OCCASIONAL OFFICES

At Home

It’s pathetic, the way one grasps at connection with celebrity: I caught myself the other day referring to “my footballer”. The fact is that we baptized the child of a professional footballer a couple of years ago, and he (the footballer, not the child) is now playing in the Premier League, and scored a spectacular goal a few weeks ago. Now the interesting thing is that he isn’t famous, and has only started appearing in his team’s starting eleven in the past few weeks, but has been with them for years, hardly playing, but constantly being injured. I had supposed he must be pretty good, or they wouldn’t have persevered with him for all this time, and it seems I was right. I felt a ridiculous glow of pride when he scored, and now watch out for him on Match of the Day. 

I remember when I was a country parson in Cornwall the great excitement when a footballer moved into one of my villages. Of course he played for Plymouth Argyle (the Green Slime or the Scum, for the Exonians amongst us) which made sense, as their ground was an easy twenty-minute drive away. The point nobody made at the time was that he was the only black man for at least five miles around, but then in Cornwall that wasn’t a cause for particular comment, since all incomers (like me) were expected to be strange in some way or another. Our footballer here in W2 does not stand out in that way, but his residence makes less sense; he must spend a lot of time in his car, but I suppose the Westway helps.

Generations

At another, more recent, baptism, one of my churchwardens said to me, “There’s a great-grandfather here.” The old gent was frankly easy to pick out, since he was obviously elderly and in a suit. He was also monoglot Portuguese, so after “Bom dia” I didn’t have much chance of conversation. This set me to thinking, though, because my churchwarden clearly thought this was special, but I’m not sure that it was, round here. Because I still do a fair number of baptisms for couples in their early twenties, whose parents are only in their mid-forties, and I can assure you that nothing makes you feel more ancient than discovering that you are older than the grandparents. I’m quite sure that we’ve had a great-grandparent or two present on some of those occasions, but it was perhaps less obvious because they weren’t amazingly old, and so didn’t stand out. Young women are  having babies generally older, but it remains the case that if your mother was young when she had you, you are much more likely to have a baby at a young age yourself.

Successive governments have orchestrated moral panic about “teenage pregnancy” (at one point when I was in Reading, my parish was supposed to have had the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe) but the fact remains that the late teens is the time when women are most physiologically suited to giving birth, and for some young women having babies is what they actually want to do with their lives. Yes, that makes them economically unproductive, but does that therefore make it an illegitimate choice? I desperately want people to fulfil their potential, but even I have to recognise that for some people that does not involve going to university; being a good parent and building stable families seems like a worthy aim as well.  

You Can’t Afford to Die

One of the strange things about ministry in central London is how few funerals we do. Partly that’s down to the totally atypical religious and ethnic diversity of the population, but also to its youthfulness. If you remember the song, “Capped Teeth and Caesar Salad” (by Don Black from Lloyd Webber’s “Tell me on a Sunday”) you may remember the lines, “The cost of land’s so high/ you can’t afford to die./ If you feel bad there/ you dial a prayer” which was about 1980s Beverley Hills, but you can say the same for modern London. There are few retirement homes, because, like pubs, they are relatively unprofitable ways of using land. Meanwhile, older people often move out of London to be near their families (who cannot afford to live here, or don’t want to bring up children in the metropolis). So the result is that we don’t do many funerals. 

There is also the slight suspicion that some funeral directors have their favourite clergy, who are undemanding, always available and sometimes allegedly from the same Lodge. I am constantly amazed at how little effort many undertakers seem to make to even find out the correct clergy to approach; you can discover anyone’s Anglican parish at the click of your mouse these days, but funeral directors are, as an industry, quite oddly resistant to computers. Meanwhile, the cost of a funeral continues to go up, and it’s not pushed by our fees, which are fixed by Order in Council and go up very modestly (and which go to the diocese to help pay our salary). The cost of burial plots in municipal graveyards is increasing exponentially, as the authorities run out of space (as we won't do as our forefathers did and simply go back to the beginning and start again, and we've got headstones), and cremation does have a genuine cost, which increases with the price of fuel. The fact is, though, that it is an industry with very limited competition, and a customer base who are not generally in the mood to shop around or argue the toss about prices. I should say that I know that I have got good deals from the undertakers I have dealt with, for which I am very grateful, but then I do know a bit more about the business than the average customer.    

DAYS AND NIGHTS

Open Day

We weren't able to take part in London Open House this year, as the church was still a building site, but now that we have the building back we are taking pains to show it off. Those who have been volunteering with the Project were among the first to see the restored interior, as we had a reception as a sort of "thank you" to them. That was also the occasion for the premiere of a series of short films made by local young people, responding to significant places in the neighbourhood, which will be shown on the screens in the foyer of the new extension. We had secured a little Arts Council money, which enabled us to employ a professional filmmaker who was able to work with the teenagers to turn their ideas into reality. They were generally interesting new takes on familiar places, with one that wasn't on our list; one group of youngsters made their film about Grenfell Tower, where they had lost friends. It's not Paddington, but it is only down the road, and very definitely a neighbouring community.

So, having given the volunteers privileged access, we threw a community open day, so anyone who fancied could come in, and lots did. My PDT colleagues did all the work, I just led some guided tours, but it was an excellent day. I was amazed at the numbers, and the variety of people who came; the first people I met were a baronet and his lady wife, and then I talked to an Eritrean mother. The conversations went on all afternoon. Among all the family activities (children making things from twigs) we also had a string quartet, and the delightful sight of a little Anglo-Caribbean boy dancing with the violinist as they played the Csardas will stay with me for a long time. We seem to be managing to continue to connect with a rich cross-section of local people, and the trick will be to continue to do that in the events and programmes that we put on when we're properly up and running (Easter, perhaps).


Infinitum Est...

That could be the motto of the building project (and frankly, most building projects) but actually it's the enigmatic message on the plinth of our War Memorial Calvary. An odd one, because it's not an obvious quotation. The Latin is simple enough, it means what it looks like, "It is not finished" or "It is endless/infinite". But the question is, what is "it"? Sometimes in Latin tags the verb is "understood", you don't need to write it because it's obvious, but that's less often the case with nouns, for obvious reasons. Here though, the subject of the sentence, the noun, is understood, though obviously we're not actually understanding it terribly well, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. The two words we have tell us that the subject is singular ("est" is singular) and neuter (the "um" at the end of "infinitum" is the neuter ending) but whereas in English almost every noun is neuter, it's not the same in Latin, where masculine and feminine nouns are more numerous. So we are hunting for a singular neuter noun, that should be obvious when read on the plinth of a crucifix. Perhaps I am being obtuse, but it's proving difficult. Love, mercy, justice, suffering: all feminine. My ancient "O"-level Latin insistently supplies one neuter noun, "bellum" which means war. Could they have really meant that in 1929 when they erected the Calvary? If so, it was horribly prescient. There is a famous cartoon, beloved of historians, which was published at the time of the Treaty of Versailles in 1919, which shows Clemenceau, the French Prime Minister saying, "Curious, I seem to hear a child weeping," while behind a pillar is the crying child with the label "1940 class". The French general, Foch, famously described the Armistice as, "Not a peace but a twenty-year cease-fire" but I wouldn't have expected that analysis on an English war memorial.

I was rather expecting that someone would ask me what the inscription meant when we rededicated the Calvary the other day, but no-one did. Curious how words we don't understand become invisible. The whole school trooped out into Rowington Close, and I thanked everyone involved (including generous donors). Then the Acting Archdeacon re-hallowed the Calvary, and I led the Act of Remembrance. After the two minutes' silence, Year 4 presented a very affecting performance. I had been a bit concerned when I heard that two of the children were playing rats, but I should not have worried, as it was perfectly judged. Lucy Foster (our community involvement person for the Project) had achieved something really impressive with them. People were genuinely moved, and the children seemed to get the point.We were amazingly fortunate that we did this in the only dry sunny hour of a dark, wet, blustery morning.     


Paradise

Last night I went to another fundraiser for The Avenues Youth Club, this time at the very fancy pub called Paradise in Kilburn Lane. It's a stylish pub, but I hadn't expected a Ten Commandments board on the upstairs landing (so you can check how many you've broken as you wait to collect your coat from the cloakroom?). It's at the Kensal Green end of Kilburn Lane, and so the name is taken from the G.K.Chesterton poem, "The Rolling English Road" ..."we went to paradise by way of Kensal Green." It attracted a very different crowd from the Joan Bakewell/Margaret Drabble evening, with a selection of DJs performing, and very loud music. The place is a rabbit warren, and seemed to absorb a vast number of (mostly trendy young) people. I had expected more dancing, but you can't predict the dynamics of that, I suppose. People seemed to enjoy themselves, and I hope The Avenues did well out of it. I had a good time, anyway.

GOLD AND BLACK

Gold Medallists

Our conservation architect, Oliver Caroe (the Surveyor of the Fabric at St Paul's Cathedral) entered us for the King of Prussia's Gold Medal, the major national award for church conservation. It was very pleasant to be shortlisted (and so one's friends saw it in the Church Times) but utterly dumbfounding to win the prize. They only gave you three tickets to the awards ceremony, so I went along with Beth Watson (from Caroes) and Lewis Proudfoot, from Cliveden Conservation, who actually did the work. The ceremony took place at St Jude's, Collingham Gardens, (behind Gloucester Road tube) which is the home of St Mellitus College, the Diocese of London's ministerial training wing, and since that building was also shortlisted for our award we were confident that we wouldn't win. That confidence was increased when we discovered that Prince Nicholas von Preussen, who was presenting the award, has a son who works with one of the contractors involved in one of the other projects. We were perfectly relaxed by the time Prince Nicholas came round to look at our display boards and asked a few, desultory, apparently uninterested questions. So we were completely unprepared when Prince Nicholas announced that the medal was being awarded to a Victorian church, which could only be us (and was).

Beth had done all the preparation for the ceremony, producing the display boards and a Power Point presentation to be shown in the event of one's winning. She did as she was told and produced a 10-slide presentation, to last 5 minutes. Then, on the day, our sheet of instructions said it was to be no longer than 2-3 minutes, and the slides would be moved on accordingly, but of course that didn't worry us as we knew we wouldn't be delivering a presentation. We did confer, though, as Beth really didn't want to do it, and so I said that, hypothetically, I would, if she would advise me of what the slides showed (as I hadn't actually seen them). So, as we walked up to receive the medal (and cheque) I was putting thoughts in order. It all went very well.

The ceremony also involved the award of the National Churches Trust President's Prize, which is for new work in a church, and that was presented by the Duke of Gloucester, so our sheet of instructions gave us etiquette for dealing with the royals. The Duke was very pleasant, but everything was so informal (and he's not the most immediately recognisable of the royal family) that none of us got our "Your royal highness" in on first meeting. As for Prince Nicholas, I huffed to my colleagues that it was all a bit rich, since his family ceased to be royal a hundred years ago, and he's not actually a prince of anywhere, and his surname is not von Preussen but Hohenzollern, so I'm not quite sure what etiquette applies beyond common politeness. It has to be said, though, that he was totally upper-class British, utterly charming, and lives in Knightsbridge.

Next year, we shall enter our new building for the President's Prize!


Men in Black

The awards ceremony was on Thursday, All Saints' Day, so the next day, All Souls', was the day of the Requiem. Our biggest event of the year is a High Mass of Requiem on All Souls' Day, celebrated with choir and full orchestra, doing a French Romantic setting. We have a nice set of black vestments for this, bought from the bequest of a deceased parishioner, who loved it, and which replaced a set that were falling apart. My friend Fr Martin Quayle usually comes to help as deacon, and Fr Frank acts as subdeacon. An old-fashioned ritual is part of the evening, as we try to use a nineteenth-century setting in an authentic way, but in a modern rite. This year we were singing the setting by Alfred Bruneau, which remained unperformed in England between its controversial premiere in 1896 and its revival at St Mary Mags in 1986. It is exceptionally loud, and jolly long. We break up the Dies Irae (in what I genuinely think is quite a creative way) to make it a bit more digestible, singing two movements during the intercessions.

There is always a lot of preparation for the Requiem, and Nicholas Kaye, who organises it, gets very tense. This year, the main anxiety was having only the temporary heating provided by our contractors, because the musicians get very grumpy about getting cold. We had also disposed of some chairs (expecting that our new chairs would have been purchased by now, which they haven't) so Nicholas had to hire in more seating than usual. A few unfinished repairs were also not aesthetically pleasing, but I did my best to see that we followed health and safety rules. With four hundred people in church one has to be reasonably careful.

I have always felt that the way most places use traditional Mass settings is silly, because you stand around in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer while the choir sing the Sanctus and Benedictus, as a very long musical interlude (quite unlike a congregational setting, which is a snappy acclamation). In reality, the traditional way of doing it was that the celebrant continued the words of the Eucharistic Prayer while the Sanctus was being sung, as an accompaniment. In the past they weren't terribly concerned about the faithful knowing what was going on, but we provide a service sheet that explains everything and prints out the texts of what is being sung (and their translation) as well as what is being said quietly. The result of this is that we at the altar are going about the business of the Mass enveloped in this wave of sound, and you get some marvellous moments when the music reaches a climax (by pure chance) at the elevations. With Bruneau the Sanctus alone was long enough to cover the whole Eucharistic Prayer, so the Benedictus became a meditation for us (as it is meant to be). At the altar this is exhilarating, and spiritually uplifting, and often deeply moving. So at the end of the evening I was on an adrenaline high that lasted a while. It all went very well, despite my making a crass error (which fortunately had no consequences and hardly anyone noticed).       

A BREATHLESS HUSH IN THE CLOSE

Wildlife Notes

We were kept awake on the Estate a few nights ago by a very loud and determined fox, evidently walking up and down between my house and the flats. There seemed to be another fox, somewhere distant, answering. It's very hard to describe the noise, but once you've heard it you recognise it. This time it was exceptionally loud. I eventually got out of bed, and from a front window watched the fox come out in front of the church and saunter away up the road, presumably in the direction of the other fox. One of my callers (from Golborne Road) remarked that she had been kept awake by what she was told were foxes, "Sounded like a baby!" she said, "Why do they do it then? Are they talking to other foxes?" I replied that I believe their intention is to meet up with other foxes. "Why's that then? I thought they didn't like other foxes!" I explained that I believe they want to get to know each other better. "Ooohh, yeah."

This is a real St Luke's Summer, for which God be thanked! In the late afternoon sun one day last week I was able to watch a lesser-spotted woodpecker on a rather weedy tree, and then on the wall of the flats behind me, which was a pleasant surprise.


The Ascension of Our Lord

Some of you will remember the War Memorial Calvary ("What have you done with Jesus?") and its structural problems that required it to be taken down three years ago (having been held up by scaffolding for more than fifteen years). The plan had been to restore it quickly as a visible sign of our intent for the whole church, but of course it didn't work that way. In fact that was just as well, because when we came to scaffold the outside of the church the whole of the sunken area over which the Calvary stood was filled with scaffolding, and the wooden cross had to be carefully placed against a wall. The cleaning of the exterior brick and stonework also produced a huge amount of dirty run-off, and it became obvious that if the Calvary had been re-erected in its place it would have got absolutely filthy. So, the fact that the (cast-iron) corpus was waiting in a forge somewhere in Sussex was a good thing.

The exterior scaffolding came down some time ago, and the specialist contractors began the process of reconstruction. Meanwhile, the corpus was restored to his original state. Martin Travers (who designed the Calvary in the 1920s) never stinted on bling if he got the chance, and so our cast-iron corpus was gilded. Now, Travers was more of a designer than an architect, which is perhaps why he had fixed the wooden cross onto a cast-iron beam. It was the rusting and subsequent distortion of this beam that had caused all the problems. So our contractors had to cast a nice new concrete beam, in situ, as the new base, which meant that lots of brickwork had to be taken down, making it quite a task. Then the old stone plinth had to be restored and re-erected, and then the wooden cross was oiled and put in place (which involved more scaffolding and a block and tackle).

Finally, last Friday, the corpus returned, in the back of a van. The gilder came with him, in case of touching up, and there were the men from the forge, and the contractors, and a man with a lorry with a hoist. They had the unenviable task of moving an extremely heavy cast-iron figure that was now covered in very delicate gold leaf and hoisting him up onto a cross about fifteen feet off the ground. Matters were not made easier by three cars ignoring our parking suspension; the contractors told me that one had actually been parked there while they were there, and the driver had just shrugged when told the bay was suspended. The result was that the hoist couldn't get very close, and they decided not to lift the corpus over the cars. Instead they carried him round in a circle, rising to a considerable height to get him round behind a streetlamp. Frankly, I held my breath. All was accomplished beautifully (though not without acute anxiety for the watching Vicar). They fixed his hands in place, but then came an alarming moment when the cross-beam flexed, and indeed the whole cross moved, which worried the contractors sufficiently for them to call the architect. They were reassured, and when his feet were fixed the whole structure became rock-solid. So now, for the first time in decades, the gilded figure of Christ presides over Rowington Close. Best of all, the job has been done in time for the centenary of the end of the Great War.


Back Home

We returned to worship in the main body of the church this weekend. Our Sunday Mass was exactly 150 years after Fr West celebrated the first Mass in the newly-built chancel, and 145 years after the building was consecrated by Bishop Jackson. It's not all finished, with three significant bits of repair work still to be done, and the lights not sorted out properly, but at least we are back, and you can see the brilliant ceilings. It was a deep joy to celebrate the Dedication Festival, and (I hope) to do it as Fr West would have wanted. We had a decent crowd, and a nice party afterwards, and people's joy and relief was palpable. The next thing is to get the new extension finished, so that the parishioners who have waited so long for level access and lavatories can finally come back as well.      

FROM WESTMINSTER, WITH LOVE

Loves, Labour's Won

Our "heritage pioneers" at St Mary Mags are an excellent lot. They have been researching local history (and aspects of the history of the church) for the Project website, and to provide us with the raw material for future exhibitions, and some have been trained in the techniques of oral history (by a professional) and have been out interviewing people. These interviews will provide an archive of local experiences, but will also be the material for the recordings in the "whispering walls" in the new building, places where you will be able to learn more about the recent history of Paddington from listening to people tell their stories.

The excellence of the heritage pioneers was demonstrated by the fact that they wanted to do more, and organised a pub quiz (partly to ask questions based on all the things they had found out), which they called the "Keeping It Local" quiz. This was held a couple of weeks ago in the Eagle in Clifton Road. This is the pub that used to be the Robert Browning, but I imagine Eagle was an older name, so I'm all in favour of that reversion to tradition. It seemed generally a fairly traditional pub, but they were happy for us to take over their upstairs room, which was a good venue for a quiz attracting thirty-five people. We organised ourselves in teams, and I was quite positive about the make-up of ours, with a wide range of knowledge and several people who were Paddington born-and-bred. I hadn't bargained with the presence of the Westminster Labour Party team, but when I spotted Cllr Dimoldenberg (who is an even bigger geek than I am) my heart sank. I also shouldn't have had that pint of beer (shockingly unprofessional, but I was trying to look relaxed). They beat us by three points, and maddeningly we knew three answers that we had got wrong through pure silliness and indiscipline. Helen didn't like me doing quizzes because I am such a bad loser, so when we have them, I usually help set the questions; here I enjoyed myself but came away sore. Did I shake Paul Dimoldenberg's hand? I did not.


The Heart of Westminster

The Dean of Westminster, Dr John Hall, is one of the smoothest and most charming clergymen in the Church of England (though Helen once got under his skin by asking too-probing questions after a lecture he gave about religious education). At Westminster Abbey he has assured his place in history by building the "Weston Tower" which gives public access to the Triforium, part of which is now a gallery to display some of the Abbey's treasures, and by commissioning a window from David Hockney, just installed. The Weston Tower is a very clever piece of work (designed by Ptolemy Dean, the telegenic Surveyor of the Fabric) which is tucked into a corner formerly occupied by some loos, and which gives astonishing views along the south elevation of the Abbey as you go up the stairs. I suspect that the conceit of using specimen pieces of every type of stone used in the Abbey's history will look rather twee in the future, but it's a pleasing touch. I can't say I like the metalwork that loops across the glazing; neither Gothic nor contemporary, but kitsch in my view. But, as I say, Dean Hall's place in history is assured (even if he misses out on a coronation).

In my view, though, the most important thing he has done is to raise the profile of religion at the Abbey. It's a building with tremendous history, it's always referred to as the church of kings, and is in fact the burial place of most of our medieval and early modern monarchs, and it also functions as a sort of national pantheon, as the actual burial place of such as Chaucer, Newton and Darwin, and the place of commemoration of countless other national heroes of one sort or another. It also contains, in Henry VII's Lady Chapel, the finest piece of renaissance sculpture in Britain (Henry VII's tomb, by Torrigiani), and indeed the Chapel itself is one of the most important works of art of its period anywhere. So it's not unreasonable that the Abbey should be a tourist attraction, and as a "Royal Peculiar" it doesn't have a very clear spiritual function, beyond ensuring that a daily round of worship is celebrated (not a trivial thing, but an alien concept for the managers who run the contemporary C of E). So, it's never been a great surprise to me that it mostly feels like a tourist attraction in which worship occasionally takes place (it's not alone in that) but Dean Hall has ensured that religion has been brought back. I don't know how much income the Abbey expects to make on a Saturday in October, but they have chosen, under Dean Hall's leadership, to forego one Saturday's receipts by closing the Abbey to tourists and making it a place of pilgrimage for the day. So it was that I went, with an intrepid band of parishioners, to the National Pilgrimage to the Shrine of St Edward the Confessor last Saturday.

Because of course the medieval abbey was intended as a place of pilgrimage, housing the shrine of England's royal saint, (famed for his gentleness and radiating the love of God for the poor) and it functioned in that way until the dissolution of the abbeys. At that point the shrine was destroyed, but the Confessor's royalness trumped his saintliness, and so his remains were not scattered (as happened at most English shrines) but reverently buried. Hence, the reconstructed shrine still contains the saint's remains, and the modern Abbey has created a day of pilgrimage, around the Confessor's main feast day, at which the Abbey is absolutely given over to prayer, devotion and worship. We walked down from Paddington (which took an hour and a half, on a beautiful warm, sunny morning) and arrived in time for one of our number to make herself a pilgrim badge, while others used the facilities. We then took our seats for the Solemn Eucharist, which was very well done (Mozart was sung and the Bishop of Ebbsfleet preached). Afterwards there was the opportunity to visit the shrine, behind the high altar, where incense was burning, candles were being lit, and people were kneeling in prayer in the niches beneath the saint's tomb, and around the space. Genuine devotion. Real prayer. That absolutely brought home why all those kings wanted to be buried as they are, in a ring around the shrine, close to the holy man, so full of the grace of God. After the vergers finished clearing up from the service the east end of the Abbey was opened up again, and you could pray in the chapels. The highlight was praying before the Blessed Sacrament exposed in the Lady Chapel. Actually you could see the Sacrament in the monstrance from a particular spot in the Sacrarium  (the space around the shrine) which I would never have imagined, but was itself a very revealing detail, because the monstrance was placed on the Lady Chapel altar, that lovely little gem under its baldacchino in front of Henry VII's tomb. To be able to pray before our Lord, present in the Blessed Sacrament, in the very centre of power in this land (knowing that beyond the window in front of you was Parliament) was intensely moving and impressive. The silence there was stunning. That experience on its own was enough to justify all the nonsense. Last Saturday, for a few hours at least, the Lord was truly the heart of Westminster.         

THE CONCRETE AND THE CLAY

On the Road

An unpleasant accident on the Harrow Road yesterday evening caused traffic chaos. It was clear that a car had struck a motorcycle.  It didn't look good for the motorcyclist. not least because the police were still doing their investigations two hours later. If it's only a collision they are keen to get the traffic moving again, but here a large section of road (and pavement) was taped off for a long time, and people in high-vis were using cameras and surveying equipment. What I couldn't understand was how the car came to be sideways on  across the road, nowhere near a junction. That appeared to be the place where the accident had happened, as the motorbike was there under his front wing. The natural conclusion is that the car was executing some strange manoeuvre when the collision happened. In truth, it is surprising that there are not more accidents with motorcycles and mopeds, given how rashly many are ridden along the Harrow Road.


Fall of an Emperor

Councillor Robert Davis has resigned. Robert Davis has been a towering figure in Westminster for years, a councillor for more than twenty years, Deputy Leader for years, a past Lord Mayor, but most significantly, Chair of Planning for seventeen years. An enquiry has found that while he did not do anything illegal, he breached the councillors' code of conduct. This was after he referred himself to the City Council's monitoring officer back in February, after the scale of the gifts that he had received from property developers had been revealed. He had registered receiving more than five hundred gifts (or instances of hospitality) over the past three years, some of which were of the scale of trips to five-star resorts. Why were  property developers (admittedly not a rare breed in Westminster) so keen to lavish gifts on Councillor Davis? Perhaps because he had been chair of the Westminster Planning Committee for seventeen years. It should be pointed out that the laws against corruption in local government are very strict, and the enquiry has found that Councillor Davis did not break the law, but the monitoring officer makes reference to the impression that was given being a bad one. Because the sense was that you needed Councillor Davis to look kindly on your planning application if it was at all controversial; he did not sit on every panel, but as chair he chose which applications went to which panel, and the belief was that if he liked your application he would see that it came to his panel. In my (very limited) experience, Councillor Davis seemed a pleasant man, though rather grand, but anyone who made planning applications to Westminster (as we had to for our extension) was conscious of his shadow over the whole process. It did all feel a bit imperial. I see that the current Council  Leader has "welcomed" his decision to resign, "Et tu, Brute?"


Concrete

Wherever you look in London there are tower cranes, and then there are all the building sites (like ours) where it is impossible to install a crane. Building is constant. As well as cranes, the indicator of construction activity round here is the scale of traffic generated by the concrete batching plant at Westbourne Park. It's not an aesthetically pleasing building, but it's inconspicuously placed between the main railway line and the Westway. Now when it was built all its raw materials were clearly transported by rail, so it made perfect sense, next to Paddington New Yard, but now it appears that the cement no longer arrives by rail. You never see freight trains of bulk powder wagons on the sidings. In fact, I'm not sure that there even are any sidings any more; I suspect that they may have got in the way of Crossrail. So now, not only do we have constant movements of concrete mixers taking the concrete to building sites, but we have the "goods inwards" as well, huge lorries carrying cement and aggregate. I constantly grumble to myself about what these exceptionally heavy trucks are doing to our roads (and how dangerous they are to cyclists) but I have to remind myself that you are obliged to have batching plants like this reasonably close to construction sites, because the concrete only has a limited lifespan once it has been mixed, so no-one is going to close one down that is so convenient for the builders' promised land, which is central London.


The Benefits of Landfill

There are, however, no waste disposal sites in central London. Rubbish has to be transported out. Historically, the Dust Wharf on the Grand Union Canal (just behind Paddington Station) was where the street sweepings were collected before being shipped out on barges. There is still a very big waste disposal contractor based right next to the canal at Willesden Junction, though nothing now travels by barge, certainly not from the Dust Wharf. "Dust" is a Victorian euphemism for faecal matter, which used to be piled up, higher than a house, on the Dust Wharf. The "dust" was carried out into Middlesex and spread on the vegetable fields. Yum, yum! Now, of course, we produce mountains of waste that can't be spread on the fields, and that generally goes into landfill sites, which are mostly old worked-out gravel pits, located in a ring around London (it's one of the useful things the Green Belt accommodates). If you think that's not very nice, try visiting a city in the developing world where nothing has been planned, and the housing has encircled the landfill (which wasn't even in a pit to start with, and so has become a mountain). The landfill sites are at places like Thurrock (where the new Thames tunnel will start) and Sipson, where the third Heathrow runway may eventually be built. A few years ago the government imposed a landfill tax to discourage the use of these sites, and the resulting money is meant to be applied to projects of public benefit. So, we have been after it for years. When we were first planning the project landfill money seemed like a good bet, but you couldn't apply that early, and by the time we were at the right stage, the rules had changed. Finally, we have managed to qualify for some, and the diligence of our fundraisers has been rewarded. So, benefits can come from landfill.      

HIGH CULTURE

Seeing Stars

Do you ever see people on the street who resemble the famous? A man looking exactly like David Wagner, the manager of Huddersfield Town FC has just walked past my office window, twice. It seems unlikely to be him, as presumably he should be supervising training somewhere in West Yorkshire, although I did once see the team bus of FC L'Orient on the Edgware Road. The thing was that he was dressed convincingly, as you would expect a football coach to dress. Actually in central London you do genuinely see public figures quite often; it was no surprise to pass Dominic Grieve MP at Westminster Tube Station a couple of weeks ago.  Richard E Grant nearly ran over my mother-in-law while riding his bike across Portobello Road (obviously a few years ago). I could go on.


Back in the UK

I returned from France to a Confirmation Service two days later. Bad planning (there were extenuating circumstances too tedious to go into). I had realised that we had some young people who had been admitted to Communion years ago, but who were now approaching university age, and so should be offered the chance of Confirmation, making an adult commitment now that they are beginning adulthood. So I wanted them confirmed before the autumn term. I was making arrangements when there was no Bishop of London, (and experience suggests that the diocesan bishop is inordinately busy and can never come when you want) and so I approached the Bishop of Fulham, who happens to be an old friend (we were neighbours in Reading). Bishop Jonathan was happy to do it, and informed the new Bishop of London, when she arrived, and she was happy, so that was all fine. I know that some of my neighbours thought I was making a political point by using Bishop Jonathan, but it was really a matter of convenience. I gather that the Bishop of London is intending to use Bishop Jonathan rather more in this way.

Of course I fretted and worried about the service beforehand, but it went well. To be fair, worship at St Peter's is fairly simple and relaxed, so there's not so much scope for things to go amiss. Still we were late starting, as we were waiting for one of the confirmation candidates (and family) to arrive. It's always educative for bishops to encounter rough sleepers as they come into church, and we ticked that box as well. There was a good lunch afterwards, and we were joined by two or three of the St Peter's extended family who use our services but don't make it to worship. Unfortunately the Christian Aid box, containing donations towards my sponsorship, disappeared during lunch, which was a pity. Such is life. Fortunately I had emptied it before church, so there wasn't much in there.


Back to Normal

On my first Monday morning back I had four callers wanting help, some known to me, some new. It doesn't help one to greet everyone with grace and generosity when one is trying to do something fairly complicated on the computer and one is interrupted four times.   

I went to the Police ward panel meeting and learnt about an incident on Westbourne Green that had passed me by. Apparently, about a week before Carnival, one evening when the young men were all hard at work on the gym equipment, an altercation occurred and a shot was fired, which was heard by residents of Gaydon House, who also saw the gym bunnies scattering to the four winds. Apparently it was some sort of spat over drugs. It attracted a lot of immediate police attention, but they were playing it down by the time of the panel meeting. It's all very well being cool and not panicky about these things, but I have a nasty suspicion that the use of guns is beginning to become normalized, and to be regarded as routine, which seems like a step towards America. That worries me.

Apparently the Carnival went off well. People report it as being well-managed and enjoyable. The figure of nearly 300 arrests makes for easy headlines, but compares well to something like the Reading Festival, which involves far fewer people. Bizarrely, there were a couple having breakfast alongside us in the Croydon Premier Inn on Bank Holiday Monday who were heading for the Carnival (former West Londoners, now living in the Midlands).


Literary Legends

Thanks to the generosity of one of the organisers I was invited to a remarkable event; Joan Bakewell in conversation with Margaret Drabble, at The Avenues Youth Club (up in Queen's Park, just off the Harrow Road, next to the Mozart Estate). The Avenues has some well-connected supporters who were able to organise this fundraiser for them. I'm not sure what the actual clients of the youth club made of having a room full of grey-haired folk listening to two elderly ladies talking about novels and Newnham, but actually it was really interesting, because they were bearing witness to the extraordinary changes in women's lives in their lifetime. I would observe that Joan Bakewell (Baroness Bakewell DBE) has remarkable charisma, even at 85. The Avenues now has to fundraise for all its work, as Westminster City Council simply abolished all its spending on youth work. In what universe does that make sense?  

HENRY IN FRANCE, PART 2

THE VASTY FIELDS OF FRANCE

Tuesday 28th

On arrival in Dieppe I diverted us into town to get Euros from an ATM, which gave Ian the opportunity to enjoy the swing bridge in action, but also confused us about the Avenue Verte route. Still, we found it in the end, and at Arques-la-Bataille (the Bataille in question being 1944, when they were liberated by "Les Canadiens") joined the marvellous cycle path on an old railway track bed, which was level, well-surfaced, and wide, and took us all the way to Forges-les-Eaux, our evening destination, 55km from Dieppe. On the way we passed a terrific chateau at Mesnieres, but mostly it was just quiet Normandy countryside, along the valley of the Bethune. We met the young girl with huge panniers on the way, and learnt that she was heading for Gournay-en-Bray, which was another 27km further than us, a distance that seemed ambitious, particularly since she wasn’t going much faster than we were (but she had to get to Paris sooner than us). Around Dieppe the path was busy with pedestrians as well as cyclists, but quiet out in the country, just the occasional family picking blackberries. At Forges-les-Eaux, a rather unglamorous spa town, we found the Logis Restaurant-Hotel La Paix sooner than we expected, and found a family of British cyclists also staying there, who were just behind us on the road. We hadn’t spotted them on the boat, as their bikes had been on a car, which was their support vehicle (and was waiting for them when we arrived). They were taking an extra day to get to Paris, and going via Versailles. It turned out that the father was a runner, and he and Ian had been in the same race at one time. He had, however, run from London to Paris a few years ago, essentially seven marathons in seven days, which even Ian agrees is madness.

The bikes were nicely accommodated in a dry barn, with a door that locked, and we and the monoglot “patron” seemed to understand each other adequately. The restaurant was what you might call provincial in appearance, but the food was very sound. I had guinea fowl stuffed with pistachios, and a meringue glacee. And lots of bread. And a coke. And we shared a bottle of local cider. There was a church across the garden with a chiming clock, but I don’t remember hearing it in the night. The thunder, on the other hand, did wake me.

Wednesday 29^th

The weather forecast had always been bad for this day, and it was our longest distance to travel, so I was apprehensive. It was still raining when we got up, but not much. A decent French breakfast, with the facility to make Earl Grey, so I was happy. When I went out and checked the weather after breakfast it was barely drizzling, and felt quite mild, so I packed my jacket in the pannier. Mistake. We bought chocolate and apples in the square to eat on the way, but by the time we reached the open road it was tipping with rain and feeling quite cold. We got soaked quite quickly and I thought at that point that it wasn’t worth putting a jacket on over a wet jersey, but I realised eventually I was wrong. When we got to Gournay-en-Bray, 27km of rolling countryside  further on, I was shivering uncontrollably, and so adopted jacket, full gloves and waterproof cap (under helmet). It was grey, cold and miserable, and neither of us could see properly because of water on our glasses. The route book had been in danger of disintegrating each time we consulted it; fortunately the signs kept on appearing. At Gournay we met the family again (having been inexplicably passed twice by their support car on the way) but then they went off a slightly different way. We got spectacularly lost in Gournay town centre in the rain, and faffed about grumpily. I had my first scare when, on a cycle-only path, I didn’t spot a van about to cross it at right angles on a lane, and then cycled over a chain which was meant to stop that happening. Anyway, no harm done.

After Gournay-en-Bray, we were in hillier country. St Germer-de-Fly had a lovely old abbey, with a gorgeous Romanesque apse, and a Perpendicular chapel tacked on to the end of that, all very picturesque (but it was still raining). I had to remove a glove to Instagram. We then met the valley of the Epte, which would have been fine had we stayed in it, but instead we climbed straight out, a long steady slog, which was the first real hill since England. In pleasant weather it would have been an agreeable challenge, but when you could feel the water pooling in your shoes it was less fun. Still, we managed, and were rewarded with clearing skies and some long views. We paused in a photogenic village and I was alarmed to find I wasn't getting a picture when I tried to Instagram, but then discovered that it was simply that the lens on the back of the phone was covered in rainwater. One spectacular descent, and then a drag into Gisors, which starts out unpromisingly (we thought it looked like a suburb of Plymouth) but turns out to be very charming. It was the border town between Normandy and France (a thousand years ago), and so has a big castle, with a very good example of motte and bailey form. Also a beautiful view of the decorative church of Ss Gervase and Protase, over the rooftops. We walked around the castle bailey and ate our apples. The rain had stopped. 

The next section was largely on ex-railway path, but away from villages. It all felt quite remote, and the path was full of crud washed down by the rain. It was there, somewhere near St-Clair-sur-l’Epte, that I had my puncture. Rear wheel, curses. Fortunately, Ian is quite good at these things, and I had brought spare tubes, so he simply changed the tube. Obviously it took a while, though. Blessedly the weather was pleasant by this stage. At Bray-et-Lu we left the path and took to the very quiet road for the run into Magny-en-Vexin, which swung along the side of a little valley in lovely late-afternoon sunshine. Again, finding our B&B turned out to be quite simple; it’s not a big town. Today’s ride was 100km, and we rode all day. It was about 6pm when we got there. 

Our host was very charming, (he'd texted details of how to get in, but I hadn't actually checked my phone) and welcomed us effusively. It was an eighteenth-century townhouse opening onto the pavement and had a little bike rack in the stairwell. The room was lovely. We had a sofa-bed and a double, but were too weary to bother with the sofa-bed. Instagrammed myself looking incoherent and Ian totally crashed out on the bed. We had a little walk around the stunningly attractive and unspoiled town. The church was open, and had an outstanding stone vaulted roof. We left a prayer for Helen at the shrine of Our Lady. Our host said there were several places to eat, but on a Wednesday we could only find one open, but fortunately this was the exceptional O’Billot. I cannot remember a better meal. Asparagus with jamon serrano and Parmesan; cote de veau; deconstructed lemon tart with orange sorbet. A bottle of chilled Cabardes rose. This was not provincial! This was highly sophisticated, and quite unexpected. Also quite reasonably priced. We walked back through the silent town to the B&B very satisfied. The only drawback to our room was that you heard lorries rattling over the cobbles every so often.

Thursday 30^th

By this stage I had got used to a night full of dreams and feeling I hadn’t slept soundly, but I seemed rested. My legs were holding up all right as well. We had exquisite croissants (and marmalade) with Earl Grey for breakfast (and excellent bread and cheese). We enjoyed totally empty country roads for the first few km back onto the Avenue Verte at the amusingly named Wy-dit-Joli-Village (actually one of the less jolie villages we had passed through), but it was there that Ian got a puncture (front wheel). He had brought one spare tube, and changed it out. Other cyclists whooshed past, unselfconscious in full team lycra. With that it took us a couple of hours to do the 23km to Cergy, although there was a stiff climb on the way. Cergy is at the end of the suburban rail network, sitting in a relationship to Paris like Watford to London, so we felt pleased to have got there. After that, though, it became rather soul-destroying, as we passed a sign saying 30km to the centre of Paris, cycled for an hour and came upon another sign that said 30km to the centre of Paris (a few miles further on we found one that said 31km to Paris, but by this time we were past caring). In fact, it was further by the Avenue Verte, about another 57km in fact (from that first sign in Cergy).  We then added to that by making a massive error and wasting an hour’s riding. The route requires you to cross the Seine five times (as well as the Oise once, just before the confluence at Conflans) and we miscounted, and so got very confused.

We met our first huddled migrants at Conflans, and then a traveller encampment right on the route heading for St-Germain-en-Laye. Crossing the dark forest of St Germain on deserted forest tracks we felt very isolated, but when we came out onto a road there was a working girl, how very French! From St Germain the route took us through Maisons-Laffitte (saw no racehorses) and then round a great meander of the river. We cut off another meander by a shortcut instructed by the book (but not signposted) through Nanterre and Puteaux (twinned with Hackney!) it was there, coming over a hill, that we first caught sight of the Eiffel Tower and actually believed we would get there. Then it was along the river again, across again, and through the Bois de Boulogne to the Port de la Muette, and then down a cycle lane in the middle of Avenue Henri Martin and Avenue Georges Mandel to the Trocadero, where we entered traffic. It was on the approach to the Pont d’Iena, which actually leads to the Eiffel Tower, that Ian led me through an amber light, causing me to curse loudly and work harder than I had intended at that moment.

So, photos at the Eiffel Tower (and chocolate). Then back on the bikes to cycle to our hotel beside the Gare St-Lazare, taking in a hundred yards of the Champs-Elysees, just so I can say I’ve done it. The hotel receptionist was duly impressed (actually he looked rather surprised) and put the bikes in a stairwell (I nearly lost my bottles at this point, taking them off and putting them down, but he collected them up and they were waiting for me behind the desk). The Hotel Opera Deauville was a bit tatty, but did the job supremely well. Reception, friendly. Beds, comfortable. Shower, hot. Restaurant, across the road. Station, across the road. What more do you need?  We collected tickets from the station and quietly consumed boeuf bourguignon and Pelforth beer. We didn’t have the energy to celebrate wildly, and we needed to have our wits about us for the return journey in the morning. In any case, I was a bit weepy, and had been for much of the day, thinking of Helen, for whom we were doing all this, and who would have been enchanted by the idea of riding into Paris, like the Tour de France peloton.

Friday 31^st

The journey home all went to (Ian's) plan. 9am train from Gare St-Lazare. Change at Rouen (carry bikes over stairs). Cycle from Dieppe station to 12.45 ferry. Another flat crossing, but on a boat full of families. Lunch on ferry (dodgy curry, eaten with enthusiasm). Slow exit from Newhaven port, alongside the grizzled old gent on the Galaxy, who turned out to live in Brighton and longed to get his wife to cycle in France with him. Train from Newhaven, change at Lewes (more stairs). Cycle home from Victoria, arriving back about 7pm. Ravenously hungry, and liable to fall asleep at any moment, but otherwise unharmed!

  

HENRY IN FRANCE, PART 1

ENGLISH MERCURIES

Sunday 26^th

After church, and a rehearsal for the following Sunday’s Confirmation Service, Ian and I had a sandwich and packed our panniers (again). I had told people that we would leave at 4pm, and a small delegation appeared then to see us off, but it was raining, so we waited a while and invited them indoors, as Ian consulted the Met Office rain radar and pronounced confidently that if we delayed our departure a little while the worst would have passed over. At least the persistence of the rain persuaded me to take a proper jacket and gloves, for which I would later be very grateful. It was still raining when we left at about 5pm. Photos were taken, and our supporters waved us off, as we wobbled out of Rowington Close under the unaccustomed burden of full panniers.

We followed a route provided by the TfL website for our journey to Croydon, the only drawback being that it’s designed to be used as an app on the phone, and you can’t simply print out the instructions. Therefore, I had copied the instructions by hand, and referred to a map, adding in useful notes of my own. It got us to Croydon very well, with only a small glitch in Mitcham, but in Croydon it all got a bit complicated. We were saved, though, by the excellent “Legible London” signs, which enabled us to find the way back onto TfL’s route. 

It was cool, and rainy, and the first problem had come on Gloucester Road, when Ian found his rack shifting under the weight of his panniers. He adjusted it and continued. We crossed Battersea Bridge, and then headed past Clapham Junction and Wandsworth Common, through Tooting and Colliers Wood, and then on across Mitcham Common (Ian was surprised at such a large expanse of green in Saaf London) and onwards to Croydon. As we were coming into Croydon I suddenly realised Ian was no longer behind me, so I stopped at the next junction. I waited, and then wheeled the bike back. I found him struggling with his rack and swearing. He asked me whether I had any tools; I replied that I had packed two puncture repair kits, but had forgotten to put in any other tools. I wasn’t bothered, knowing that he had some.  It turned out that tools were not the issue. I had pointed out some weeks ago that he needed to get a rack fitted to his bike (that’s what I did; thanks, Evans) but it seems he bought a rack and fitted it himself; at the last minute. He was frustrated that it didn’t seem to fit properly, and said that he had “lashed it up”. On inspection, what he had lashed it up with were those little wire ties that you use to close freezer bags. Funnily enough they hadn’t borne the weight of full panniers. His proposed solution was cable ties, which made sense to me, so we walked to a general store that I had just passed to ask there, but had no luck. Ian carries a certain amount of suppressed rage, and it came out quite expressively at this point after he left the shop. There were some dangling straps on his panniers whose function was unclear, and he tore those off in fury, cursing loudly enough that the shopkeeper came out to check on us. It turned out that the destroyed straps involved rather annoying metal hooks which, when they weren’t catching in your spokes or derailleur, could be bent into shape to serve as a temporary solution to the problem. So that’s what he did. It was good enough to see us through to the Premier Inn, Purley Way.

The nice person behind the desk at the Premier Inn had a ground floor room ready for us, as requested (by Gloria, who paid for it, thanks), and was happy for us to wheel our bikes in there. Next door was Wickes, and we were confident cable ties could be had there in the morning. So we went to dinner at TGI Fridays, with reasonable equanimity. Solid food (full of fat and sugar), fruit smoothies. I was still anxious, though. Slept well.

Monday 27^th

A cooked breakfast at the Premier Inn (thanks again, Gloria) set us up. Amazingly, Wickes was open at 9am on a bank holiday, so Ian was happy, and fixed the rack quite securely (if not wholly satisfactorily) with cable ties. The Premier Inn is on the site of Croydon Aerodrome, Chamberlain’s “piece of paper” and all that, which somehow seemed appropriate. Ian was keen to get on, and was not ready to retrace our steps when I made a navigating error at Coulsdon South, so we ended up toiling uphill along the Brighton Road for 3km, which wasn’t pleasant. Still, we got off, and escaped into the steep, gravelly back lanes, which then took us south. We were mostly following the Avenue Verte, the signposted cycle route from London to Paris, but we were taking a diversion to avoid Redhill and Horley, which was described in the book but not signposted. In fact, this worked really well, but we discovered how bad Surrey roads are, and were ambushed by a particularly vicious hill near Bletchingley which had us both fearing for our cardiac health. I had always told people that the first full day was going to be the hardest in terms of hills, and I was not wrong.

The official Avenue Verte goes in a great eastwards loop via East Grinstead and Tunbridge Wells to avoid serious hills and use off-road tracks, but we had decided to go a much more direct way, on quiet roads, and observing contour lines carefully, so from Crawley Down we went south to Turners Hill (where we took a photo in the drizzle, beside a nice old signpost) and then past Horsted Keynes (where we could hear the Bluebell Line) and through a very pretty place called Fletching, to Piltdown, where another picture was taken. A nice woman came and offered to take a photo of both of us, explaining that Instagram wouldn’t work because there was no coverage there! We crossed the river Ouse, and felt we were getting somewhere (as that’s what flows into Newhaven Harbour) and so felt able to waste an hour at the “Lavender Line”, a preserved railway that Ian had never visited, at Isfield. I caught up with Instagram duties while he played trains. It was a pleasant afternoon by now. From there on into Lewes was very pleasant riding, with a decent cycle route from Ringmer into Lewes town centre. In Lewes the Brewer’s Arms provided a restorative pint and a pleasing pulled pork and cider pie. We cycled the last 6km to the South Downs Youth Hostel at Southease feeling more relaxed (though apprehensive of the enormous shoulder of the Downs that kept on threatening to take the road upwards). We did not have to climb a hill; the Youth Hostel is not far from the river. We had a room for two (bunks) which was better than I was expecting. I didn’t sleep terribly well. Hard bed, but also brain not switching off. It turned out that this would happen throughout the trip.

Tuesday 28^th

Cycled the 5km into Newhaven along the unpleasant A26, but there is no real option. We were firmly told at the port office that we were not foot passengers, but vehicles. Fair enough. Amusingly one each of our panniers were searched at the port; the Border Force officials welcomed us to the “Newhaven experience”. The boat was quiet, and we were directed on quite early. There was a grizzled old gent on an old steel-frame Galaxy who seemed to be a regular, and a young girl with huge panniers, as well as motorcyclists, with whom we were penned. On board we filled our time with a cooked breakfast (it would have been rude not to). The Channel was flat calm, and it was a beautiful day.

WATCHING THE DETECTIVES

Police Activity

On Monday afternoon it became clear that there had been an incident at the west end of Shirland Road, near the children’s playground. I was in the Office when police cars and vans started charging in that direction, and the police helicopter hovered overhead for an hour and a half. I had a call to make in that direction, and tried to cycle that way but was thwarted by incident tape closing the road. As I cycled back along the Harrow Road it appeared that someone was being arrested in Portnall Road, but of course they might not have been connected. It’s not unusual for the Police to visit known troublemakers before Carnival, but that was clearly not what was happening here. It seemed a lot more reactive. Apparently, I later learnt, a person on a motorbike shot at a white car which hit a tree on Kennet Road, and the gunman then took off into the adjacent special school. No-one hurt, apparently. The word is that this was in retaliation for an attack with a hammer in the vicinity of the playground on Shirland Road. So there were two incidents, but connected. A drug house was also mentioned. All perfectly normal for a Monday afternoon in August. It only got onto the BBC London news on Wednesday, as one of a series of five incidents involving guns in the past three days.

Register Office

Now, the Westminster Register Office used to be in what the City Council called “Westminster Council House”, on Marylebone Road, the former Marylebone Town Hall, a fine neoclassical building by Sir Edwin Cooper, begun in 1914 and not completed until 1921, and adjoining his Marylebone Public Library of 1939, but a few years ago the City Council tired of the upkeep of these distinguished buildings, and so disposed of the library to a business school. The Old Town Hall has been in the hands of the builders for four years, and I gather that it has now been refurbished, but in the interim, the Register Office moved out to Harrow Road, to a set of council offices near the (former) police station, which started life as the Paddington Board of Guardians offices, and which is in St Peter’s Parish. It’s not a bad building (Edwardian) but can’t have been as photogenic as the Old Town Hall, not least because some horrid automatic doors had been installed during its time as the Council’s “one stop shop”. As Anglican clergy are ex-officio registrars we are required to submit quarterly returns to our district register office of marriages conducted in our parishes, and it gave me great pleasure to cycle up to the office and hand in my nil-return forms in person. However, I’ve just had a nasty shock; an email from the Registrar to the effect that she hasn’t received my last two sets of returns. I may be a bit flaky about these things, but I am quite clear that I remember taking them to the office and handing them in at the front desk, in person, in an envelope addressed to the Registrar. A mystery.   

Tapering

I am tapering my training; that’s the correct phrase, I believe. My charity cycle ride to Paris (with my brother-in-law) is next week, and one is supposed to ease off one’s training in the final week. The trouble is, of course, that I am so idle that I am naturally terrified that I have simply not done enough, and so tapering off seems counter-intuitive. Still, there comes a point, as with exams, when rationally you know that you can do no more. I was unable to ride round the Park on Monday anyway, as the east side was closed. I had seen the advance notices and wondered why, but then on Sunday evening it became apparent, as a string of horse-drawn vehicles (minus horses) were parked outside Cumberland Terrace, and obvious film security men were hanging around. On Tuesday it became clear that they had put tan (or something) down on the road there, as the road was still coloured (and men were jetting down the entrance to Cumberland Terrace) and there was a pungent smell of dung. I wonder what period marvel it was?

The ride is for Christian Aid, in memory of Helen, and you can find details on the “A Light in this World” section of their website.

AUGUST DESPATCHES

I am Reconnected

The bit that I hadn't appreciated about the gas board was that it was still going to require two separate people to visit. One came on the Wednesday morning, as advertised, so off went my gas, but then when he left he told me that he had booked the next man to purge and relight, and that he should be along shortly. That was at lunchtime. He finally came at 8.15pm, and of course I had been waiting at home throughout the intervening time, frustrated at not being able to go out and do things. Still, it happened. I got my gas back. Everything is working, and it was our contractors' fault in the first place, so I mustn't moan.


Eviction

"Celebrity Big Brother" is back this week, and there "eviction" is a big part of the fun. It's rather less fun in real life. A housing association tenant has come in with a letter telling her she is to be evicted, or rather that her housing association are going to go to court to obtain possession of her flat. Since she is functionally illiterate this is all a bit of a problem for her, but someone has told her what it means. She asks for my help. Mostly she just wants me to go to court with her, which of course I can't promise without knowing when it will be; there is a date on the letter which she has assumed is the court date, but that's only a date before which proceedings cannot start. My view is, therefore, that this is an invitation to engage with the housing association before that date, and so that's what I try to do for her. But of course it's not that easy. They simply don't answer the phone. I need to have her here when I phone, because otherwise they won't speak to me anyway (which is not unreasonable) but she won't sit still for long. There's also a problem with her gas, and I try to talk to the housing association's gas contractor, but they have to refer it back to the housing association. The same happens with the gas supplier. Nothing comes from the housing association. I emailed the housing manager a week ago, but have had no response. Now I can understand that they are busy. I can even understand that they might want to get shot of this particular tenant, but this is not reasonable. She is making an attempt to talk to them, but they evade talking to her. Other people tell me this is entirely par for the course from this particular housing association.


New Season

So, football is back, after seemingly no break. I was well impressed with Manchester City's new change strip, in dull navy with a widely-spaced pinstripe in sky blue and yellow fluoro, worn with navy shorts and yellow fluoro socks. I also liked Chelsea's simple buttercup yellow with blue socks. But what was going on with West Ham? That appeared to be all off-white, which is not a good look. It's apparently their third kit, and has faint impressions of claret and blue on shoulders and hips, which are invisible on my television. I like Watford's new kit, of black and yellow stripes, with a simple black collar, and no fussiness, but their away kit is deeply terrible, in an implausible shade of green, with lime green details; the shirt is plain, but with one of those lamentable "shadow" patterns, checks, but not just simple checks, but stripey checks. I should also register my distaste for Manchester United's red-fading-to-black affair; that's just a bad design. It always looks undignified (see Barcelona's yellow and orange affair a few years ago) and it's also incoherent. Barcelon's yellow to orange at least makes sense, as does Team Movistar's horrid current cycling jersey, mid blue to navy, but red doesn't turn into black as you get darker, there's an awful lot of maroon in between.    


Nature Red in Tooth and Claw

Today I cycled past a herring gull killing a pigeon. That's not supposed to happen. The gull is a scavenger, so it's supposed to wait until things are dead. This was happening surrounded by a crowd of pigeons, who seemed curiously unconcerned. All in all a very unsettling sight.


Training

I am trying to cycle more than usual, as I get closer to the date of the great ride. My brother-in-law and I are cycling to Paris, in memory of Helen and to benefit Christian Aid Education, so I'm supposed to be training. The extreme heat did rather slow down my progress, but at least I'm doing more now.

VEHICULAR ACCESS

'Twas On A Monday Morning...

Or rather it wasn't. Cadent didn't come back to fill the hole in my garage floor, so our groundworkers did it, which was fair enough since it was them who'd cut through my gas supply in the first place. The concrete dried nice and quickly in the heat. But then our Site Manager told me that Cadent were coming back anyway because they needed to replace the section of main from which my supply branches off, where the original damage took place, so could I give them access to my garage on Monday for them to do it? Of course. That suited me because I was taking my good bike in for a service, so I wouldn't have to lock it up somewhere. So, yesterday morning I went out to bring the car out of the garage, and saw a Cadent van waiting in the road, but before I could do anything our Site Manager told me that the Cadent man had just told him that he was going away again, but would be back again this morning at 8.30, "Without fail". You can guess what comes next.

Apparently he's off sick, and they're short-staffed because of the holidays, and as our Site Manager says, someone else is shouting louder than we are. So tomorrow morning I shall move the car and the bikes again, hope triumphing over experience.


Yellow Lines

Yesterday afternoon I narrowly avoided being killed, and it would have been the fault of delivery mopeds parked on a yellow line. This is what delivery riders and minicab drivers seem unable to comprehend; that yellow lines are about safety, and if you park on them you are putting other people at risk. So, I was heading north on Great Western Road, and there was the usual queue of traffic back from the Prince of Wales traffic lights, so I (on my bike) came inside the queue to get further up the road. Because of the curve in the road I couldn't see that there were two delivery mopeds parked on the yellow line outside a takeaway shop a few yards back from the junction, so I came up behind them, with a bus stationary alongside. I went to go past, which would have been perfectly possible had the queue remained stationary, but as I began the manoeuvre the lights changed, and the bus began to move, its angle shutting the gap. Fortunately I was able to stop, and the next bus in the line let me out. Not a very close shave, but not pleasant. I don't suppose the first bus driver ever saw me.

Meanwhile, on the east side of Regent's Park, the early evening sees a significant number of black people carriers parked on the double yellow lines on the Outer Circle. It seems to happen every day at the moment, and sometimes there's the odd 4x4 or black Mercedes as well. It's on the stretch between the Mosque and the Business School, but it doesn't seem to be anything to do with either. The stupid thing is that it usually happens when there are plenty of legitimate parking bays available a few yards further on. I counted seven vehicles on the double yellow lines at the same time the other evening. The worst offenders park on the end of the line of parking bays just south of the junction by the Mosque (one day recently the first in line was actually a Royal Parks vehicle) back towards the traffic island at the junction, and load and unload there. In fact, the other evening I saw a people carrier double parked just there, alongside another vehicle on the double yellow lines. Incredible. What does this tell us? That Westminster never send Civil Enforcement Officers there in the evening or at weekends (if ever), and that some apparently "professional" drivers hold parking regulations in contempt. The attitude that the rules don't apply to you, because you're only waiting for a while, not actually parked, or that you've got your job to do, is just not good enough. Sorry!  


Sign of the Times

I went out for a ride in the East Anglian countryside with a friend last week. When I was a boy in that part of the world you would occasionally see in the gutter at the side of the road a sugar beet or a turnip that had fallen off a trailer. Last week, as I cycled along, in the gutter I saw a pink grapefruit. Thus has England changed.

THE GASMAN CAME TO CALL

It All Makes Work For The Working Man To Do...

My gas connection was re-established on Saturday, some forty-eight hours after it had been cut off. Initially three van loads of men from Cadent came, who made everything safe. Then, on Friday another two men came and dug a big hole in my garage floor, removed the meter, piled up rubble where the meter used to be, and failed to push a plastic pipe through the old metal pipe. Another man (called Gary) then came at teatime, who told me that he was an emergency crew, and so if he was to be notified of someone of higher priority than me, then he would have to leave my job and go to that one. I went out, expecting the worst. In fact, he called me later on to say that he had succeeded in reconnecting the pipework, and had booked the industrial/commercial team to come and purge and reconnect my meter between 8am and 10am on Saturday. I should say that each gas man looked at my meter and said, "Why've you got such a big meter? That's an industrial one, that is. You haven't got it heating a jacuzzi in the back garden, have you?" or variations on that theme. So, I got up for 8am on my day off. At 10am Gary phoned to ask how it was going. "They're not here!" I said. So he rang off, to chase them up. Meanwhile the site manager of our contractors was also chasing. The gas man who constituted the industrial/commercial team arrived at noon, complaining about the traffic; no-one had warned him about the road closures for RideLondon, the cycling festival. I didn't tell him that I'd have been doing that if I hadn't been waiting around for him. He grumbled about the rubble piled up where the meter should be, but he got everything sorted quite quickly, and was a perfectly pleasant man. He said another Cadent crew (perhaps one of the original ones) would be here on Monday to fill in the hole in my garage (and remove rubble). It is now Monday and there is no sign of them. Our own site manager is inclined to get our groundworkers to get on and do the work, which seems sensible. 


Retail Blight

I've just realised what a dismal place the crossroads on which St Peter's stands has become. There is a row of seven shops under the flats on the north side of Elgin Avenue, which have been gradually closing; now every single one is empty. The Squirrel pub, on the south side, has just closed down. This is what used to be the Skiddaw, where Francis Thompson sat by the fire in the 1890s. Opposite that on Chippenham Road, the shop which replaced the dodgy cafe (where allegedly you used to be able to buy drugs) seems also to have shut. The current incarnation of the Indian restaurant seems to be okay, but they must have spent a lot on their refurbishment, and trade seems quiet, so perhaps I should go there more often. Meanwhile only William Hill seems unaffected. When I was looking at this job, eleven years ago, this was described as a busy street corner; no longer.


A Glorious Tour

It is a source of deep joy to me that Geraint Thomas ("G" as he is universally known) has won the Tour de France. I confess I cried when he won on La Rosiere, and found myself in floods of tears when his victory became assured this weekend. The thing is that Helen and I had followed his career closely since 2007, when we had seen him in his first Tour de France. That was the year of the London Grand Depart, and we went down to the Park to stand by the bridge over the Serpentine to watch the Prologue Time Trial. As usual with Helen, we were there in very good time, and so were in place to see the riders taking their practice laps, among them the skinny young Welshman in the red and yellow jersey of Barloworld. We were delighted to see G stop on our corner; he had spotted some friends in the crowd, and simply came across to chat to them. His naturalness (and simple ordinariness) was obvious then, and charmed us. Helen always made a big thing of her Welshness (she had a Welsh grandfather, so she was as Welsh as most of their football team) and so was particularly fond of G, and was especially delighted when he won the Commonwealth Games road race in Glasgow in Welsh colours. Her joy at his triumph would have been tremendous. As I had stood with my friends beside the road to La Rosiere ten days ago, one of the things thrown from the publicity caravan was a folded cardboard banner with attached marker, for you to write your message of support; I was given this task. Auriel said, "You're going to put 'Go on Froomey' aren't you?" but I wasn't sure. We knew G could be in the lead by the end of the stage, so I was in two minds. Eventually I wrote "Go on G", as big as I could, so that was the banner Rob waved in front of them as they toiled up our hairpins. Right decision. It was what Helen would have wanted.

DIGGING A HOLE

They're Digging a Hole

I returned from Provence and found that the contractors were beginning to dig the trench for the new drainage along the south side of the church. This is very good news, because the church has suffered so much damage from water ingress over the years, and this should improve that immeasurably. I yield to no-one in my admiration of G.E.Street, a great British architect (not merely a great Victorian architect) but I'm afraid he had a weakness when it came to rainwater disposal; he clearly didn't have anyone doing the calculations as to the volume of water he was dealing with, and he tried to be too clever by half. There are frankly too few downpipes for the vast expanse of roof we have, but of course medieval gothic buildings tended to have spouts to take water off  high roofs (often disguised as gargoyles) which was a solution that was not acceptable a hundred and fifty years ago, let alone today. Downpipes are not very aesthetic, so I guess he used as few as he could get away with. He also tried to dispose of all our rainwater on the south side, because it's downhill from the north side, which is logical, but complicates matters enormously.

On the north side of the church the downpipes did not issue into drains in the pavement, as you might expect, but went straight down into the ground. They then came through the walls of the undercroft, running down the inside wall, for the water to be collected in one drain, which ran under the floor of the undercroft and out to the mains drain in the road on the south side. As you can imagine, this gave immense scope for blockages that were impossible to clear, not to mention invasion by tree-roots as it turned out. It also appeared that the drain had collapsed on the south side, so whatever water was actually getting through (not much, probably) was just being deposited into the south wall of the church. So five years ago we dug a new land drain along the north wall, in a gravel-filled trench, and sent the rainwater into that, connecting with the mains on the south side by going round the east end of the church, thanks to the natural slope in the ground. That worked very well, except that we recently discovered that the contractors had filled the old underground pipes with cement, but not very effectively, and so those pipes were neatly conducting ground water into the undercroft brickwork (the superior option of removing the pipes was never really feasible, since they go at least three metres down vertically, and then at an angle into the wall). So we had to sort that out from the inside, removing as much pipe as possible, putting waterproof material in, and then replacing brickwork. It has to be said that this brickwork (by Cliveden Conservation) is so good you'd never know it was new. So the north side has been sorted out.

On the south side, however, we had commissioned a series of drain surveys over the years, which had never produced much enlightenment. Here's a hint: drain surveys aren't worth the DVD they come on. Now we have found quite conclusively that the connections to the mains drainage on the south side have been blocked with cement at some time. Why? As our downpipes on the south side also go underground, theoretically to connect with the mains via quite short underground pipes, this means that all our rainwater from the south side has simply been deposited in the earth immediately adjacent to the south wall. It is no surprise that the south wall of the undercroft (the Comper Chapel) has always been very wet. So now we're remedying that, with a new drain run down the road, that can run into an existing connection that isn't blocked up. It also gives somewhere for the drainage from various new basins that we are introducing into the building to go (though some, like my new sacristy, will need pumps).

So, it's good news that they are digging. I was less pleased to see Cadent vans outside my house yesterday, because Cadent are the gas board. It turns out that while digging their drain trench our contractors cut through the gas supply to my house. So yesterday my gas was cut off. Today, Cadent are working to restore my supply (with the customary bright yellow plastic piping, instead of old metal pipes). At best, this involves them excavating the concrete floor of my garage, at worst, a trench across the road and across my (concrete) yard, which will be more work than can be done today. I left the house when the pneumatic drill started. We shall see. Prayers are being offered.

Fortunately, hot water is not a big issue at the moment, and salad is quite attractive. 

FLAMING JUNE AND JULY

Festival News

The Westbourne Festival was a splendid success. I was mostly preoccupied with conducting a public consultation about tree planting (the things one gets roped into!) but it seemed a genuinely enjoyable afternoon for everyone. The attendance picked up after England's match against Panama finished, and there must have been over a thousand people there at one time or another. I wore my blazer, which always gets comments (it now has moth damage and cannot be buttoned, but it is 36 years old) but this year I felt it inappropriate to accessorize it with a Panama hat, and so had to wear the boater. I hope I contributed to the gaiety of proceedings. At least the Westbourne Forum stall was well away from the stage, so we could actually talk to people, which hasn't always been the case. In fact, the music was pleasingly varied, all local performers, and mostly young. Lots of talent out there. The creepy-crawlies were under a gazebo just opposite us, which was quite fun. They had been meant to be on the Electric Barge, as last year, but unfortunately the barge broke down (not enough shillings for the meter?) so we got to see some fine lizards and snakes at close quarters. Our local MP put in a game appearance, despite suffering from a dreadful cold.


Grumpy Neighbours

I was waiting for someone on the corner of Senior Street the other afternoon when one of the neighbours started berating me. He had just parked his car on Senior Street (maybe 40 metres from his front door) and was complaining that we were taking away the parking, "Not content with whoring it out at weekends, now you're taking our parking in the week!" I'm afraid I didn't respond at all adequately, just smiling and saying sorry, because I didn't really assimilate what he was saying until he'd gone past me, so no doubt he now thinks me an idiot as well. The reason the parking was obstructed that day was to enable the scaffolding round the east end of the church to be taken down without any danger of damage to parked cars, which I didn't think unreasonable; our contractors hadn't suspended the parking, so you could have parked there, but the scaffolders had put notices explaining what was happening, and when they arrived put bollards around. And as for "whoring the place out", actually no, that's not me. The school have a regular let (to a German school) on Saturday mornings, and (to an Arabic school) on Sundays, both of which have caused me a little irritation in the past through people blocking my gate, but in truth most of them just drop off and pick up, which is only a temporary issue. Our regular tenants on Sunday afternoon don't generate much traffic.The particular oddness of the conversation was that the place he had parked was barely any further from his door than the places the scaffolders were obstructing. Lesson: one can never overestimate how exercised people will get about parking.


Gosling News 

Sadly, one of the goslings was killed. I saw the parents and the other four standing around some bloodied remains one morning, looking bewildered. Anyway, now the goslings are a good size, and beginning to turn brown, and I imagine they are becoming less vulnerable. It is extraordinary how quickly they grow.


At the Conference

My colleague Toby Gale (from Paddington Development Trust) and I were asked to give a presentation at the Conference of the National Churches Trust, also addressed by Bill Bryson and Caroline Spelman MP. I was very shocked to find that I was the only priest scheduled to be speaking (though that turned out to be not quite true, as Lucy Winkett, from St James, Piccadilly, who is one of their trustees, was on a panel, and Lucy always has plenty to say, and does so elegantly). I got a bit of feedback from participants that they were glad to see me, but the implication was that there should have been more clergy there. NCT is a largely lay organisation, though there are plenty of clergy involved with the board, and there seemed to be a lot of grumpy churchwardens present. There were also some aggrieved Roman Catholics, who thought it was all too Anglican, but sorry, guys, it's a question of numbers. They also displeased me by implying that we have no notion of sacred space; I need to write something about that. True, we don't hedge it around with law as they do (but actually, that's not true, either) but I suspect I have as high a doctrine of sacred space as any Roman Catholic. In fact NCT is scrupulously cross-denominational, and the previous day I had been present at their awards ceremony where they gave their top award for a project to a Roman Catholic church (Ss Peter, Paul & Philomena, New Brighton, since you ask). It amuses me that there are two organisations called NCT, and both are very middle class, but they have quite different age profiles.

Toby and I were speaking for 15 minutes under the title "Raising £7 million" which was an exercise in compression, and of course we didn't attempt to tell them how to raise £7 million (which we haven't yet succeeded in doing anyway). I hope we made some useful points about partnership working, and the Mission & Pastoral Measure (2011). It was regarded as a positive story, which is very good, and we were suitably grateful for having won the NCT Friends' Vote last year, which got us an extra £10,000 on our grant from them. We had a nice picture of the giant cheque being given to John Julius and me. NCT are being very kind to us (though I continue to have to make sure they don't call us St Mary's, Paddington).

INSIDE AND OUTSIDE

With The Goslings

The Egyptian geese are doing well with their goslings; they still have five. They spend a lot of time near the Harrow Road, well away from Canada geese or swans, who are known to have murderous inclinations to  other birds' offspring. Actually there is a pair of swans with cygnets as well, but they don't seem to be resident locally. The Egyptian geese collaborate in the childminding, one sits alongside the goslings while the other scans the towpath for trouble, and honks loudly if trouble comes along. Some very perplexed dogs find themselves being dragged past a very noisy goose.


RIP JJN Part Two

My neighbour very kindly allowed me to assist him at  John Julius Norwich's funeral last Monday, at St Mary's, Paddington Green. The church is a late Georgian preaching-box with galleries, which was completely furnished anew, in repro-Georgian, by Raymond Erith and Quinlan Terry around 1970; it's all in the best possible taste. Fr Gary wore a black and gold cope of appropriately Venetian brocade. The church was packed, and I was amused to learn afterwards how little most people could see. The box pews are not very high-sided, but they do cut down vision, and if you weren't at the front of the galleries you could see nothing up there. That's the idea; that layout was designed for you to listen to a sermon, not participate in a liturgy.

Oddly, there was no sermon, nor even a eulogy. In fact, I was struck by how much the service had in common with funerals I have done with unchurched families here on the Warwick Estate. John Julius had professional musicians playing Schubert, instead of CDs playing hip hop, but the religious content was equally slim. Frankly, recognisably Anglican content was very scarce. The hymns were sung with great gusto: we had Crimond (Scottish), and Cwm Rhondda (Welsh), and the English offering was "I Vow to thee My Country", Sir Cecil Spring Rice's First World War recruiting song, set to Holst's "Jupiter", which isn't in most modern hymnbooks. Altogether a very public-school selection. We had readings from Shakespeare and Dryden's paraphrase of Horace, as well as Canon Scott Holland's "Death is Nothing at All". We also had two Schubert songs, and the "In Paradisum"  from Faure's Requiem (which obviously any right-thinking person would want), and we went out to the Widor Toccata (which didn't really suit the organ). So, it was a very full service, with lots of lovely things in it, but some would say more like a memorial service than a funeral.

The church was full of the great and the good. One of the reasons people couldn't see was that there were so many tall, distinguished-looking men in dark suits (not so much like the Warwick Estate). Among the mourners I spotted Simon Schama, Simon Jenkins, and David Attenborough, but no doubt there were loads more I failed to recognise.

St Mary's has a neo-Georgian church hall, also designed by Quinlan Terry, but this is let to a nursery school, and so the post-funeral refreshments were served inside the church. The vestry was full of sandwiches, and when I stood up to do the prayers, the reverential silence was punctuated by the clink of bottle and glass (which frankly would have amused JJN). After the service, the problem was one of circulation, especially since those in the galleries had to descend by one staircase which deposited them into the tiny lobby immediately inside the main door, so as they fought their way in to get a drink they met those already provided who were trying to get out to condole with the family in the graveyard. The phrase "fire regulations" leapt unbidden into my mind. You will understand that in our building and refurbishment works at St Mary Mags these questions have become very familiar to me.


Slowest on the Road

I always expect to be pretty much the slowest cyclist on any given road. Normally, the only people I will automatically overtake are those riding Boris bikes or Bromptons (and sometimes you meet a pimped Brompton, ridden by an enthusiast who can make it go very fast). Anyone in proper shorts, on a proper road bike, must be assumed to be faster than me. Anyone wearing a club jersey can be guaranteed to ride away from me. I reassure myself with the mantra that I am twice the age of many of them (certainly not all, though). On the last two occasions I have been out, though, I have been passed by small children, of about 10 or 11, riding small road bikes, alongside their fathers (in club jerseys). This is a bit tough to take, though I rationalise that they're shifting a lot less weight than me. Today, to cap it, I was passed by a father on a road bike towing a cart in which his small daughter sat.


Late Goals and VAR

I remember Helen saying, in despair, "But you don't like football," each time the World Cup came round; she didn't understand. At least Nigeria put in a performance worthy of their shirt against Iceland (is their mystique finally fading?) and there were two fine kits on display today. The Belgian gold and black with red details was classically fine, and I did like Mexico's change strip, white shirts with one maroon and one bottle green hoop, and maroon shorts. Pleasingly reminiscent of the classic West Ham sky blue with two claret hoops (though that was worn with pale shorts, which I think on balance is nicer). There was no need for the green detail on the shoulders, though. You have to keep watching to the end, though, because there are so many late goals (both of Brazil's against Costa Rica came after 90 minutes, for instance, and Son's lovely goal for South Korea today). I thought VAR was meant to stop arguments, but it clearly doesn't, because so many obvious infringements don't get referred. Great piece of punditry (a week ago) from Slaven Bilic, when asked to comment on some VAR decision, he shrugged his shoulders and said, deadpan, "Really, I don't care."