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.