Pointing his crooked finger at the old sandstone building..
I’ll always remember that day in ’66 when I walked alongside Granddad past Enrico’s flashy new restaurant on Lexington Avenue. Pointing his crooked finger at the old sandstone building that looked like a former bank – large sandstone blocks and high windows capped by semi-circular tops, he said, ‘That was the National Bank, years ago.’
At that moment a yellow cab drew to a screeching halt and a smartly dressed lady in a furry hat carrying at least three of Bloomingdale’s new designer bags pushed past us and lowered her head as she opened the back door of the taxi without any excuse or anything. ‘Bloody rude,’ I remember Granddad said.
‘It was different then, years ago,’ Granddad continued, ‘none of your flashy colours, flared trousers or fur hats in October. It was all grey and caps or bowler hats for men and cloche hats for women. And trams.’ Continue reading “Embarrassing”
Keith West was an unstoppable muscular battleship, inches taller and wider than any boy.
A handwritten letter dropped through the letterbox and I knew it would be interesting. Bills, circulars and spurious junk mail are always typed. Eagerly, I tore open the white envelope and, as I read, I was transported back, back, back to my childhood…
Hillbury Road had twenty one elegant Edwardian houses – bay windows on either side of the half-glassed front door, a low iron balcony partway across the first floor, and second floor windows below a fine gable – facing Tooting Bec Common. Continue reading “Keith & Thelma”
…Peter wears sturdy boots with his trousers sensibly tucked into long woollen socks, Kath sports a racy Panama hat with a black band, and I have a rose pullover.
Along Amroth’s shingle beach, formerly occupied by Victorian houses but long since washed away, we looked out over the flat sand that reached around the frozen lava flows to Wiseman’s Bridge a mile or so away.
Behind us stands the New Inn, a farmhouse with a four hundred year history and now a smart pub, modern and gleaming white in the sunshine. Next to us is the marker post marking the start of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, opened in 1970 by the friendly Welsh broadcaster and Oxford history graduate, Wynford Vaughan Thomas. It tells us Poppit Sands are 180 miles away.
Fine weather, low tide, and a lively brown dog encourage us to walk this first stage of the coastal path to Tenby, 7½ miles away. Continue reading “Three Women, Two Men and Ruby the Dog.”
…but it was too late. Gaudí died two days later, on June 10, 1926. Thousands attended his funeral.
29 February, 16ºC
We decided to take breakfast at a cafe on Calle Roger de Flor. Perhaps it was unsure of itself for it had emblazoned across its red banner which stretched across the double fronted property ‘Cerveceria Cafeteria Bar Roger de Flor’. We consulted the menu with helpful pictures and in poor Spanish we asked for two omelettes and two coffees. We took our seats across from a few workers in high visibility, yellow jackets having a mid morning break.
After breakfast, we wandered down the wide triumphal passageway Lluis Campanys – ‘A dog walkers paradise,’ said Marjorie as the third dog walker passed us. The palm trees made it feel foreign and the cyclists made good use of the wide, traffic-free pedestrian zone. Continue reading “Barcelona Days and Spanish Nights, 2017”
Then I saw a single Junkers, an angel of death in the sky…
Along with my older sisters Peggy and Joan, I lived with Mum and Dad in a two-room cottage at number 11, India Row, Monkton. We lived, ate and cooked in one one room and slept in the other. The living room had a table and five wooden chairs. Over the black range for warmth and cooking on the mantelshelf stood two photos and a clock. On the table, we kept the valuables tin with the money, the rent book and insurance documents and a bottle of whisky for emergencies.
I’ll never forget one night just after my fifth birthday. It was a bright night. The moon’s milk white disc loomed large over Pembroke castle and the flooded river looked like a lake of silver below the crumbling walls of the west tower. My father had just come home from working at Simonds moaning about something. Straightaway, as he changed into his Home Guard uniform for the evening, the siren at the police station went. Made by a machine that looked like a short, mediaeval siege gun, it droned that ascending atonal sound. It’s wailing output warned everyone for miles around jarring bones and fraying nerves. Continue reading “The Night I’ll Never Forget”
…he withdraws from a rucksack a royal blue Sri-Lankan cricket shirt
The bicycle has an iron frame. It is sturdy, and typical of old-fashioned, reliable Ceylon. We will travel a few kilometres along a gentle path by the river. We are sixteen, well-heeled British seniors on a holiday excursion. After brakes have been tested, saddle heights adjusted, and the most rudimentary instruction on the gears given, we are ready to depart. Tentatively the pedals are pressed down and it all comes flooding back in waves of nostalgia from the days of cycling to and from school long ago on traffic-free roads. It is true you never forget how to ride a bicycle.
Most people selected a helmet. Most, but I hear one comment: ‘I haven’t done this in years,’ and pointing to the helmet, ‘Are these things necessary? I’m not wearing one of those.’ Continue reading “Fat Wallets and Young Hopes”
Samuel Pepys was a Londoner with a keen eye and scratchy pen. For ten or more years, he confided in his mute friend. It was mundane stuff, no one can live a life perpetually at a hundred miles an hour. Nevertheless, his life was more interesting than most.
Each new day, someone posts a fresh page of his diary onto the internet. So three hundred odd years ago, Samuel noted: Continue reading “On Keeping a Diary”