NOT THERE YET.

Do They Care?

Regular readers will remember that local people round here (particularly on the estates, but also along the Harrow Road) have the perception that public authorities don't much care about them, so here's a new example. A Warwick Estate resident was mugged in the lift of her tower block. They took her bank card and used it almost immediately to draw money from the machine in the Costcutter shop on the Harrow Road. She is no shrinking violet, and reported the mugging to the police, with the precise time, and descriptions of the robbers, and urging them to view the cctv recordings, as there are cameras both in the lift and the lobby of the block. She knows about the cameras, because she was instrumental in getting them installed (paid for by residents' money). A little later she received a letter from the Metropolitan Police saying that no further action would be taken as "no cctv recording existed", but that the Westbourne Safer Neighbourhood Team had been informed. Well, that wasn't true either. To be fair to the Police, it is possible that City West Homes are not actually using the cctv cameras that exist on the estate; it is possible that their contempt for their tenants is such that they don't switch on the cameras that the tenants provided. Yes, I'm sure it's cheaper not to actually run the cameras and have anyone actually supervise them, but might it not have been polite to tenants to let them know that, if that was the case?

When I used this story in my sermon yesterday I got a response from a parishioner who lives on the Brunel Estate, who told me she was sure it was the Police rather than City West to blame, based on her experience. She was robbed at knifepoint, when pregnant, and pushing a toddler in a buggy, and duly reported it. The very next day she received a letter saying no further investigation was possible. Hmm.

Our dedicated Ward constables are good, enthusiastic and hardworking, but of course they are not in fact the police officers who actually investigate crimes, and local people have a very clear perception that crimes happening on the estates are of little interest. As far as the Met is concerned a certain level of robbery, burglary and car crime is to be expected on our estates, and frankly constitutes background noise. In Westminster, it is perfectly clear that the West End is the big deal for policing, alongside the royal and governmental areas, and up to a point that's fair enough. I think local people do get a bit grumpy about tourists being prioritized in front of them, but you can understand a strong desire not to kill the golden goose. So we must keep the streets of the West End safe, so tourists aren't frightened away, but estate-dwellers in north Westminster have nowhere else to go and have to put up with it.


And So It Begins

St Mary Magdalene's School Christingle Service was the first test of our substitute Christmas arrangements, having a church full of scaffolding. The school very wisely decided to halve it in size, so it was just a Keystage 2 service (the infants have Nativity plays) which meant that we could actually fit into the school hall, along with parents, and even have room for a stage. It was, of course, much less atmospheric, but perhaps being well-lit was responsible for the parents behaving better than they usually do in church. I felt I should inject a little more religion into proceedings since we were in a secular space, and that seemed to go down fine. I was interested to see the ukuleles being played, as they are stored in the "creative room" where we have the Class Mass, but it wasn't terribly exciting, as they were just strummed. They haven't got onto the full George Formby yet.

The Benefice Carol Service had to happen at St Peter's, and we had no idea what to expect. It had to be simpler, because there is no room for a choir, and hence the service would be shorter, as there could be no choir carols. James had got together a couple of string players, and so we had three short musical pieces, but essentially we did much as we normally do. Obviously, the atmosphere was different: 1970s functional worship-space instead of 1870s neo-gothic basilica. Curiously, two readers made mistakes in when they were supposed to come forward, which normally never happens; was this really the inherent informality of the building affecting the participants? Certainly, the awe-inspiring side of St Mary Mags does make people check that they're doing things right. Some experience this as being uptight, though that's certainly not the desired impression. Anyway, we had a relaxed Carol Service, followed by copious mince pies and mulled wine. We even had a dog in the congregation. Normally, at St Mary Mags, a charming Maida Vale lady comes to the Carol Service with her Jack Russell; this year a vulnerable lady who we know well, and who lives just behind St Peter's, brought her little dog (which wore a thick coat), so that tradition was maintained.

WHO IS SYLVIA, WHAT IS SHE?

Who Is Sylvia?

I went to see the ballet "Sylvia" at Covent Garden this week. Helen and I went to see it when they first revived it ten years or so ago, but I had no recollection of it. I should remember it, as the score, by Delibes, has several terrific tunes, some of them quite famous, and I realised as soon as the overture began that I ought to remember this. The ballet was choreographed by Frederick Ashton in 1952, though there are earlier French Romantic and Imperial Russian versions, and it's not generally regarded as one of Ashton's best works; he intended it as a vehicle for Margot Fonteyn, then at her height of stardom. The designs are also gorgeous, by Christopher and Robin Ironside.

"Sylvia" is a beautiful spectacle, but what people regard as unsatisfactory is the mixture of rather far-fetched classical mythology treated in a rather straight-faced fashion, with what is frankly pantomime (dancing goats, anyone?). I was struck by the seriousness with which Ashton treats the mythology, but started to wonder whether a new version ought to be attempted, making reference to contemporary sexual politics, because those questions certainly emerge. Sylvia is a hunting nymph, devoted to the goddess Diana, and is therefore pledged to chastity (Natalia Osipova was magnificent as the virginal huntress in the first act) but she is desired by two men, the shepherd Aminta, and the hunter Orion. Now Aminta's love for her is genuine, inspired by Eros, but Orion only wants to possess her. I have to say that when Aminta first declared his love and laid hands on her, it was clear that he was not understanding her lack of consent, because she was definitely saying "No". So she shoots him. Well, actually she's trying to shoot the statue of Eros, but he gets in the way (told you it was far-fetched). Eros then shoots her, and so she comes to reciprocate Aminta's love.

The really challenging thing, though, is Orion's characterization, because he's a piece of absolutely shameless orientalism, and the second act, set in his island cave (to which he has carried off Sylvia) becomes quite uncomfortable. Orion is depicted as an oriental potentate, complete with luxurious tent and scantily-clad concubines. It's all very mixed-up, as Orion's set-up involves Arabian, Chinese and vaguely Indian elements, compounding a sort of generalized English orientalism that was characteristic of the 1820s (see the Brighton Pavilion) rather than the 1950s. Now it's perfectly true that both Greeks and Romans regarded people from the East as their cultural "other", so it's not unreasonable to depict Orion in this way, putting him in voluminous trousers rather than the shifts and tunics the Greeks wear, and giving him villainous facial hair. His two concubines, in what are pretty much belly-dancer outfits, are a bit harder to take, but the real discomfort came for me in his two slaves, gorgeously dressed in red and yellow chinoiserie who then did a silly "Chinese" dance with tambourines, to a bit of plinky-plonk music. Now I presume Delibes wrote the music to deliberately sound "Chinese" so it's fair enough to make the dance Chinese, and to be fair it's not as grotesque as the Chinese dance in the Nutcracker, which has begun to embarrass the Royal Ballet, who changed the choreography last year, but the reason it feels uncomfortable is because it's racist! No-one would continue to use an "African" dance that depicted cannibals and blacking-up, but we appear to be less sensitive to grotesque caricatures of East Asians. It's meant to be funny (though I don't think I found this sort of thing funny even when seeing the Nutcracker as a child) but the amusement value comes from the humiliating depiction of a racial group according to a comic stereotype, so how is that okay? 

I don't want to seem po-faced about this, but this is beginning to feel like something that needs to change. One of the distinctive things about ballet is its ability to adapt, and there is enormous variety in the productions of even the most famous pieces, with whole dances being added and subtracted, so there's not really a "canonical" version of the great works in the repertoire. All of which should make it not too difficult. I really like some of the "authentic" versions of Imperial Russian ballets which try to re-create the spectacle of the 1890s (and no-one loved orientalism more than them) but that's a piece of cultural history, not a work of art for today. Sometimes "oriental" sounds appear in music just to suggest something exotic, and personally I think that's fine, because the "exotic" is a positive category, though I know some people would disagree, but what's really not on is the use of a national stereotype for comic or demeaning effect. Sorry, pretend Chinamen dancing sideways with hands at ninety degrees to their wrists are embarrassing at best, and frankly no longer entertaining in polite company.

ON MY BIKE

Hi-Vis

Last week several people told me that the government were going to compel cyclists to wear helmets and high-vis clothing. On investigation I find that this is fake news, which is just as well. Apparently, such a proposal is being investigated by government, but the evidence from Australia is compelling, where bicycle use has dropped dramatically since the imposition of compulsory helmet-wearing. Since bicycle use has enormous health benefits (as well as being good for traffic congestion and the environment) no rational policymaker wants bicycle use to decline.  There is also a philosophical point here about victim-blaming; if you compel cyclists to wear protective clothing, you are saying that cyclists are the problem, and the authors of their own misfortune. Sorry, not so. But I do realise that it is a lot cheaper and less politically difficult to make rules for cyclists rather than to actually enforce the existing traffic laws where they are routinely flouted by lorry and car drivers, or to enforce safe design principles on the bus and truck building industry, or to design safer road layouts. In fact, I think we all (cyclists included) need major re-education in conducting ourselves in a civilised manner.

Goslings and Cygnets

I probably mentioned before that a pair of swans on the canal have managed to keep seven cygnets alive, which is remarkable. When resting on my bike rides I regularly see a pair of Egyptian geese on the pond in Regent’s Park, and they have five goslings, not terribly old, which is very encouraging. I hope they are old enough to survive the winter cold. Sadly, the pair of Egyptian geese who live here on the canal show no sign of procreation. Charmingly, they were walking back and forth from the water to the grass, one following the other, each time I cycled past today, and they made little chuntering noises as you passed, as though concerned about your behaviour.

An Assault

I was punched while out riding recently. It happened as I was accelerating away from the pedestrian crossing at Clarence Gate, at the bottom of Regent’s Park; there was a group of people on the pavement, and as I passed them I received a blow on my upper arm, not hard enough to knock me over, or even to hurt, but just a total surprise. I didn’t stop, as my momentum had taken me a long way past before I properly registered what had happened, and what would I do? Get off my bike and wheel it along the pavement to ask, “Which of you hit me?” assuming they were still there? No, I just cycled on, wondering why, because this was completely out of the blue; I hadn’t done anything to upset anyone, nor had any cyclist in front of me. I came to the conclusion that it was because of the jersey I was wearing. Regular readers will be aware of my enthusiasm for brightly-coloured jerseys that have some significance; well, on this occasion I was wearing a recently acquired Team Euzkadi jersey, which is a brilliant lime green, bearing the word Euzkadi in black lettering, and with the left sleeve coloured in the design of the Ikurrina, the Basque flag. It had not occurred to me that wearing a Basque team jersey would be regarded as provocative in London, but I can only conclude that this was what was going on. The assault happened in the wake of the Catalan “independence” controversy, and I suspect I met a Spanish nationalist who was so enraged by the Catalans that he regarded my Basque jersey as just another threat to the integrity of his homeland. I should not, perhaps, add that I think the Basque claim to autonomy is much stronger than the Catalans’, but that the Spanish government are absolutely right in their interpretation of the constitution though they have been astonishingly clumsy in the way they have gone about addressing the matter.

Closed Estate Offices

You will remember that I voiced some apprehension about City West Homes’ (Westminster’s equivalent of the Kensington TMO) closure of their estate offices. They told us the few personal callers they actually received could be dealt with more efficiently on the phone to a call centre, and that this would free up housing officers to be present on the estates. Well, I can’t comment on the presence of housing officers out on the estates, but on this estate they were actually available in the office in the past. Meanwhile, tenants who try to phone find that they have to hold for ages (routinely ten minutes) and are then answered by people who have no local knowledge, which makes reporting anything very inefficient and frustrating. Those who turn up in person to the central office, at Westbourne Terrace, are made to feel very unwelcome, while if you try to email you find that you cannot email any named individual, and so pursuing an issue becomes very trying as it will be dealt with by different people on each exchange of emails. The tenants are left with the impression of an organisation seeking to evade responsibility, and to clothe all its actions in anonymity. Trying to keep the tenants at a distance is exactly what Kensington’s TMO used to do. There does seem to be a pattern of behaviour.

Fire Alarms

I don’t mention the Kensington TMO gratuitously, but you would hope that people would learn from the appalling experience of Grenfell Tower. It seems not. Keyham House is a tower block on the Brunel Estate, just over the tracks from us here, (and also in Westbourne Ward) and there the fire alarm is constantly going off. It rang for seven hours recently, and for four hours on another occasion. Residents are stopping up the alarms with paper to dull the sound. Everyone in authority seems completely accepting of this situation. City West have known about it for months. Have they no imagination? Have they not thought what it must feel like to live in a tower block where you know the fire alarm is malfunctioning? How can it be acceptable not to know whether a fire alarm sounding is real or not? This demonstrates a total lack of care, and I suspect that the “arm’s-length” nature of City West just encourages that ethos, because nobody really feels responsible. I am sad to say this, as I know some good people who work for them, but the contempt displayed by City West for their tenants makes me very angry.

PADDINGTON GRAFFITI

Taxing Questions

The big white hoarding round the building site at St Mary Mags attracts occasional graffiti. The other weekend a strange one appeared. The contractors painted over it on Monday morning and never mentioned it to me, but I had seen it for myself. It read. "St Mary Mags W2 why do churchs (sic) pay no tax ever?". That rather left me at a loss, because what tax does the writer mean? Of course churches pay tax, we pay VAT (and unlike a business have no way of passing that on to the public), we pay tax on our insurance premium, churches that employ people pay National Insurance, and so on. I pay income tax, and National Insurance. The church doesn't pay income tax, because a church is not an individual, and what are we supposed to be paying tax on, exactly? It is true that we can apply for relief from VAT on building works to listed places of worship, but we do actually pay the tax, it just gets refunded as some sort of recognition that we are maintaining the nation's architectural heritage. I presume there are some reliefs that operate because we are a charitable institution, and are not generating profits for any individual or corporation. So what's wrong with that? What is it that we might be paying tax on that the writer thinks we aren't?


Strange Objects  

An enormous wooden reel, of the sort that cables are wound around, was left at the entrance to the park, like a giant's cotton-reel. Where it had come from no-one seemed to know. After a while it vanished. Now in the same spot, a pizza delivery scooter has been left, somewhat damaged.


Boogie Nights

So Monday evening was the meeting of the Westbourne Forum Board, Tuesday evening was Paddington Deanery Synod, Wednesday evening was St Peter's PCC, and tonight is St Mary Magdalene's PCC. I thought yesterday evening's PCC went well, all very jovial and consensual, though interrupted by what appeared to be an aggressive beggar at the door, who was seen off by two Nigerian ladies, but it turns out that wasn't a beggar. It was a man from the Felix Project trying to deliver food to us (why didn't he say that?) and so my poor churchwarden, who runs the Support Services (and wasn't at PCC because she was at a Grenfell meeting) had to come back at 10pm to receive the delivery. So I feel like a worm. And then I look at my notes and find several items marked "Action Fr.H", so not such a good meeting after all.


Garden Thoughts

Helen's uncle Reg, who was a professional gardener, came and helped us with the garden around St Peter's many years ago. Among other things, he planted two tamarisks, which are now beginning to threaten the path. I am trying to weave their branches into the railings to make a hedge, but I keep forgetting to bring secateurs and gloves with me on occasions when I have half an hour to do it. Each time I lock up my bike beside them I remember eating a picnic lunch under tamarisks in Jordan last March and get all wistful. That was at Azraq, where Lawrence spent the winter of 1917 in the Roman fort, which is much as he left it. Surely our tamarisks won't grow into big trees, like those? The trouble is that Uncle Reg, like many competent gardeners, made the mistake of assuming competence in those left in charge of the garden, which was a mistaken assumption. Some people round here are flat dwellers who would love to garden, but they usually know nothing; then there are people like me, who have gardens and neglect them, but are expected to know something; and then there are those for whom gardens are something provided by the Council or the Queen. Together we're not great at looking after the garden, and it doesn't really repay us, because it's more a narrow strip of exposed earth, heavily shadowed, in a sort of trench between the building and the pavement. Still, the tamarisks seem to thrive there.  


Paddington Graffiti

Those of a certain age will remember the extraordinary message "Far away is near at hand in images of elsewhere" which was painted on a wall beside the parcels depot on the approach to Paddington Station in the late 1970s, and which remained for many years, until the wall was demolished. For a while, just a fragment remained, but then that went as well. Michael Wharton, who wrote as Peter Simple in the Daily Telegraph created a legend for the artist he called "the Master of Paddington", but I've often wondered who did paint it, and in what circumstances. As I remember it, the words were about a foot high, block capitals, in white paint, and clearly painted with a brush not a spray. I remember once, as a student, sitting on a train with Dr William Oddie as he mused on the contrasting lives of those on either sides of the track as we approached the graffiti, little imagining that thirty-three years later I would be involved in some of those lives.

THE MONTH OF HOLY SOULS

Requiem

So All Souls’ Day came and went without disaster. This year we sang the Requiem by Gounod, and while you’ve probably heard of him (“Faust”, “Ave Maria”) you won’t know his Requiem (actually one of three he wrote, according to Nicholas, who runs the Music Society and knows his stuff). It is a fine piece, and parts are very lovely.

The problem with an elaborate musical setting is that you often find yourself sitting around being sung to at times when the logic of the liturgy is to move forward, rather than being static, so we try to use the settings creatively to produce an experience which has both liturgical and musical integrity. I confess to a particular discomfort with the prevailing high church practice of singing an elaborate Sanctus and Benedictus in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer, while the celebrant stands idly at the altar for several minutes. This fights against the unity of the Eucharistic Prayer, creates a great hiatus in the drama of the liturgy, and is totally alien to the intentions of the composers. The idea was that the celebrant would continue saying the Eucharistic Prayer while the music happened over the top, and so that is what we do. We print everything out, so the congregation know what’s going on, and of course they can see our movements at the altar. The synchronization between liturgical text and music is only approximate (I suppose it ought to work best with the Latin Roman Canon, but I’ve never tried that) but almost always you get a pleasing musical climax at an important moment.

Musicians often tell me that playing this music in its real setting makes sense of it, and I noticed that our soprano soloist made her communion this time. Some people are uncomfortable with the idea of prayer for the dead, but it is the most natural thing in the world to continue to pray for those whom you love after they have died, as you prayed for them during their lifetimes. The setting of the Requiem, as Nicholas Kaye has often pointed out in his "programme notes" for the occasion, gets to the heart of a composer's spiritual outlook, and the result is often very profound. The combination of music and liturgy can be very powerful, and it is certainly very moving to be at the altar.

This year was special because we weren’t at St Mary Mags, since it is completely full of scaffolding, and so took over Holy Trinity, Prince Consort Road, thanks to the incredibly hospitable priest and people there. It was also memorable because we were running alongside the premiere of “Murder on the Orient Express” at the Royal Albert Hall, so our arrival at church was greeted with searchlights and rock music. The red carpet approach to the Albert Hall is from Prince Consort Road (up those rather fine steps which you never normally see) and so we were running the gauntlet of security men and black Mercedes. Apparently someone found themselves behind Dame Judi Dench. Blessedly, everyone seemed to arrive on time (including busloads of choirboys) and it all went beautifully. I came back the next day with my car to retrieve our candlesticks, vestments, thurible, gospel book and so on, and all was quiet once more.

Animal Rites

Yesterday, I was called out to tend to the dying, in this case a dying dog in a flat on the estate. I know my rigorist colleagues will sneer at the sentimental liberalism of this episode, but it had to be done. Here was an animal companion (in a household well-known to me, for we have baptized grandchildren) whose passing was causing immense grief to her owner. In that situation prayer was entirely appropriate, and I’m glad they asked me. The elderly Staffie knew she was surrounded by love, and we commended her to the love of God, her creator, which was obviously the right thing to do. The owner was comforted, and that was the point.

A Regular Caller

One of my regular callers is in despair as his wife has been arrested, and remanded in custody. What he says, about an assault, makes little sense and I assume there is more to it. I help him to get to court, miles away (why?) and am impressed by the politeness and helpfulness of the court officer on the other end of the phone; it is still possible to treat people with dignity and respect.

ON THE ROADS

On the Roads of Flanders

One of the striking things about spending a few days in Flanders was seeing how civilized the roads were. This came as a surprise, as my friend Robert, living in France, has completely absorbed the French view of Belgian drivers as aggressive and dangerous, and Robert has passed this insight on to me. In reality, though, apart from a fondness for tailgating (which may be what annoys the French) we found Belgian drivers quite harmless. That said, we did pass a series of major shunts on the motorway north of Ghent one morning, in which tailgating was no doubt a major factor. What struck me, though, was an absence of apparent aggression, both on the open road and, especially, in town. For the Londoner, this came as a revelation. Urban driving was remarkably considerate, and as a visitor you had to adapt to that quite quickly, because co-existence is clearly the basic principle in Belgium. As a cyclist, I was very pleased to see the way that cars took care of bicycles, but it was clear that the cycling and motoring cultures are both different in Belgium from the UK. We looked carefully as we drove and walked around Ghent, and saw hundreds of cyclists, of whom only two were wearing helmets. Those two were also the only ones riding what we in England would now call road bikes (what we called racing bikes when we were children); there were a few hybrids, but the great majority were riding what we call Dutch bikes, the sit-up-and-beg style, relatively heavy-framed and slow, but comfortable and equipped for carrying stuff. I presume that this means that lots of Belgians have a second bike at home, which they just get out at the weekend for long leisure rides (or to go fast) as I suppose I do. Most Brits, though, seem to have just the one bike, which they use for commuting as well as fun, and so they want it to be capable of speed. The difference, though, is not just about the bikes, but about the attitude,  because most cyclists in London are desperate to get from one place to another as fast as they can, and so the serene progress of a Dutch bike would be unacceptable. It wasn't just that the Flemish motorists were better-mannered than you would find in London, so were the cyclists. It strikes me that a bit of serenity would improve the urban environment all round!


Essex Road

I had plenty of opportunity for car-borne contemplation a couple of Fridays ago, when I drove to see my family on the Essex-Suffolk border. I normally take the train, but Network Rail were doing something that meant that the return journey on Saturday would involve an hour on a bus and then being deposited at Newbury Park (for the uninitiated, it's a station on the Central Line in the outer Essex suburbs, famous for having been built with a car park covered by a spectacular roof). I can understand the rationale for this, but that's not what I call getting home. I have a visceral aversion to the train/bus combination, because it always involves a vast amount of waiting in line (as it is bound to, when you consider the relative capacities of train and bus) and the disturbance in mid-journey is just really tiresome. It's my choice, and I regretted it on this occasion. In favourable conditions (as on the return journey on Saturday evening) the journey to my brother's house should take a little over two hours; on that Friday it took me over four hours. I was already over an hour behind schedule before I reached the M25, and that was without any real problems on the Finchley Road; thereafter there was a delay at every opportunity. Now, I suppose I would have been agitated if I had an appointment I had to get to, and I would have got tense if I had had a passenger, but on my own, just going to see my family with no particular agenda for the evening, I was able to regard the delays with more equanimity. I began to feel that this could be an opportunity for cultivating an attitude of serenity rather than anger, so I worked at that. When totally stationary on the M25, and with the engine off, I called my brother to let him know how I was doing. That gave him an idea of my arrival, but then there was an accident on the A12 (a horrid road at the best of times) and by the time I came off the dual carriageway, to make my way through country lanes, it was pitch dark, and so I got lost a couple of miles from my destination, a journey that in daylight (as planned) I would have done with no problem. I confess that my equanimity was shot to pieces by that, since it was my mistake, and I was theoretically in control of putting it right.  So I did not arrive as calm and serene as I had hoped, and they were just about to start eating dinner, so guilt was added to the mixture!


Local Deliveries    

Today is our biggest event of the year, the Solemn Requiem for All Souls' Day, which St Mary Magdalene's has done for the past forty years or so with a full orchestra and choir, performing a French Romantic setting (this year it is Gounod, and no, you won't have heard it). Since St Mary Magdalene's is full of scaffolding, and St Peter's much too small (and to be truthful, lacking in atmosphere) we had to find another venue. I had to find a church in West London that was not having its own All Souls' Day service, (so probably not Anglo-Catholic) but would not have theological objections to one (so probably not Evangelical). The vital feature was an absence of pews, so we could have space for the orchestra, and of course simply a church that was large enough for orchestra, choir and say two hundred worshippers. Everyone also wanted somewhere Victorian and atmospheric, to suit the spirit of what we do. I found one very suitable church, and was confident I could answer the Vicar's theological queries, but gave up when he told me he would have to take it to the church council, because the idea of trying to convince an entire PCC was just too much. Instead I was directed to Holy Trinity, South Kensington, which is in Prince Consort Road, just behind the Albert Hall, and fits the bill splendidly. They are hugely helpful, but last week they told us that they had just learnt that the road would be closed today because there was a film premiere at the Albert Hall this evening; o joy! So instead of spending today driving around delivering things from here to there, I did it yesterday, and am now on tenterhooks in case I forgot something. I became acquainted with how particularly pushy Kensington drivers are, while I cultivated my equanimity. It all took longer than I had assumed, because I am used to doing these journeys by bike, not car. Today I shall wear my best reflective clothing and ride my bike over there. 

HIGH LEVEL WORK

More on the Tower Blocks

There was a pause in the removal of cladding from the tower blocks, and we wondered what was going on. Then it became clear; they had gone as high as they could with a cherry-picker from the ground. I imagined scaffolding would not be the next step (think of how long it would take to build, and the hire charge) and I was right. Instead, in the last few days cradles have appeared, dangling down from the tops of the blocks, and men with harnesses. Abseiling is now an established way of dealing with high buildings, but it is certainly not something I choose to watch. I now notice that they are removing the fixings that held the cladding panels onto the walls, as well as the panels themselves, and the rockwool insulation, so the whole installation is going. It is of course good to reassure the residents, but this looks a bit wasteful. Perhaps they are going to replace it with a whole new system. Anyway, this winter the tower block residents will feel safe, if cold.


Different Hands

Now that the conservators are up close to the painted ceiling, one of them is beginning to think that she can see different hands in the work. The patterns on the panels were presumably stencilled, so there is little scope for variation there, but the busts of saints (and Old Testament figures as we must now say) show distinct variety. Now some of those may be copied from conventional images of the saints, but there seem to be varieties in style, which might suggest that they are not all from the hand of Daniel Bell himself. We have no idea what sort of a studio he operated, but he must have had plenty of assistants on hand to do the stencilling, if nothing else, and since there are seventy-two figures they would have been a lot of work for one person as well. Clearly the figures were completed back at the studio and then brought to St Mary Mags to be stuck on to the flat panels, which I would imagine were stencilled first (though our inspections will show whether that is true).

Meanwhile, at a lower level, there is a bit of a mystery with the Stations of the Cross. These are in roundels, high up on the north and west walls of the nave, carved by Thomas Earp, who was responsible for most of Street's sculptural requirements (and known as "Street's hands").. I have always maintained they were only decorative, and not actually for use, because they are only half a set (of the conventional number, which was well-established by 1865 since Fr Bennett had already used them at Frome) and they are so high up the wall that you really couldn't use them for devotional purposes, because you couldn't read the scenes from the ground. We have photographs from long ago that show a set of enormous painted stations hanging much lower on the walls, which demonstrate that the need was felt for a legible, full set quite early on. I have now had a brief look at the carved Stations, and I have to say that some of them are pretty hard to decipher even close to, being crowded with figures. The one that you could always make out from the ground, however, was the scene of Christ before Pilate, where the seated figure of Pilate is very distinctive. Now, though, having got up close, I have real doubts as to whether this particular sculpture is actually by Thomas Earp. I've been telling everyone how good Earp is (and his carvings at St Peter's, Bournemouth, demonstrate that) but this particular sculpture stands out from the others by differences in style: the figures are much more static, the faces more conventional, the drapery much plainer, and the whole composition is flat and empty (which is why it was easier to read from the floor). I find it hard to believe that this is really Earp's work. Perhaps our volunteer researchers will be able to pursue that question, and indeed how these great Victorian artist-craftsmen organised their studios.          

ROOFS

Up The Scaffold

Last week the scaffolding inside the church finally reached the painted ceiling, and I was able to go up and discover that much of what I have been repeating to visitors for years is simply not true! My explanation (taken from Fr Stephenson's history of the church) was that the roof was divided into twelve compartments, and that each represented a month of the year and had saints depicted, each in the month in which their feast falls. I didn't have to get to the top to discover that this was not true, as on the lower level of figures some were from the Old Testament, so not saints at all! It turns out that Adam and Eve appear at the west end, and then there are a number of Old Testament figures before the saints start. We do seem to be correct that the north side are female figures and the south side male, though there is an Annunciation group about halfway down the north side, which is a bit odd. They don't appear to be in months either. It may be a more complex scheme, or possibly just random! One thing that the conservators have discovered is that the figures are painted onto canvas that has then been stuck onto the boards. I had always said we thought everything was painted directly onto the boards, as the boarding seemed visible once we got decent lighting a few years ago, but no-one was sure. The conservators' other big discovery of the first couple of days is that they are not the first to go up there. Someone has removed varnish from the flat sections of the ceiling, apparently by scrubbing, and this has clearly removed paint as well at times. The whole roof was originally varnished, and the ribs and frames are clearly still covered in dark varnish, which in places seems tacky to the touch, though I wonder whether that might be the result of incense residue rather than just the varnish itself. The varnish was a surprise, though I suppose it shouldn't have been, as the conservators' trials in the chancel vault a few months ago had revealed that not only was there a layer of twentieth century varnish (as I had always said) but that this was on top of nineteenth century varnish that was probably original. At some point in the past they clearly had a go at cleaning the roof.  

We had no idea that there had been a previous restoration of the roof, and it's hard to imagine when that might have been. The point at which gas light was replaced by electricity seems most likely, as you would presumably want to get up to the gas pipes which ran through the tie-bars at roof plate level. We don't know when that was, though, so that's not much help. It might not be so long ago, as the flat sections of ceiling don't seem very dirty. The ribs and frames, on the other hand, are clearly very colourful under the varnish, in fact the flat surface of each rib seems to be gilded, and there are little flowers with gilt centres on the sides of the ribs, so there is plenty to be revealed. The varnish may make it more complicated, though, as that will presumably require the use of solvents, which makes it much more difficult for volunteers to do (and raises health and safety issues), and we had hoped that cleaning the nave ceiling was going to be the big volunteering opportunity. Hey ho.


Street's Inspiration

I had a week away in Belgium, in Flanders to be accurate, and had a great time. I hadn't realised how much I would like Flanders, but that was dense of me: bike racing, art, architecture, beer, chips, chocolate, marzipan, what's not to like? The other thing that I hadn't realised was how far G E Street was inspired by medieval Flemish buildings. I kept on going round saying, "Now I see," to my friends, who must have got a bit bored with it. I came back and fulsomely went on about it to our architect, who just said, "Yes." Clearly this was not news to people who genuinely knew about architecture, but it was an eye-opener for me.

In Flanders you see churches with immensely steeply-pitched slate roofs, like ours, which is very unEnglish (St Amand, Geel, for example) and indeed the churches in general are very lofty, towering over their urban settings. It's easy to forget how St Mary Mags must have towered over the surrounding houses, now that there are tower blocks around, but its principal feature is still its great height. In those steep Flemish roofs they often have little dormers with pointed gables, presumably for ventilation, as we do (Bruges, Geel). You also see polygonal apses, like ours, again very unEnglish. Most striking was to see, in Geel, medieval churches built of brick and stone; in fact St Amand is "streaky bacon" all over, Street's famous decorative effect. I've always mentioned Siena in this context, but it turns out Flanders is a much more obvious precedent, using the very same materials. The final eureka moment was when I saw statues above nave pillars, very like ours, at St Walburga, Oudenaarde. The church of Our Lady in Bruges has a similar arrangement as well, but they're lower down the pillars, and rather less pleasing. It's unquestionably a baroque device, but Street gives them little gothic canopies, and I dare say there may be medieval examples as well. So, although I was away, I was thinking of home, but in an energising way, for a change. 


   

MORE ON THE TOWERS

Enquiries Made

Actually I got answers swiftly about the tower blocks and their cladding. Apparently the Department of Communities and Local Government have changed their testing regime, so that the combination of (questionable) panels with (inert) rockwool is no longer deemed sufficient. As a consequence of that the London Fire Brigade have changed their advice, and so Westminster City Council have been pushed to remove it all as quickly as possible. There are six blocks on the Estate, and the Council and CityWest Homes reckon that they could only replace the cladding quickly enough on two of them to enable the rockwool to be re-used, before it became degraded by wind and rain, and so the perfectly serviceable rockwool is being thrown away along with the cladding panels, as I observed. It wouldn't be clever to allow the rockwool to get full of rainwater and then shut it in behind panels, so that's fair enough. The problem now is that they won't finish the work until the spring, and so the flats will be cold and damp again this winter. Still, residents will at least be reassured that Westminster are trying to make the blocks as safe as possible. The important point is that it is central government which has changed the rules since Westminster gave their original message of reassurance, so there is nothing fishy about what is happening. It is worth saying that the combination of rockwool and proper fire stopping should be sufficient anyway, and the design of the blocks is such that the cladding is only on the narrow sides, so they are nothing like Grenfell; still, I know I would prefer to be reassured.

AT THE EQUINOX

Tower Blocks

The vehicles around the foot of Princethorpe House, which caused me such anxiety because of their reversing alarms, turn out to be engaged in removing the cladding from the side of the block. This has also begun on Wilmcote House as well. The contractors appear to be throwing away both cladding panels and insulation. This is surprising, since residents were assured by CityWest Homes and Westminster City Council that the cladding was safe, with rockwool insulation and adequate fire stops between compartments. Now it's possible that the panels have failed the government tests, as most apparently have, so it might be appropriate to change those, but why dispose of rockwool insulation? It seems a bit fishy, and rather concerning. I will make enquiries.


A Trip to the Cinema

My neighbour (and old friend) the Vicar of St John's Wood and I went to see "Victoria and Abdul" at the cinema together. It was slightly bizarre to find that we were sharing a small sofa, clearly designed for customers desiring rather more physical intimacy than two middle-aged clergymen, but it was actually jolly comfortable. The film was great fun, with Judi Dench clearly enjoying herself hugely doing her Queen Victoria turn.again. I became concerned at one point that I was laughing too loudly, because it was genuinely funny. The late Tim Pigott-Smith gave another excellent performance as the Queen's Private Secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby, whose brother was a famous Anglo-Catholic priest, the Vicar of St Mary Magdalene's, Munster Square. I found myself location-spotting (as one does when one's own premises get used as a location) and thinking that they must have used the Painted Hall at Greenwich right at the start of filming, because it has been full of scaffolding for ages. They had clearly been to Agra quite genuinely, though there was a horrible bit of CGI with the Taj Mahal at the end. Their great coup was to get permission to film at Osborne, which was so recognisably itself: no set designer would ever propose something as overbearingly ugly as the Durbar Hall, which still houses the vast carpet which was the beginning of the story. The film is thoroughly to be recommended.


Changing Police Priorities

The Police Ward Panel met recently in Paddington Green Police Station, which was a rare privilege. I think we were all rather childishly excited about penetrating behind the scenes at this formerly famous "high security police station". I remember that when we first came to London you would know that terrorists had been arrested by the television satellite vans parked outside Paddington Green. The building seems to be pretty much dormant now, pending its sale to the developers of the site next door, and we met in what was clearly the canteen. Proceedings were enlivened by the sight of a mouse crossing the illuminated panels in the suspended ceiling.The Superintendent was keen to hear our responses to the proposed further closures of police stations, including the loss of front desk facilities at Paddington Green, but I pointed out that for our people the pass has already been sold, as Harrow Road station was the one which was convenient for them to go to report things. That one is now being developed as luxury flats, and frankly Paddington Green was always a bus ride away, and so not much better than Kilburn or Charing Cross. The Met don't seem to want to interact with the public any more.


Bright College Days

At the weekend I attended an "Old Members' Gathering" at my Cambridge College, which was very enjoyable. It was rather reassuring to see how many of our contemporaries had been doing socially useful things for the past thirty years. There were one or two disillusioned doctors (and by the end of the evening very drunk doctors) and a number of people planning to do (or already doing) things that they really enjoyed and were interested in having given up climbing the greasy pole. This was a big contrast from last time, nearly ten years ago, when I remember a general crackle of careerism and networking. Some things about Cambridge are completely changeless, others much altered. In the latter category the rail service to Kings Cross, which enabled  me to leave College just before 9 and be back to celebrate Mass at St Peter's at 11. Back in our day it was only electrified to Royston, and you had to change trains there, so the longer ride into Liverpool Street was the route I took more often. Some things do change for the better!     

VEHICULAR WOES

The trouble with having a big building project on the go is that it is very stressful. Inevitably there are things that nobody has anticipated, which have to be paid for, so there’s stress about costs. More stressful than that, though, for me is the problem of the builders upsetting people. Our building site is right next to the Primary School, and so there are obvious sensitivities, but the scope for annoying people is just vast, and it is painful to me that my parishioners should be annoyed. One day last week I was almost physically sick with worry at the breakfast table because I could hear a heavy vehicle’s reversing alarm, and it was a time when we should not have had any lorries moving anywhere near the site; I kept imagining the fury of the parents who would be fearful for the safety of their children, and the fury of the head teacher who would have been fielding the parents’ complaints. As it turned out, I was worrying for nothing. It was nothing to do with us. CityWest Homes are doing something to the tower block the other side of the school which involves a crane, and that was where the alarm was coming from.    

Today I helped to supervise the road crossing, where the children interact with the traffic (in practice other children’s parents’ cars). If it helps everyone feel safe, it’s worth it. This has become necessary because our scaffolding (behind its hoarding) occupies almost the whole of the pavement alongside the church, and so after the first day of school, it was felt that it was better to direct the children a slightly longer way so that they wouldn’t walk through parked (or potentially parking) cars. This means they have to cross Rowington Close. Since the only traffic generally at that time is parents dropping children, you would suppose that it should be straightforward, but it seems not. We’re offering a bit of supervision to see that order prevails. The most dangerous thing I saw today was a mother nearly running over her own child (at very low speed).

The very worst bit of parking I’ve seen recently was at Regent’s Park, where I cycle. Hanover Gate meets the Outer Circle in a T junction; this is controlled by traffic lights, and there are pedestrian crossings on each arm. The car was parked between the two crossings, exactly opposite the other arm of the junction; of course it was on a double yellow line. I couldn’t work out why this was a good place to park, because it’s not particularly convenient for anything. You see taxis and minicabs stop to set people down in illegal places, but generally there is some reason for why they have stopped at that particular point, and they will move off again in a couple of minutes. This car, on the other hand, was just parked next to the hedge around the Park, and stayed there for a couple of hours at least, on a weekday evening. Bizarre.

As to bad driving, a black cab on Saturday afternoon worried me. I was overtaken by a young man on a time trial bike, and then by an occupied cab. As it came alongside the bike the cab began to flash its lights, and clearly started to slow down and bear in towards the pavement. The cyclist was forced into the back of a line of parked cars and had to stop. The cab driver suddenly accelerated away; I passed him letting his passengers out a hundred yards further on. Odd and dangerous behaviour.

Totally inexplicable was the 31 bus which, stationary at the traffic lights at the T junction at the bottom of Chippenham Road, suddenly decided to move away during the pedestrian phase of the lights, sailing across two pedestrian crossings where the signal was green for pedestrians. It was not as if he was anticipating his own phase, either, as that was not the next phase. Anyway, the lights were clearly red. Nor was he slipping through at the end of his phase; he was stationary for perhaps a minute and then just took it into his head to go, for no discernible reason. Astonishing.

The traffic is particularly heavy on Chippenham Road up to the traffic lights outside St Peter’s, because of roadworks on Elgin Avenue. Buses are diverted, which makes it all much worse. Every so often, though, you see someone lose patience with queuing and simply pull out and overtake the queue as it starts to move. Perhaps it’s not so dangerous (if you know the sequence of the lights) but it’s just deeply anti-social. Watching this from the Office the other day I was moved to ponder the value of queuing. We always used to say that we thought if the EU was in the business of standardisation then we should all have standardised French bank holidays and British queues. Because the queue really is a thing of virtue, and it is profoundly democratic. I remember being struck, in Bologna Station a few years ago, to notice that the advance ticket window was now protected by an automatic door, so only the person first in line could get there, because I’m sure many of us will have had the experience at an Italian ticket window of someone coming up beside you, or over your shoulder, and engaging the ticket clerk in conversation while they are supposed to be attending to you. Obviously the other person’s business is very important, or urgent, or simple to resolve and so they know you won’t mind; but That’s Not The Point. You wait your turn. That’s how it’s done in a civilised society. You will notice that the airlines strive to maintain class privilege by having a separate queue for club or business class passengers, and we can bear that, because we feel that the basic queue is not being significantly undermined by that, but just marching to the head of the queue is never acceptable. It’s not just the Brits being anal, it’s actually about democracy.

CONSIDER THE LILIES

The Birds of the Air

We have a very healthy colony of wood pigeons around us at the moment; sometimes you can see a dozen together, feeding on the grass behind the flats, or denuding trees of berries. They always look fat and prosperous. Mysteriously I found one with a broken neck on my lawn a couple of mornings ago, presumably killed by a cat, but if so the cat had made no attempt to eat it. Casimir? Hardly. He ignored it when I found it, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't there when he came in the previous night. Perhaps this is the work of the cat he fights with, trying to show how tough it is.  Meanwhile, the swans on the canal have cygnets that are almost full size. There's one pair with two, and another pair with seven, which is an amazing achievement. Cycling along the canal reveals that there are large colonies of swans, and we only get errant pairs; the occasional pair nests on the island in the Pool, but we almost never get the quantities you see around Alperton or Southall. I'm pleased to see we have a pair of Egyptian geese again, as they are just charming birds. Bizarrely there was a salmon's head on the cycle path the other day, cut clean off, and more bizarrely, split in half, Damien Hirst-wise. This was not the result of bird activity!


Harrow Road Fashions

I am well aware that I am not particularly well-placed to pass comment on people who dress unusually, but there have been one or two characters about recently. This morning on the Harrow Road I saw someone who might have come from the retreat from Moscow; he appeared to be wearing a carpet and carrying an unfeasibly large number of things. Admittedly he did not have an 1812 musket, but instead had a large umbrella in a decorative cover. He also had grey dreadlocks emerging from his hooped woolly hat. Presumably an authentic gentleman of the road. There is a mother who I often see taking her child to school whose make-up always impresses me (it is very professional), and she teams it with carefully teased and highlighted frizzy hair and leopard-print leggings. Always cheers me up. Then there's a chap of Caribbean background who cycles in a little West African hat, and whose clothing is always impressively layered, with a definitely "ethnic" flavour, but I couldn't tell you which specific ethnos.


Panic Over

Last night I had a big scare. A plumber had been installing a new boiler, at the back of the garage, to replace one which failed last week, so I had taken the car and the bikes out of the garage. When he went home he told me he would be back in the morning to finish off and said he had left the garage door closed. After dinner I went out to put the car and bikes away, but when I went to open the garage door I found the knob rotated freely without achieving anything, and then it came away in my hand. The door was securely closed, though unlocked, with car and bikes outside (which, I suppose, was less disastrous than it might have been). There is no other way in. I texted the plumber, suggesting he bring tools to try to fix it in the morning. He rang me almost immediately, which was very sweet, wondering what he had done, and was confident we could fix it in the morning. I was less so, and spent some time on the internet trying to find suggestions, which was pretty fruitless, because people are only interested in electronic doors these days. I brought the bikes into the hall, and spent a sleepless night. When the plumber rang the bell this morning I was astonished to open the door to find that he had the garage door open already. He had moved the lever inside with a long screwdriver. Last night |I couldn't see anything to be moved when I looked into the hole, but I was hugely relieved. The pin holding the knob to the shaft had simply corroded away. so I found a new pin of suitable size and he fixed it. Panic over.


Deliveries

One of the advantages of having a building site on your doorstep is that it is somewhere for deliveries to be made. This week I had some new vestments coming, and the suppliers were anxious that they needed to be signed for, so I told them to deliver them to Lee in the site office if I was out. That all happened very smoothly (I had warned Lee) even if it was a bit incongruous for all concerned. To be fair, I have taken in deliveries for the site as well, particularly at the start, when they were all working in the school. Blessedly, the work in the school was finished in the nick of time, despite the best efforts of the gas people, so they only had one day of cold lunch (it might have been so much worse). At the moment repairs are going on to the school's automatic gates, as Cadent (the gas people) managed to sever the cable that controlled them (which, to be fair, wasn't buried at the correct depth). The contractors have allocated a man to be gatekeeper pending the repair, which frankly gives the school more security than the automatic gates. We are all going to know each other well by the end of this.     

CARNIVAL TIME

No, Don't...

If you are a long-term reader of this blog you may remember that the former MP for Kensington, Lady Borwick, was a great opponent of the Notting Hill Carnival, but did not succeed in her aim to at least re-route it, if not suppress it. This year's Carnival, though, had the strangest build-up in recent years, as there was a real question of whether it was appropriate so soon after the Grenfell Tower disaster. Now anybody I spoke to who was actually from the Latimer Road area  seemed clear that the Carnival should certainly go ahead, as an expression of community solidarity and resilience, which is indeed what happened, but it was good to see that outsiders were sensitive to the idea that they might be dancing on people's graves. I didn't envy the police their task, though, because on top of the usual public order issues with a million people on the streets there was talk of some North London gang, one of whose members was shot a few days before, coming down to exact revenge, and then there was the obvious terrorist threat. I'm not sure what the correct name is for the enormous steel obstacles that they put in place at the end of Westbourne Grove, but the journalistic "ring of steel" sums it up. All in all it seems to have gone well, with the best weather for years.


Scaffolding Goes Up

Meanwhile, the scaffolding creeps up around St Mary Mags. Last weekend we found that the nice open area outside the Vestry was now full of scaffold legs, which was a bit intimidating, but we could still reach the door. As I watched it go up along the south side I became increasingly fretful, as I thought we had cut back the scaffolding from what was originally planned, as we had economised on the external brick and stone repairs as we were trying to cut the cost back to fit the budget. The scaffold that was going up looked like the original design, not the cheaper one. When I expressed my anxiety about this, I was told that we had discovered that our conservative costing policy had actually meant that we had the money to do it as originally planned, and so it was going ahead. No mistake. No problem. No word to the client, though!


The Gas Man Cometh

The first works that have to be done are in the school. Obviously they need to be done before the children come back, next week. This has not been going well. Most spectacularly, the gas contractors are giving us real grief. You may not be familiar with Cadent, but they are the gas main bit of National Grid, rebranded, and we have been in contact with them since March because we need to move the gas main and the school's meters. When they came to cut off the old supply they managed to discover that this supply only fed the boilers, and not the kitchen, so at that point they just went away. Our contractors then found the second main, and we got them back. So both were purged and capped. Now they are back on site to do the new connection, at the last possible minute. They have managed to cut through the electricity supply to the school gate, but that's a small matter compared to the slowness of their working. A separate organisation then has to come and install the meters, which no-one told us until three weeks ago. Fortunately we were able to get them to come, but they are booked for tomorrow, and it won't be ready for tomorrow, so now we shall have to book them again, and when will they come? When will the school have its gas supply back? We had a very uncomfortable meeting with the Head Teacher, who was understandably agitated and displeased. It is very unpleasant being responsible for something going wrong that is entirely out of your control.   

ON SITE

Stolen Property

If someone offers you some cheap four-by-two in the pub tonight, please don’t take him up on it, but pass his name on to your local police. I had heard mutterings about how big a deal theft from building sites is, but now I know for myself. I presume someone had been watching as our site developed, so on Sunday morning I came to church to find a panel of Heras fencing alarmingly overhanging the steps down to the vestry. On investigating, I found that several panels of fencing had been lifted from their bases and heaved up to allow access to the building materials stored behind the fence. A couple of (vast) sheets of plywood were sitting disconsolately in the grass. A churchwarden and I manoeuvred the fencing back into position, as best we could, but one panel was horribly twisted; it had been chained to our railings, and that fixing had held secure, but then the whole thing had been rotated around that. I texted the Site Manager to let him know. This morning he told me that there had been a quantity of timber stored there which had totally vanished. Ironically, it’s the timber they are using to build the proper hoarding around the site to make it more secure. You can see through Heras fencing, you see, and be tempted, whereas a nice old-fashioned solid hoarding doesn’t present the same temptations.

Budding Banksies

The drawback with a proper hoarding is that it provides a fine blank canvas for graffiti artists, and indeed our new hoarding acquired its first graffiti at the weekend. Our strategy there is to fix up on the hoarding panels that have been painted by local people. At the Westbourne Festival, at the beginning of July, we had a workshop for local young people, which was led by a graffiti artist, creating all sorts of strange images to go up on the hoarding. The artist came back later and finished it all off, and just now the panels are waiting to be fixed onto the hoarding. It will be a lot more interesting than a blank hoarding, and the hope is that what is essentially graffiti art should not attract further graffiti. I hope it works.

Enter the Scaffolders   

Today, things are getting very serious. The scaffolders are on site, starting to erect the exterior scaffolding (which needs to be done before the hoarding is finished). This is a trivial job compared to the interior scaffolding, which is going to take weeks to put up. I have to say that they are very quiet at the moment, certainly compared to other scaffolders of whom I’ve had experience; everyone involved in the construction industry regards scaffolders as a breed apart, and they seem to do their best to live up to expectations.

Organ Builders Too

The organ builders have also turned up to dismantle a few pipes, take down the ornamental pipes, and seal up the opening of the organ chamber that contains the main banks of pipes. Getting them here has been a bit of a pantomime, as they and the contractors exchanged mutually uncomprehending messages. They seemed very resistant to the idea that they had to have proper protective clothing since it was now a building site, but they’ve clearly been allowed on site, so I presume they came with the proper gear after all. I now need to retrieve from them the three sets of keys to the church that they have held onto; they like to have their own keys so that they can come and go at their convenience, but that won’t work in the future. In the short term, we need to make sure that access to the site is controlled so that we don’t invalidate our insurance, but when the work is done, the church will be in use far more, and it won’t be possible for them to turn up to tune the organ when it suits them, as they have been accustomed to do. They will need to arrange visits properly with the building manager. Organ tuners get very proprietorial about the organs that they look after, and I can understand that, but they do sometimes make you feel that they are doing you a favour by allowing you to use the organ for something as trivial as accompanying services.

Furniture To The Third World

Meanwhile the school’s dining tables are being removed. We have had to reconfigure the school kitchen slightly to enable us to build the new wing, but that has reduced the space in which to store the dining tables. After struggling with various expensive options, our architect, with a brilliant piece of lateral thinking, discovered that more efficient tables were available. So now the new tables have arrived, and the old tables (with integral seating) are going to be shipped to Africa by a charity that specialises in this sort of thing. With them are going a load of church chairs, not nice enough for any congregation here, but still functional. I had hoped they would go to Jamaica (as we have a number of Jamaicans living locally) but it seems they’ve finished that project, and so they will be going somewhere in Africa. We are desperate to know where.

WORK IN PROGRESS

Men At Work

First, a mountain of chipboard was delivered. Some of this was then put down on the nave floor, which, as things were progressively removed, gradually got covered. I came in and saw a small golden arch leaning against a pillar, and wondered excitedly what it could be; it was only when I saw it from another angle that I realised that it was the frame of a grand piano, now completely destroyed. The labourers seem to be quite efficient at smashing things up. Then the carpenters moved in and started constructing boxes, so the marble balustrade (Martin Travers, 1923) got boxed in, along with the chancel steps. At this point, all the furniture marked for storage had been moved downstairs into the Comper Chapel, awaiting the arrival of the container in which it is to be stored.

Then, on Tuesday, the containers arrived. I don't think I had been conscious of how many there were to be, or how much space they would really occupy. I had looked at the plans of the site compound, but somehow never really put it together in my head. So, they came at a nice quiet time of day, and just two parking suspensions did the job to enable the lorries to get access. That all happened smoothly, and quietly. We are undeniably occupying quite a big portion of the park, though a portion that no-one actually uses for anything. We have had to be terribly careful about the trees, despite the fact that the trees are a public nuisance, and ought to be cut down and replaced. They are black poplars, which are notorious for dropping boughs without warning, which in my view makes them unsuitable to line a path through a park. As a cyclist on that cycle path you really feel threatened whenever the wind blows, but the alarming thing is the way that boughs drop off without warning when it isn't windy. I have a particular dislike of the one tree which is out of alignment with the others (which are along the path) because it deposits lots of leaves in our gutters, and until it was pruned recently had a branch which threatened our north wall. I can't prove that it was this tree's roots that were found in our old drains, blocking them, but I am morally certain of it.

The last couple of days have become noisy, though. Pneumatic drills and Kango hammers have appeared now,  as the steps down into the school yard have been deconstructed, and the hideous wall closing in the north porch has been demolished. This is undeniably noisy, and it is good to get it done during the holiday. Last week the surface of the school yard was taken up, and a climbing frame taken down, to be relocated, but those weren't particularly noisy


Welcome Visitors

Oddly, this week we have had a couple of last-minute visitors wanting to see the church. One was a charming man in publishing, who lives locally, and I don't entirely understand how he had missed all the public open days and events which we've put on, let alone the simple method of asking me for a visit. Anyway, he came via PDT, and Toby and I had a pleasant time showing him round despite the onward march of the chipboard. He very kindly gave us macaroons as a thank you. Then, out of the blue, Fr Graeme Rowlands, from St Silas, Kentish Town, called to ask whether he could bring a server and show him the church. They had a whole day of visiting great Anglo-Catholic churches, of which we were the last (I scheduled them for after the builders would have gone home). It was good to see the lad's enthusiasm. Fr Rowlands told me that he had first sought the church out after seeing photos of it in a book called "This Our Sacrifice", illustrating how Low Mass was celebrated using the old ritual. The book title rang bells for me, and I went home and duly found it in my study. Clearly I had not looked at it in more than ten years, as I had no idea the pictures were of us. The photos illustrate the sanctuary in 1949, which is fascinating to see (contemporary with "The Blue Lamp" being filmed outside). We still use the chasuble that is being used, and I have just found the altar cards (though they are much decayed). It was pleasing to see the tabernacle unveiled, so my leaving the veils off has good precedent.


Visitors

Some of my regular callers have reappeared rather surprisingly.The Man With A Stab Wound has tracked me down, whereas he only used to come to the Office. This is not helpful. Vouchers and Foodbank referrals are kept at the Office, not at home. He is unable to accept the answer "No". The Pakistani Christian has also reappeared, making a speciality of Sunday evening, when I expect a ring on the doorbell to be the tenant church. It seems he is being housed, which is very good news. He still wants me to pay for an Oyster card. I don't query the logic of asking me when he is supposed to be in Hounslow. The Small Irishman has also reappeared, and says he is being housed in Enfield; it is reassuring to see him, as he had disappeared for a couple of years, and I thought he might be dead. He insists that I take his cashcard to reimburse what I lend him. When I try to do so the PIN doesn't work. And then there is The Small Angry Woman With Dog, who has kept clear of us for a couple of years, since we had to get the police to remove her from a PCC meeting. Suddenly she has reappeared, spectacularly at the end of the Mass on St Mary Magdalene's Day, complete with what appears to be a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy, which she cannot control. Her problems have not changed. Sometimes one has to accept that there are situations which one cannot solve. Offering a bit of care is about the best we can do, and pray. 

FLAMING JULY

Where Did July Go?

I feel guilty not having posted for a month, but in truth it's not so surprising. I was, after all, away for the first twelve days of July, enjoying my friends' hospitality in Provence. I had pulled a muscle in my back, and so swimming in their pool helped, as did just lying down on the bed. I got out and cycled a couple of times, which was delightful (or would have been on my own bike). I saw a short-toed eagle while I was out, and was frequently hit while cycling along by large flying insects (mostly cicadas, I suppose). It was jolly hot. We had an excellent lunch one day at the hotel in Crillon-le-Brave, which is just two villages away (and has been fearfully poshed-up).
We went to a lovely concert as part of the choral festival at Orange, which took place in the eighteenth century courtyard of the music conservatoire. The courtyard was dominated by two large plane trees, and so as the wind blew leaves gently fell into the open piano. The apparently large population of cicadas in the trees also meant that total silence was never obtained; which the soloist Florian Sempey, accepted with a wry smile. He turned out to be a very fine singer (totally unknown to us, even to an opera-loving friend) with a wide repertoire.
I was there for the local Fete de la Figue, which was a good laugh. There are confraternities of fig producers as there are of wine growers, and they all paraded in their faux-medieval finery through the streets of the village, the fig producers being distinguished by their purple livery in general. The most entertaining, though, was the guild of strawberry growers of Carpentras, some of whose uniforms seemed designed to imitate strawberries.


Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

A certain amount of frantic contract-signing happened immediately before my departure. Foolishly, I had supposed we would have sorted it all out before then, but we seem to be making a speciality of taking things to the wire with the St Mary Mags Project. The execution of all the necessary legal documents finally happened last week, for which, God be thanked. Everywhere we went we found new things that required legal input, some quite unexpected.
I had intended that we should plan for an orderly packing-up, following a special service on 18th June, when we had invited a visiting preacher (the Chaplain of Keble College, Oxford) and singers to give us a good send-off, and celebrate the 150th anniversary of the start of building work. So I made those arrangements, but then our colleagues in PDT wanted to hold a concert on 21st July, and it seemed that there was no urgency to vacate the church after all. As their concert would have wanted all our chairs we could hardly empty the church, quite apart from it being bizarre to vacate the nave for worship, but still have a concert there, so it was agreed that we would stay until St Mary Magdalene's Day, which we kept on 23rd July. Since the builders were due to start work in the school on 24th July, and in church a week later, this didn't leave us much time. In the event, the concert did not happen, which was a bit frustrating. So we spent Saturday 22nd moving precious, fragile or valuable things to the Vicarage, which was very tiring, and then I spent much of last week sticking coloured labels on things.
Now I have statues in my sitting room, big oil paintings in my dining room, and a meeting room that is full of vestments, crucifixes and candlesticks.
I spent this Saturday going to Homebase to buy pond netting and then fixing it to the open balustrade down the outside stairs which lead to the Vestry, so as to make it more difficult for small children to fall through and dash themselves on the pavement below. I had pointed out the need for something like this to the architect, and then to the site manager, but nothing was done, so I did it. No doubt something better could have been done, but not by me.  
We have set up the Vestry for Sunday worship, and people seem to have enjoyed it yesterday. The novel experience of being close together may be a bit disconcerting for some, but others may like it. You can actually hear them sing, which is interesting for me, and will probably result in everyone singing better. We shall perfect the choreography in time, but it all looks very decent, and we are able to have the Reserved Sacrament in a built-in safe behind the altar, so the presence of Our Lord makes it rather special. The room is vaulted and light, and now we have set it up looks genuinely churchy, which is reassuring.  
Today the builders started to box up things in the church, which is very final.


Use the Facilities

For quite a while now I have had two portaloos on my front yard. The church portaloo used to be in the pigeon-infested north porch, but was then moved a few years ago to outside the vestry, as a healthier place, but also easier to clean. It did, however, attract the notice of locals, who availed themselves of it regularly. It was once pushed over, but we finally removed it when we found people using it to shoot up. By that stage we had installed one on my yard for some event, and so we had the vestry one craned out again, and a second installed on my yard, as two seemed good. They aren't particularly obvious so they don't seem to get too much "public" use, but I really don't mind. In the past I have seen a mother tell her child to squat down and urinate in my yard at school home time, which I'd rather not have. Last weekend a man walking his dog late at night proceeded to urinate against the outside of my fence right beside the portaloo, which seemed an odd decision.

THE HECATOMB

An Obscenity

As you go west down Westbourne Park Road there comes a point, as you descend the slope towards Portobello Road, where you suddenly see Grenfell Tower looming up above the houses. I certainly wouldn't have known before the fire that you could see it from there, as one tower-block looks much like another (with the exception of Erno Goldfinger's Trellick Tower, which is very distinctive), but now there can be no mistake. That obscene, charred skeleton is instantly recognisable. I was struck by how utterly matt black it was; it had never occurred to me that soot is so totally matt. You can't help but look up at it, even though you feel guilty doing so, and you come away feeling slightly grubby for having done so, because you know, instinctively, that this thing is obscene.

I was dumbfounded, when I was down there, to find people taking selfies in front of the Tower. It was obvious to me that this was inappropriate behaviour, but I find it hard to articulate why exactly. I have a general prejudice against selfies, so I'm not a good witness, but what is it I'm accusing them of? Lack of respect? Yes, possibly, but why is it not possible to take a respectful selfie? I'm not sure, but I think it's that the picture is essentially of yourself, so you are putting yourself at the centre of the universe, in a way that leaves little room for the proper respect for the dead. This vast disaster becomes wallpaper behind your head in a selfie, and that seems a wrong sense of priorities. Also, it's just very poor taste. Scores of people died there; when I was there many of their remains must still have been in the Tower, so photographing it is just in bad taste.

It seems that the Hammersmith and City Line remains closed precisely because the best view of Grenfell Tower is to be had from the platform (eastbound, I think I was told). The line was reopened on (I think) the day after the fire, but the platform filled up with people gawping and taking photos, and TFL took the decision to close it. Inconveniently the line remains closed "until further notice", which doesn't sound hopeful. No doubt safety was one concern, since they get very jumpy about crowds on their platforms, but I suspect there was also a feeling that these sightseers were intruding on the community's grief, and that someone with a telephoto lens could have a horribly intimate view into some of the flats where the recovery operation was taking place. 


Meanwhile on the Warwick

Local residents were summoned to a meeting with the Leader of Westminster City Council yesterday evening on the Warwick Estate, which was meant to be reassuring. I couldn't be there. Apparently it was hard for Cllr Nicky Aiken, the Leader, Cllr  Rachel Robathan, the Cabinet Member for Housing, and Karen Buck MP  to make themselves heard, and there was a lot of anxiety. They had the Fire Brigade commander who had been at Grenfell, and he was stressing differences. Our blocks do apparently have the necessary fire-stopping, made of appropriate materials, and the insulation material is inert rockwool. WCC do seem to want to be open about this, and they did use Wates, a reputable contractor, to do the work. Nevertheless, this afternoon, people were up a crane at the side of Wilmcote House, removing portions of cladding, presumably for testing, which is not a cheerful sight.


A Complaint

Reactions to this all do vary. On Sunday afternoon our tenant church (the Eternal Sacred Order of  the Morning Star) had a barbecue after their service, as they do annually, and I got a complaint as a result. A tower-block resident was very agitated and demanded to know whether I had given permission for this to happen, as it was really insensitive, when people in the tower blocks were "terrified" of being evacuated. I did not respond that I would have thought there were several things more terrifying than the prospect of evacuation, but I did point out that I was the person being most inconvenienced and disturbed by this barbecue, and that in any case my permission was not required, because they were on the Green and the public highway. Disturbance and inconvenience didn't really seem to be the point; this was just "insensitive" I'm not quite sure whether it was having a barbecue in particular that was insensitive, or just lots of people obviously enjoying themselves, but I was completely taken aback. The complaint was heartfelt, but I couldn't work it out. My caller thought I should have had such consideration for the feelings of tower-block residents that I should have forbidden Morning Star (who mostly don't live locally) from having a barbecue. Perhaps I have not been listening enough to what Warwick residents are saying, but I don't think I could reasonably have guessed that a barbecue would have been thought insensitive. We are two miles from Grenfell, the barbecue was two hundred yards from the nearest tower-block, and this was eleven days after the fire. But it seems that some people have an instinct for public mourning, and that's rather interesting. I note that Portugal declared three days of national mourning after the terrible forest fire that killed 145 people last week; we don't seem to do that sort of thing. What does "national mourning " consist of? I have an idea that it might be something that lots of people locally might think was really appropriate. 

HORROR IN NORTH KENSINGTON

Our Neighbours on Lancaster West

One of my churchwardens lives on the Lancaster West Estate, in the low-rise flats at the foot of Grenfell Tower. In the early hours of Wednesday morning she saw terrible things, and it was obvious from the start that the number of deaths was going to be horrifyingly large. It happened at 1am, when the building will have been full, and really very few people were being treated in hospital. It is inconceivable that a blaze on that scale could not have resulted in scores of casualties, so the small numbers being treated in hospital was always a bad sign. Anyone could see from the television pictures that this was a horrific disaster.

Someone was speaking to me yesterday as though it were my parish, and I realised why that was: the Vicar of St Clement's, Notting Dale, (which is the parish church) is Fr Alan Everett. As far as we know, we are not related. Obviously, he and his people are in my prayers. Curiously, though, there is usually a sort of rivalry between our two neighbourhoods, "Ladbroke Grove" and "Harrow Road", and most local incidents of knife or gun crime are bad boys from one neighbourhood attacking bad boys from the other. People sometimes say this thing is on postcodes, but it's not quite as simple as that, because W10, the Ladbroke Grove postcode, extends way over into Queen's Park, across the canal and the Harrow Road, and the boys from the Mozart Estate in Queen's Park are always fighting the Ladbroke Grove boys. This postcode thing also means that things happening in "our" bit of W10 get described on the BBC as happening in North Kensington or Ladbroke Grove, which is always irritating. No thoughts of rivalry now, though, because people are united in grief and horror. This is a very transient neighbourhood, but nevertheless most people will know someone affected in some way, and the extraordinary and inspiring thing has been how vast and immediate the local response has been. People here really do care about what is happening to their neighbours, and you could see on Wednesday that this was making a real impression on the journalists covering the disaster. I was at a governors' meeting on Wednesday evening, and school parents had already begun bringing stuff to school, but then one of my fellow governors who works closely with one of the evangelical churches in Latimer Road reported that they were already snowed under with donations of stuff, which was remarkable to hear. The response from ordinary people has been magnificent.


K & C, and the TMO

The response from the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea has not been so magnificent, though. My churchwarden phoned the TMO as the fire was happening to get them to open up the estate's community hall, but after stalling, they said they couldn't locate anyone with the key. Not good. Cllr Nick Paget-Brown, the leader of K & C Council appeared on the "Today" programme at breakfast time on Wednesday and gave a deeply unimpressive performance, not even knowing how many flats were in the block, and seeming disengaged from the whole event. By yesterday K & C had put reception centres in place, but what was totally missing was any sense of co-ordination or leadership.

Cllr Paget-Brown has every reason to be worried, though, and I can understand it if his lawyers have told him to be very careful what he says, because this has happened on his watch, and he and Cllr Rock Feilding-Mellen, who is in charge of regeneration and housing and who (presumably) signed off personally on the plans for the refurbishment of Grenfell Tower, and its satisfactory completion, are potentially in a very sticky situation. K & C continue to say that it would be premature to talk about the cladding, but anyone with eyes to see could interpret those television pictures. It is clear that the exterior cladding burnt. It seems very likely that the cladding was responsible for the horrifying speed of the progress of the fire, and the observable "torch" effect. They decided to put the cladding onto the building (yes, in pursuit of energy efficiency, which was a government policy, and to make flats warmer, which is a good thing) and they, crucially, chose which cladding to use and how to do it.

K & C will probably try to deflect attention on to the TMO, since that is the whole purpose of the TMO (and its sister organisations here in Westminster and in other boroughs), to insulate the Council from responsibility and unpopularity. I think they will find that it doesn't work, though, because residents certainly hate the TMO (and CityWest Homes here) but they hate the Council as well. These arm's-length organisations are a product of the (Conservative) ideological hatred of local government,and the belief that local authorities are automatically bad at running things, and a desire to take housing out of the reach of direct local democracy. For the resident, the TMO is just another layer of bureaucracy, and a device for evading responsibility. K & C will undoubtedly say that it was the TMO that made all the decisions, but the TMO is a wholly-owned subsidiary of K & C, which operates under K & C's policy guidelines, so that really won't wash. It is perhaps worth pointing out that building control and inspection is carried out by the local authority, so a K & C official will have certified the safety of this K & C building work; it would not be surprising if K & C tried to push responsibility down to this official, along with the contractor and the suppliers, but that really won't do. It is the contempt in which local people feel that they are held by K & C which leads them to conclude that responsibility rests high up in the chain of command. Local residents have got used to being neglected, and being regarded as troublemakers if they complain or question, and they feel that they are simply not valued because they are poor. People feel neglected and ignored, and they believe the reason is simply because they are not wealthy. If this is a crime, it has got K & C's fingerprints all over it. Now, perhaps, it becomes clear why Kensington elected a Labour MP last week.


Back Home    

Meanwhile, on the Warwick Estate, we look up at our tower blocks, which were refurbished (by Wates) a few years ago and wonder. Flats got new balconies and kitchens, and there was cladding. Each block has just one staircase. My brother (who is a surveyor) tells me that the question to ask is whether there are fire stops through the cladding at each compartment separation, and what that fire stopping consists of. I expect that we shall be asking exactly that, loudly and often.

RAMADAN IN NORTH KENSINGTON

Breaking the Fast

Last night I was at Al-Manaar, the Muslim Cultural Heritage Centre, in North Kensington, sharing their iftar meal. I'd been invited, along with Toby, my PDT colleague in the Project, by the Chief Executive of Al-Manaar, to whom we've been talking about possible future collaboration. Toby couldn't come, but I flew the flag. I checked with BBC Weather, which said sunset in Maida Hill was 9.18pm, so I didn't need to turn up too early, but was still there before 9pm. It turned out that 9.21pm was going to be the moment when the call to prayer was recited and the fast could be broken, which was an intriguing difference. Whose sunset? Or sunset where exactly? While we awaited the crucial moment two men were press-ganged into telling us what Ramadan meant to them, which was not as helpful as it might have been, but very well-intentioned.Tables were set with bottles of water and plates of dates, which is the traditional first thing you take, and then there was a lavish buffet waiting at the end of the room. The mosque chairman insisted that you didn't need to be invited, and the iftar meal is there to be shared by anyone who turns up, any night during Ramadan, but that's one of those invitations you can issue without fear, knowing that the reticent English will never take you up on it. One mosque member did tell me, though, that he made a point of bringing people in, including a couple of homeless people, which is great. So the call to prayer came, and we ate our dates and drank our water. I was frankly astonished at the restraint of my Muslim neighbour, who only had two dates and a few sips of water; I could have stuffed myself with those dates, and my last meal hadn't been at 4am.


Among the Faithful

I was not surprised to see the Mayor of Kensington and Chelsea there, rather more surprised to see the Deputy Mayor as well (who turns out to be a churchwarden from Notting Hill), but I found myself sitting with a bunch of other guests who had all been invited by a member of the mosque who is also a councillor. They had been invited because of their activity in the Labour cause last week, which made me a bit self-conscious to be sitting with them, but then amusingly another guest asked me whether they were all members of my church! They reacted with great delight when Emma Dent Coad, the newly-elected MP, (who is also councillor for Golborne ward, in which the mosque is situated) walked in, and then got embarrassed in case they'd behaved inappropriately by cheering and clapping. I don't think anyone was offended, as we weren't doing anything particularly pious at that point, but it was a moment when cultural incomprehension was palpable. The really interesting thing for me was to meet some of Jeremy's Army, because as well as the recognisable Labour Party stalwarts there were the fabled young people, in this case smart, posh, well-educated women in their twenties, for whom the manifesto had really made sense, and who had been prepared to go and stand outside polling stations or run around knocking up last Thursday. This is genuinely a new phenomenon, and a refreshing change from the prevailing cynicism which has characterised political debate for ages. And that's why Kensington has the unthinkable, a Labour MP. There are still people going around with silly grins all the time, because they never believed it would happen.


Posh Enough For Poussin

We all duly queued up for the very generous buffet, and of course had to guess what everything was. There were two adjoining trays full of chicken, but quite different; one looked much more insipid than the other. So, my smart young neighbour and I both went for the more colourful dish. I extracted some chicken and exclaimed, "Goodness, it's a whole little bird!" to which my neighbour responded, "Oh my God, it's poussin!"
That's what they were like!