

 

I’m not an expert though. My favourite camera function is the one called “intelligent-auto”. It lets me do what I like best, which is frame the shot and click. I don’t have to worry about all the technical stuff like aperture and shutter speed; the camera does that for me.

 



An old building  sandwiched between two new ones

 

Anyway, I digress. The point is that I treated myself to a new camera which I played with, as my scooter and I trundled from Fenchurch Street, past St Pauls and along Fleet Street to Covent Garden.

Ballet Dancer statue near The Royal Opera House

 

There are so many interesting points to capture along the way. I thought I’d share a few of them.

 

Red Telephone Boxes

 



February 29th

That extra day we get every four years that we let pass by and barely notice. And yet it’s a very important day. It delays the aging process. There’s another day between you and the birthday clock notching up another year.

By the time you get to twenty-eight, you’ve had a whole week of extra days, two extra weeks by fifty-six, and by eighty-four you are three weeks younger than you would have been had there been no February 29ths. Instead of being eighty-four and three weeks, you are only eighty-four. Think what you could have done with that time if only you had noticed.

And what if you’re born on February 29^th? You get an extra three years between each birthday. So by the time you reach your twenty-first, you have squeezed in eighty-four years’ worth of experience.

If you really want some fun, you can cross the International Date Line on February 29^th. You don’t just play with time, you confuse direction. If you travel eastwards across it, you leave the Far East and end up in The West, and you time-travel to twenty-four hours ago, giving you the same day again. You can double-book yourself into two hotels in two continents on the same night and sleep in both. If you do that on February 29^th you don’t just get one extra day; you can have two.

Of course if instead, you went from west to east by heading west, you’d time-travel forward and skip a day. Unless the day you skip is February 29^th, because for three years out of four that day doesn’t exist anyway. So you could lose a day without actually losing a day.

But where’s the fun in that? Go the other way. It’s much more exciting!

Confessions of a Professional Plant Killer

My Grandad’s green fingers, whilst reaching down to Mum, have not extended to me. If you buy me a plant, it’ll be dead within a fortnight. But my reputation as a professional plant killer is being threatened.

My Christmas Poinsettia is still alive in February. It looks a bit thin I admit, but it’s growing new leaves.

And a fuchsia cutting that broke off a garden plant, which I stuck in a glass of water on the window sill, is sprouting roots and a bud.

What is going on?

I’ve not completely lost my touch though. I killed the mint!

 

The London you don't often see

As I trundled along Fleet Street I saw a sign saying "This way to Temple Church" with an arrow pointing through an open black, wooden gate. I wandered through. The traffic noise faded to a faint hum. No vehicles here. I was in a different world.

I followed the pedestrian street lined with 19^th Century style lamps attached to the buildings’ walls. At the bottom was what at first appeared to be a small chapel. As I walked around the outside, it became a large church on the edge of a Georgian paved square. From here was an arch leading to another square. And from there, another arch. This one took me to a narrow cobbled road with a few parked cars, but otherwise no traffic and another square opposite.

When I looked right, the road lead back to Fleet Street. To the left, it lead down, through another arch, to the river. There was a constant and thin stream of pedestrians walking through with pupose. Clearly a popular route.

I followed the road down. Off to one side there was another arch leading to a square with a manicured garden in the middle. In it was a series of benches. A peaceful haven in the middle of the city. I used to work just up the road from here. How had I never found it before?

Back on the private road, I continued downhill. Through the final arch I found myself on Victoria Embankment. In one direction I could see The London Eye dwarfing Westminster Palace which, because of the way the river curved, looked to be next to it instead of opposite. In the other direction was The Shard framed by the trees. It’s glass walls glinted in the sunlight that had appeared after the rain.

The Embankment was even more clogged up with traffic than Fleet Street. I turned round and returned to the quiet of Middle Temple Lane.

New Year in Edinburgh

I arrived in Edinburgh on the 2^nd January. Ok. So the New Year had already arrived, but it was still very young and all the festive markets were still going on. Scotland has two Public Holidays at Hogmanay, rather than the one hangover recovery day that we get in England. And as they fell on a Friday and a Monday this year, I had arrived in the relaxed bit in the middle.

I was staying in the Youth Hostel in Haddington Place, just down from The Playhouse. It was an ideal location, a stone’s throw from Waverly Station and Princes Street. That was especially important as I can’t use the buses. Although my little mobility scooter is smaller than the maximum size wheelchair Lothian Buses will allow on board, a scooter with handlebars is something else, even on the new tram network. It is not allowed on either! Lothian Buses aside, nobody else I spoke to in Edinburgh, or elsewhere, can understand that rule. Anyhow, rant over. And now that I have reconciled myself to that fact, Edinburgh has returned to being a place in my heart. I had loved living there and often wonder why I left.

I’ve gone off track. The whole of Princes Street Gardens from The Mound to Waverly Bridge was filled with market stalls selling German cake, wooden carvings, beer and colourful things from India and South America. I was pleased to discover a stall that sold gloves made from Alpaca wool. I was still mourning the loss of a pair I had bought in Peru. They had been the warmest gloves I had ever owned.

At the bottom of the gardens, was Santa Land. It had funfair rides for little people and a little train that ran around the edge. At the top were a couple of rides for bigger people. I contemplated the chair planes carousel that was almost as high as the 60m Scott Monument. I decided against that particular pleasure. I’m afraid I’m a teacups girl when it comes to fairground rides.

My glasses steamed up the instant I entered The Elephant House coffee shop on George IV Bridge. It was so warm inside that the windows were also steamed up, depriving me of a view of the castle while I drank my coffee.

Leaving The Elephant House, I wandered along to the statue of Greyfriars Bobby and Greyfriars Kirk. The little dog had become famous in the 19^th Century when he faithfully guarded his master’ grave for fourteen years after he died, until he, too, died. In the graveyard, in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle, are many imposing Victorian gravestones. Many of them line the walls of the buildings backing onto the graveyard.  An uncharacteristly small one set into the wall of the kirk, is blank but has a skull and cross bones at the base. It made me wonder about the story behind its owner.

I returned to the Youth Hostel, cold but happy. I set about packing, ready to leave the next morning after a nice couple of days in the Scottish capital.

Nan's sewing machine

I have always loved Nan’s old Singer sewing machine and the wrought iron table it sits in. I loved tracing my finger round the shapes of the iron lace sides leading from the wooden table top down to the feet. I loved making the big wheel at the side spin and seeing how fast I could make it go. It was no longer attached to anything. The belt from the machine was now around another wheel attached to a motor fixed to the underneath of the table.

Mum can remember when it worked without the need for electricity. She has uncomfortable memories of those days. The more cross Nan was with Grandad, the faster she pumped the treadle. The rapid clattering and clonking as the machine raced along, became louder and more intense. But to me, Nan and her machine were a marvel. She could attack a piece of fabric with a pair of scissors and stitch all the shapes together to create a garment that fitted perfectly, all without the aid of a pattern.

The overlocking machine also fitted into the table. It needed three threads which were always left in the machine. “It’s too complicated to rethread,” Nan said as she tied the new cottons from cone shaped reels to the previous colours. As the machine sped on, a thin sliver of fabric was shaved off, leaving behind a finished edge.

It had its own place within the family. “That’s a good machine,” everyone proclaimed. “It’s industrial.” And it was. I’m sure the only time it stopped was when Nan was in the kitchen. It once sewed all the football shirts for a team in The First Division, before it became The Premier. I didn’t like the team they were for. Their fans did not have a good reputation. But my Nan had made all the shirts and that was something to be proud of.

Nan, Mum, Jo and I often went to Romford to go to Nan and Mum’s favourite fabric shop. It was in the corner of a little shopping centre, just off the market. It was a huge shop filled with all kinds of material of every colour and design. They might have been the shop’s best customers.

Mum used to make her own dresses to go dancing in. The fabric would take over the living room floor as she laid out the pattern pieces and cut them out. Jo and I have also inherited Nan’s creativity, and like her, we don’t use patterns. I find them frustrating. I much prefer to make it up as I go along.

The sewing machine is mine now. It was the only thing of Nan’s I wanted when she died. Jo offered to look after it for me as I have such a small flat. “Thanks. But I’m sure can find a space for it”, I told her. She loves it as much as I do.

 

The Elves are Excited!

Christmas is coming

It’s almost here

Watch the snow fall

See the reindeer

 

The elves are excited

They are loading the sleigh

With wonderful presents

For Christmas Day

 

Mince pies and pudding

With lashings of cream

Lovely chocolates

Oh what a dream!

 

The turkey is cooked

The choir is singing

The crackers are pulled

The bells are ringing

 

Mistletoe and holly

Sleigh rides and reindeer

Santa has been

Christmas is here!