Walking home along Kingsway, everyone going somewhere.

I took the Number 7 bus from Paddington to Portobello Markets, one of my favourite haunts. It’s a 10 minute bus ride.

I’m pleased that there are now so many more food stalls, with a French flavour.

 There were croissants, pain de chocolat, and many temping flans.  Yummy.  I had to sample one of these quiches, and I’m afraid to confess I had an almond croissant, as well. Well, what’s a girl to do, I have to support the local market traders!  

All those of you who are struggling to make ends meet, here is a solution.  A tasty nutritious dish straight out of Mrs Beeton’s kitchen.  Suitable for most occasions.  Go on, impress your friends:

680g (1½lb) Rump Steak
2-3 Pigeons
Very Good Puff Paste or Medium Puff Paste
4 Eggs
3 Slices Ham
50g (2oz) Butter
Salt and Pepper, to taste Cut the steak into pieces about 7.5 cm (3 inch) square and with it line the bottom of a pie dish, seasoning it well with salt and pepper.
Clean the pigeons, rub with salt and pepper inside and out.
Put rather more than 15g (½oz) of butter into the body of each.
Lay them on the steak, with a piece of ham on each pigeon.
Add the yolks of 4 eggs and half fill the dish with stock.
Lace a border of puff pastry round the edge of the dish.
Cover with pastry and ornament in any way that may be preferred.
Clean three of the feet and place them in a hole made in the crust at the top, (this shows what kind of pie it is).
Glaze the crust with the yolk of an egg.
Bake it in a well heated oven for about 75 minutes.
If liked, a seasoning of ground mace may be added. Time: 75 minutes, or rather less.
Sufficient for 5 or 6 persons. Seasonable at any time. Also, try pigeon pizza, pigeon pasta or la pièce de résistance – pickled pigeons in pineapple!

Always wanting, more, more

Never satisfied

I am so lucky to belong to a social club that invites me to free private views, concerts, even west end theatre. 

Last night The Khazakh Music concert at Cadogan Hall was stunning, such inspirational folk music and song.  The performers looked stunning in their regal costumes.  While not understanding the words, the sounds they evoked said it all and the accompanying visuals stirred a renewed interest in visiting Khazakstan one day.  I bumped into Betty who I haven’t seen since last year before I went back to Australia, so that was good. 

I also managed to fit in popping into a few art galleries near Goodge Street. After an eat all you can vegetarian nosh up (purely comfort eating for my jaundiced soul) I popped into an old favourite, the Curwen Gallery in Windmill Street where I’ve been to lots of their private view opening nights.  I particularly admired copperand miscellanous objects welded together and acrylic blue and bright yellow striped art on aluminium.  Also visited the newly moved Rebecca Hossack gallery and admired some ‘concreatures’ made out of concrete.  Their other gallery in Conway Street was having Australian Ken Done exhibition which to me is reminiscent of small children painting with lots of blobs of yellow sailing boats, yellow suns and wide yellow beaches.  But who am I to judge.  The Japanese love him and I admire many of his paintings but others not.  It brings out the arrogant attitude in me of ‘oh I could do better than that’.  Bout time you put your money where your mouth is gal!

When I was studying design at the University of Technology, Sydney, one of my tutors was John Hockney.  Yes bruv of the famous one!  He suggested I go to his brother’s Leeds gallery and in my ignorance, I thought I was getting a personal introduction.  How yellow can you be?

I made a special effort to attend an art view at a private house near the Imperial War Museum. The gallery was beautifully laid out over three floors, white walls with bare timber floors.  I helped myself to too much Yellow Glen chardonnay in the basement and took an interesting photo of the settee in the back garden.   One day I dream of havig my own private gallery, with all my own handhewn artworks.  I can’t wait to write the pretentious descriptions of each piece.  That’s an artwork in itself.  I might have a settee in my back garden too!

I’m afraid Tony has to go.  I don’t deny him Westminster Council’s low council tax, second only to Wandsworth.  I don’t blame him for wanting to live in such a central, prestigious area.  After all, I chose to live here, though I don’t suppose his pad was as run down as mine when he bought it.  I have heard he is having extensive renovations done.  It might be a bit bigger too.  

What I do object to is having his convoys of secret police, and the hoardes of media that I am sure will be staking themselves outside my door just in case Tony comes to visit. 

I also object to the fact that he may queue jump in the local KFC or McDonalds.  If he comes into a neighbourhood, he shouldn’t expect special privileges. If I see him in Argos, I don’t expect him to grab the order book just because he thinks he is more important.

What if I should want to go jogging in Hyde Park and I can’t get past him and his trainer shod retinue.  Or see him belching smoke on one of those middle eastern smoking pipes, sitting with his cosmopolitan friends in the Edgware Road’s café society.  You’ll have to watch yourself after July 1, Tony.

And I suppose he’ll be a common sight, horse-riding along Rotten Row as if he owned the area.

No, Tony, there are other ways of avoiding paying the congestion charges.  Use the buses or the tube like Ken does.

I have great feelings of foreboding.  I am happy with the way things are, without a disruption to my life here by Tony moving in.

It’s Room 101 for you Tone!

My experience with estate agents has been quite vast and unfortunately I have many tales of woe to relate.  But I would like to tell you what I love about them.

1.       Inflating property prices by appealing to one’s greed and adding at least £50,000 on the selling price, which one may or may not achieve.

2.      Being consistently dishonest so that at least you know what to expect

3.      Burning out at age 40 and disappearing off the face of the earth

Not having driven in London, I only observe traffic wardens from a distance. I think most people keep them at a distance as they are carriers of bad news.  However, someone’s got to do it and here’s the upside:  I love them because:

1.       They ensure everyone has an opportunity to park in a patrolled parking area.

2.      They gerate revenue for my local city council to keep my council tax down.

3.      They do a very boring job that no-one else wants

The tube is always there when you need it, except at midnight.  But I love it because:

1.      It  offers the means of transporting myself all over London in short space of time 

2.      Gives me the opportunity to people-watch

3.      Takes me to the most unusual places

You can’t be immune to how London affects you.  There are wonderful things that inspire,  and there are aspects of living here that don’t you just hate.

Two things I love:

I love the diversity, the ebb and flow of races, religions, cultures, music, dancing.  How walking along Edgware Road I am in Little Lebanon.  I walk past the pub “An English Gentleman” and there are no English looking gentlemen in sight, but plenty of Middle Eastern.  In the Church Street markets you could be in Lebanon but for the familiarly London ugly council flats in the background. 

Where else would there be such a celebration of cultures as during Refugee Week, staged on Southbank. 

Only in London, anything goes, tolerance reigns. 

There may be undercurrents of resentment if the surface is scratched but mostly Londoners have big hearts and can see the big picture.  It’s an international community, bonded by the pleasure of living in a city that has so many stories, so much history, and in the blink of an eye, we are all part of it.

I love the eccentricity which is connected to the diversity.  The English in particular seemed to have a penchant for being eccentric.  Take my neighbours, for instance.  Please do!

Living directly below me is Russian Spy and his diminutive wife Sari.  When I first moved in Russian Spy knocked on my door, swept in and puffing out his chest he told me he was president of the residents association.  What he didn’t tell me was that he was the only member of it. 

About to renovate my dump of a flat, he told me what I could or couldn’t do.  Or else the freeholder would be down on me like a ton of bricks.  Throughout the renovations he thumped on my door continually, complaining, bullying and telling me the local Westminster Council regulations.  Or else he would send Sacha and only come up for the really important complaints.

I learned from Muso, the ageing musician downstairs that Russian Spy had threatened the last tenants in my flat with a gun and the police were called. 

Muso had been a well known double bass player, performing with major orchestras in the days of the big bands when ballroom dancing in venues such as the Astoria, and the Hammersmith Palais and at your local town hall, was a popular event for the masses.  In recent years he could be seen pedalling his double bass around London strapped with him to his bicycle.

He was very helpful those first couple of days.  He invited me in for a cup of tea, telling me stories of his past glories.  The days when he was like a rock star and had any girl he wanted.   In the next breath he invited me to stay until breakfast as long as I brought him breakfast in bed. 

Just looking at his white hairy chest with his shirt undone down to his baggy shorts, I didn’t have to answer to either proposition.  I finished my last cup of tea with Muso.  He never stops trying though, with me, my friends, any passing tourist, as he waters the flowers in the plant box and keeps a beady eye out for anyone who might like to stay over.

Where else would you find eccentric characters like this?  Don’t tell me!

I hate the way rubbish is not managed in London.  The black bags sitting on the street. The fagends thrown down by selfish cigarette smokers.  The way people just drop rubbish without a second glance. Black circles on miles of pavements where chewing gum has been thrown.  Men, mostly, spitting on the pavement. 

People don’t seem to care.  When I left UK for warmer climes in the 60’s the major slogan to caution people about clean streets was “Keep Britain Tidy”.  Now 40 years later, I see the same slogan.  Shows how much of a priority it is.

This is the downside of diversity.  Bringing bad habits to London.  Eventually nobody cares because there is a feeling of helplessness.  How can it be changed when nobodycares.

I JUST HAT E IT.