Sitting Ducks
Watch out for those buses, man! You could like fall in the road and they'd run right over you.
I know local newspapers are an easy target. In my formative years we couldn't wait for Thursday when the Surrey Mirror (known locally as the Surrey Error) hit the streets, and all the hilarity that ensued. The Error is still responsible for my favourite sandwich-board headline of all time, and I've quoted it so often I'm now not sure whether it actually existed or whether it was just a figment of my imagination. Anyway.
Tragic Steamroller man dies a hero
will take some surpassing. Although the one on the left comes a close second.
But I digress. I came here to moan about the Islington Gazette. Two subheadings from this weeks issue caught my eye.
Baby Unit Faces Axe - The Whittington Hospital's maternity unit – where Islington's X Factor winner Alexandra Burke was born – could be axed.
I mean, I know we live in a society obsessed with celebrity, but perhaps the fact that 'The City Of London Maternity Hospital' was founded on that site in 1750 and has been supporting the pregnant of London for the last 260 years would perhaps stir the outrage slightly more than the loss of an amateur crooner's birthplace?
(Actually, it wasn't called 'The City Of London Maternity Hospital' until 1918. When it was founded in 1750 it was called 'Hospital for Married Women in the City of London and parts adjacent and also for sick and lame outpatients'. Snappy.)
This morning's second headline of annoyance reads:
Campaigners have won their battle to stop strippers and naked table dancers from performing at the former headquarters of Labour MP Jeremy Corbyn.
I know that the Islington Gazette and its owners Archant (formerly Eastern Counties Newspapers but obviously in need of a rebrand into something insipid and pointless) are big blue flag-wavers, which is perhaps a foolish approach in an area so staunchly socialist, but this sort of guff is just hastening the rapid demise of the local newspaper industry, which is already on its knees and gasping for breath. The Islington Gazette itself managed to shed over a quarter of its readers between 2008 and 2009 and is now flogging just over 6,000 copies a week. In an area with a potential readership in the hundreds of thousands, it's a bit pathetic. These feeble attempts at sleight-of-hand digs at local politicians and drawing obscure celebrity connections show the local newspaper for what it is - desperately out of touch with its area and the people that live in it.
(Incidentally, I can't check the links to the stories above, as the website is down.)
Eating Food
Kiran in the morning, when he's at his most perky
Just a quick one to say this blog isn't forgotten ... had a lovely evening sharing a quiet late birthday celebration with Sam and Chiggy in Le Montmartre. Sadly we were the only people in there, which on a Sunday night is a bit disappointing, but they've only been open a couple of weeks and I'm happy to report that the food is as excellent and voluminous as ever. And as we were the only people there the service was reasonably good too! So. Yes. Le Montmartre. 144 Essex Road. Tel. 020 7354 8610. (I'm only putting this information because I noted if you google the place, I'm the second result at the moment. You could look at view london, who also have gone to the effort of taking photos. Which I didn't. Hence this morning's picture of the boy.)
Schnee
Snow falling on ye olde Dickensian bendybus
So I was out in town today, and dropped in to see my fine showbiz pal Geoff to anorak for a while and conduct a little bit of business. (I just realise that makes me sound like I'm dealing or buying drugs. I'm not. Honest. I'm too much of a scaredy cat.) I exited into the cold and rain, and headed underground as any sane individual would. Upon arrival at Kings Cross, I was intending to change from the dark blue to the black, as I had business to attend to in Angel. (Pick up photos from Boots.) Incidentally, since the new northern ticket hall opened at KX, you now have to walk about half a mile to change from the Piccadilly to the Northern, through labyrinthine new tunnels, three escalators and one flight of steps. However, to change from the Northern to the Piccadilly requires one short bendy corridor and a flight of steps. Why is this? Surely people heading home from the West End to the north of London are more likely to be carrying bags, or just grumpy after a long day's work. It should be the other way around. Or there should be a contraflow. Or I should be running bloody TfL.
An unusual destination for an international railway station.
Anyway. I was on this long trek in a circle to get to the Northern Line, when my eyes alighted on this sign, illustrated here on the right. (Incidentally, I'm still getting my head around the formatting on this site, so this bit of text may be ridiculously squeezed, depending on your screen resolution. Sorry if it looks daft.) Not just one, either. At every turn of the corridor, at every escalator, there was the sign again. Why, I pondered to myself, would one need directions to the Regent's Canal? I internally applauded the use of the apostrophe, but even so - what new delights had been added that warranted a sign directing the mass hoards using Kings Cross interchange towards the Canal? "Blow the Northern Line!" I thought to myself, and followed the sign to Regent's Canal.
Well, the escalator finally tipped me out opposite the SouthEastern trains ticket gate line in St Pancras Station, and there were no further signs pointing me towards Regent's Canal. To be honest, thinking about it, the only way from there was down along the taxi queue in Pancras Road to the bottom of the hill, then right up Goodsway, then perhaps into the Camley Street Wildlife Sanctuary, which would get you to the canal. Otherwise, you've got to walk all the way back up the hill to York Way, cross over the road and then drop down to the canal. Quite a long way, up a steep hill and certainly not warranting signs in Kings Cross Underground Station. Anyway. As I pondered all this, I noticed that it was snowing. Not just snowing, but big fat whopping snowflakes that were settling nicely and making London look that rare thing that one only normally experiences towards the end of an alcohol-assisted evening in the West End - sparkly and magical. I slid my way down the side of St Pancras station before I finally succumbed to taking a photo, knowing as I do the bad results when you combine cameraphone with darkness and snow.
Does this need a caption?
So, this is the best I could come up with.
But London was fab as a result, and so I decided to walk home, if only for the entertainment value of watching bad driving skills coming to the fore as people tried to get up Pentonville Road to the Angel summit. I wasn't disappointed. What did disappoint me was that after my visit to Boots in Angel (where I had a very nice conversation with the girl behind the counter about various things including commuting from Chingford and how her collegue was useless because he didn't know what eye shadow was even though he has three sisters and works for Boots. I couldn't disagree with her) it had stopped snowing. This didn't stop the sliding however, and I was a little peturbed walking down Essex Road to see a 476 heading towards me at approximately 20% skew. I stood to one side until it had passed. Anyway. I had a point but it escapes me at the moment.
London. Snow. Good.
Le Montmartre
Mmmm. Snails.
Another quick one - I'm overjoyed at the return of Le Montmartre to Essex Road ... it was an institution, a landmark - opposite the station on the corner of New North Road, and I'd whiled away many happy hours with red wine and ridiculously unhealthy French cooking. Then it upped sticks and headed to the establishment - i.e. it moved to Theberton Street off of Upper Street. Well, the Islington incongniscenti didn't take to it, because apparently they preferred the place that it took over from. It frankly wasn't poncey enough for them. Well, it's heading back to its roots - sadly not the original location which is now a (very good actually) japanese restaurant called Akari. It's taking over one of the ever-shifting premises just up from the Banksy opposite the Carlton - the place that most recently (if I recall correctly) was a Russian restaurant. Anyway - I for one will be welcoming it back on my birthday in January, and you're all welcome to join me.
More Carlton Cinema
Still trying to convince us
I realise this is less a blog and more a historical reference to two or three weeks back in September, but having invested so much time in getting the blinkin' thing working, I am fully intending to use it more. In the meantime, I've just noticed a big sign on the outside of the Old Carlton Cinema saying they're doing another exhibition this Saturday. I'm not sure why - whether the plans have changed, or they're just giving people the opportunity to have another look at the existing ones - but there it is. I doubt there'll be a chance to look inside, but I'll be popping over just in case.
Worst. Parents. Ever.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time
So it's Uncle Raja's birthday today. Raja Mama, as they say in an area of the world with vastly larger population than here, meaning that Mama is a more appropriate term than Uncle. Anyway. We thought, collectively, not apportioning any blame at all, that it would be a nice idea to send him a card with the boy's handprint along with the signatures.
"What shall we use to make the handprint?" we wondered.
"It has to be something safe" we affirmed.
After much rummaging amongst the staggeringly quantiful amounts of junk we seem to be hoarding, I came across the distantly-remembered set of poster paints. Sure enough, they seemed non-toxic.
Let me tell you, getting an 8-week old's head around the concept of a hand print is not an easy one. Making a fist of it, as it were, is something he's very good at. Flattening his hand out long enough to place it on a piece of paper without waving it around in an entertaining but otherwise paint-spreading manner? He's not so good at that.
It didn't take us very long to realise that this exercise was doomed to quite spectacular failure. I'm sure there are still patches of blue, lying quietly just waiting to be discovered, months possibly years down the line.
But Raja Mama got his card, with an indistinct blue blob at the bottom of it.
We'll try again one day. Probably.
So much to say
Sleepy time makes me smile
But so little time in which to say it. The combination of work and the fella pictured to my left, melting my heart by smiling at me and not burping immediately after, has left this blog somewhat neglected. There are so many things I want to talk about - the demise of Cruse9 ... how Londoners are coughing up 20million quid for fewer buses, more congestion and a better bus service for the people of Brighton ... the removal of a very useful train service from Victoria to Bellingham. In fact, the Mayoralty seems to be collapsing in full view of everyone, without anyone noticing. This of course is a good thing, in my opinion, but there's always the chance that it won't collapse in time for the next general election and we'll end up with a bloody cheap-labour-conservative government.
*sigh*. Never mind. Life is shiny, otherwise. Here's a thinly-disguised plug for something I'm directing, producing, writing, business-managing and generally dogsbodying on at the moment, which will keep me busy until the next one comes along.
Kakapo
The Kakapo. Nuttier than its own poo.
It's the time of morning where I can finally catch up on things I need to do. Aside from work, obviously, which I should be doing but can't quite muster the imagination or logical construction required to write a script, so some mindless drivelling blogging shall suffice. I will justify it as an attempt to get my mind working in the way it should be, and cast aside the lack of sleep and general confusion. The boy is suffering constipation at the moment, so a long period of uninterrupted sleep is a luxury ... the Mrs very kindly told me to take a nap at 5pm, and let me sleep until 10.30pm, so now I'm completely confused although slightly less tired than I have been. The process of looking after a newborn - well, any parent will tell you of the sheer terror and fear that it will instill in you. Up until now, of course, I never believed it - surely, the vast majority of people on earth will have an offspring at some point in their life - it must be the most natural thing in the world. What becomes clear is that collectively none of us have a clue how babies work because there's no way of asking them what the problem is. General common sense is required - something a lot of us (myself at the head of the list) lack these days. We have the internet and books, though, to freak us out about the irrelevant details, whilst ignoring the big ones. Part of the fear was described in slightly different terms by Stephen Fry this evening, although he was referring to man's ability to utterly fuck up an environment in next to no time, whilst having to take 100 years to clean up the mess. "... the melancholy fact from when you were young was that it took you five minutes to mess your bedroom up completely but a whole day to tidy it".
I actually came here to write about the Kakapo, because it I have distinct memories of my late youth, being fascinated by radio and hearing Douglas Adams and Mark Carwardine rummaging in the New Zealand undergrowth to record the unique 'boom' of the Kakapo calling for its mate - never having seen the bird, I was overjoyed to see it this evening, even if in this day and age the climax of the show (as it were) is when a critically endangered species attempts to shag Mark Carwardine's head. Such is television nowadays.
The circular point being, of course, that there is so much we don't understand that nonetheless we instinctively have this desire to protect. Why also the desire to destroy? Which came first?
Oh So Quiet
He probably needs burping again
I've just spent the last two hours trying to make the boy burp. I also have a job that'll take me through to Christmas with Channel 5. The two things are entirely unrelated, but are both notable in their own right. Apart from that, it's just a case of the three of us finding our way - relearning each other's needs and generally looking a bit tired. I had an odd experience walking somewhere or other some day or other ago (times and places seem to be a bit of a blur at the moment) where I suddenly realised that I wasn't surprised by the way he looked ... it was almost as if I knew he'd look like that, or I'd dreamt it or something. You could, naturally, put that down to lack of sleep and the zen like state I get into when I'm walking - the two things are a dangerous combination.
The traumas seem like a lifetime ago, but it's only been two and a half weeks. Since then I've been concerning myself with the never ending cycles of feeding and sleeping and bathing and nappy changing, constantly wondering whether we're 'doing it right' and then reminding myself there's no such thing - but we're doing it, and getting it all done, and beginning, gradually, baby-step by baby-step, to get some sleep at night.
I probably haven't considered my time management in that much detail, but this morning, when I was looking into my calm clean fed son's eyes all I could think was that I can't even consider leaving him for more than two or three hours at a time. That, obviously, is not conducive to a good business. However, for the next 10 weeks I'm going to be forced to, for at least three days a week, so I suppose we could consider this as the establishment of some sort of routine, if only for me.
Mrs D of course performed a miracle recovery, much to the surprise and delight of doctors and consultants and midwives - but I have to keep reminding myself to watch carefully. I don't want to stop her doing things she wants to do, but there is still concern that she'll overdo it. Two heart attacks and three complete blood transfusions have got to take it out of you (literally) and there is continuous concern in the back of my head that two and a half weeks is not time to even begin to recover from that, let alone appear perfectly healthy and normal - which she does.
Help is there if we need it, but we're both so stubborn and bloody-minded (a trait we now share with the boy) that we won't ask for it. Not yet, anyway. We're determined to do this our way, and the enforced input from midwives and health visitors is more than enough to be ignoring for now, without the helpful suggestions and comments of family and friends. Don't want to be rude or nuffink, but there's so much conflicting information out there ...
It's going to be all about time management. Something I've been very frivolous with in the past. But I crave normality, when I can go wandering again, and pontificate on the pointless. Soon.
I’m boring you now
New River Hall. Posh, isn't it.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'm boring myself, to be honest - but it's 4.30 in the morning and the firstborn won't sleep quite yet, so here we are.
I have my grubby mitts on the proposals for the Carlton Cinema site, thanks to the nice chap at 'Four Communications'.
On the face of it, it looks impressive. And very expensive. The plan is to keep the front, restore the insides (keeping the original colour schemes) but then build on top, and I assume excavate underneath, unless there's already a massive basement. There'll also be a massive glass edifice to the back, not troubling Essex Road but completely changing the face of River Walk - and an entrance on River Place to the conference centre, plus entrance to the flats from Astey's Row.
I'm not sure I'd be interested in living in a flat that's built above a church/cinema - so the soundproofing would have to be very good. I expect that'll be one of the things the council will examine when they consider these plans. Obviously it represents a significant improvement to what's there now, and retains the listed front.
A couple of things that may also affect the plans - the protected alignment for Crossrail 2 runs straight underneath the site - although I'm sure that nothing will come of it until at least 2025, it'll involve significant work around River Place to get Essex Road station up to scratch, and there were plans at one stage for a ventilation shaft in River Place. I can imagine all that having a serious effect on 44 flats.
I'm also concerned about where the money is coming from - for a church with no congregation (according to the Islington Gazette) this is an ambitious project. Personally, I would have thought encouraging people to go to St Stephens would be a better use of time and energy and only represents a 50 yard walk along the New River Path, but I suppose Christianity doesn't work like that any more.