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Highgate

Here from my eyrie, as the sun went down,

I heard the old North London puff and shunt,

Glad that I did not live in Gospel Oak

Betjeman

I was at that eyrie yesterday and I know why he chose the word. We started way below the clouds at Gospel Oak and climbed up Parliament Hill and Highgate Hill into the sunshine of the fantastic cemetery, 446 feet above sea-level.

I could do with some water says Bridget

I’d like a cup of tea says Jane

Pass the oxygen I gasp.

Worth it though.

 There are 169,000 souls buried in Highgate. That’s a lot of people. I suppose there must be some records somewhere but it would take several lifetimes to locate anyone that isn’t vaguely famous. It’s the crumbling edifices of the unknown amongst the overgrowth of almost antediluvian plant life that makes this place so hauntingly beautiful. 

Here’s the final resting place of George Wombwell, owner of a travelling menagerie of exotic animals. Unsurprisingly, some of them died as a result of the English climate. It didn’t stop George though who, on one occasion, simply changed his notice to ‘the only dead elephant at the fair’.

There’s Thomas Sayers, bare knuckle fighter. His most famous fight was his last, against John Heenan, which thousands of the Fancy travelled to Farnborough to see. Sayers was three stones lighter and five inches shorter than his opponent but the fight lasted for forty rounds before the ropes were cut and the crowds invaded the ring. The referee called a draw as both men were deemed to be near death. Good shout ref.

Looking for the recently departed? Here’s the understated headstone of Douglas Adams, author extraordinaire, who hitchhiked his way to another galaxy in 2001

 And, leaving in slightly more suspicious circumstances, Alexander Litvinenko. Interestingly, all the newer residents are in the East Cemetery, but Litvinenko now resides in the West

And who is this?

I don’t know, but while the rest of the place is eery, this was scary. Trailing through the woods behind my companions, I glanced to the left and saw a fully clothed body asleep, I hope, (but why do they write ‘fallen sleep on headstones?) on the top of a grave. Not funny. It was only when we were half way back down Highgate Hill, we realised we’d forgotten to tell anyone.

Aliens

Captain’s Log: Star Date 4.5.12: returned to Planet Earth after many light years spent in the Twilight Zone.


Twenty-first century language is initially difficult to comprehend: global warming apparently means everywhere is cold and wet. Early spring salads are replaced by comforting roast dinners and we purchase life-sustaining vegetables from the Tesco overlords. Two parsnips speed their way along the conveyor belt to be met by Roswell alien recruited on minimum wage.

What are these, she asks?
Parsnips
Really?
Yes. Do you not eat parsnips on your planet?
Yes, but they are placed on my plate in chunks and strips. Next to the potatoes.
How do you think they got like that?
I think the mother alien must have cut them up. I didn’t know they looked like that.

Three courgettes arrive.

What are these? She searches for a corresponding picture on her computer.
Courgettes. Do you not eat courgettes on your planet?
No.

Captain’s Log: Star Date 7.5.12
Travelled to B & Q satellite station to purchase aesthetic plant life for large glass container which has been discovered in field where indigenous people sell rubbish from their vehicles. We seek advice from especially trained super-alien who has been granted ‘garden expert’ status according to his medal of office.

Greetings stranger. Please advise me on appropriate contents for my terrarium.
Pardon?
What plants can I put in my terrarium?
What’s a terrarium?
A large glass container
Oh. You mean a cloche.
No. I don’t mean a cloche
Can you describe it?

We wave our arms and offer a range of descriptions.

Oh. You mean a bottle.
Not really.
And you grow plants in these bottles on your planet?

Captain’s Log: Star Date 11.5.12
Global warming has worsened. The rain has stopped but Earth’s sun is dying and gives no heat. Our garments are too thin and we must purchase outer-wear which will match our uniforms. We travel to the place where the poorest people reside: they call it Asda.

Excuse me younger female of unknown species. Do you have any navy blue cardigans?

Judging by facial expressions, attendant appears horrified. She turns to cloned colleague in alarm.

Do we have any navy blue cardigans?

The aliens exchange strange body language and raise their eyebrows in enviable synchronicity. Alien number two, however, has successfully interpreted one of my words and leads me to a blue garment. It is neither navy, nor a cardigan.

It’s not really navy blue
What is navy blue?
Well, this is what we call royal blue on my planet
This is all we have here.
It’s very small
We are a race of stick insects
It’s not really a cardigan either is it?
We don’t have cardigans at this time of year
Where do you keep the wine please?

Boot sale

Three generations are off to a boot sale in search of bargains. At the gate is a man collecting ‘contributions’. All a bit vague but I drop in 50p.

Where shall we park my good man?
Over there, says the collector of vague contributions, pointing some miles away.
What about that space there, I ask nodding in the direction of a handy spot just in front?
That’s for the disabled
What about my mother?
Oh, I can manage says tyrant mother who has just assumed the guise of the frail and feeble.
Take that spot then, collector of tonight’s beer money says guiltily.

We park and mother nips out of the car, clutches the arm of her grand-daughter and limps off.

Can he see us asks rapidly aging mother?
No.
Well, let go of me then she says, galloping away to the first stall. And by the way, what are we going to put all our purchases in, she asks? I scurry back to the car to retrieve a few dozen bags.
Perusing a stall full of nothing, I spot a number of white umbrellas. They could be handy for the wedding, I suggest to the bride-to-be. This is tricky territory. Rain is, of course, forbidden on the day of the nuptials. Nonetheless, one can’t control everything.

How many umbrellas are there asks my mother? A quick count on behalf of the stall-holder: ten.
How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
A fiver replies increasingly intimidated umbrella purveyor. I might have some more in the van.

A quick search results in the discovery of a further fourteen.

How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
Eight pounds plus the sack says terrified stall-holder.
Done says feeble pensioner. You certainly were my man. Twenty-four brand new umbrellas for eight quid. Bargain. We head back to the car with a large log basket, a smaller plant basket, an assortment of glass bottles, a book and twenty four white umbrellas.
You’d better hand that lot over I say to my mother. That man with the collection bucket is still up there.
Hang on then, she says. I’ll start limping.

Watman's idea of a joke

Birds

It’s a very small hedge; more a collection of leaves really. Nonetheless, it’s home to many feathered friends, all of whom seem to be currently building nests. Talk about overcrowding. I have flock of sparrows - if six comprise a flock – who are engaged on a joint venture. Four or five of them arrive simultaneously with bits and pieces to deposit in their end of the hedge. Two of them planned ahead and have brought some long twine which dangles from the top branches. Bits of this are regularly pecked off and taken into the darkness. They dart in and out, constantly chirping.

Down at the other end, two pigeons, who occasionally take time out from their amorous activities on the shed roof, are also engaged in the construction business. Every year they make a serious attempt to build a nest in the same place and every year it collapses before the job is done because they’re just too heavy. Presumably, pigeons don’t have a long-term memory. There are also two robins, two blackbirds and five starlings vying for space in this des res.
Up the road, in the remains of the old, falling-to-bits pub, the elite have apparently arrived. Quite who they are, is unclear. I heard the news from a taxi driver which, naturally, makes the story a little suspect. The pub has been empty for four years, since when it has fallen into an unattractive state of repair…or is that disrepair? Anyway, after many complaints to the brewery, a fence was erected around said venue towards the back end of last year. Recently, the fence has been painted green. Was this an effort to suggest the rotting building has somehow merged into nature?

Know-it-all taxi driver told me that Hall and Woodhouse can’t demolish this eyesore because it has become home to a rare bird.

Really? What type of bird is that then, I ask?
Red Kite he replies at once.
Really? Are you sure?
Well, something like that. Taxi drivers don’t like having their local knowledge questioned.

I’d heard that Hall and Woodhouse just don’t want to fork out to have the joint dismantled and I can find nothing to substantiate this new reasoning. Could be true though. Better watch out if you own a Pomeranian type of dog.

Shopathon

Trowbridge train station on a Saturday morning is pretty busy. Mind you, if you lived in Trowbridge, you’d be looking for a quick way out. This is the town of roundabouts…clearly designed by someone who was a fan of the Hampton Court Maze chapter in Three Men in a Boat, this is a cunning ploy to bring you back to where you started from. Still, at least attendance at this station has moved on from the days when the platform was adjacent to Bowyers sausage and pie factory: no longer is the wait accompanied by the squeals of pigs whose throats have just been sliced or the over-riding stench of death. No more are we gagged by the smell of hops brewing over at Ushers.


An excuse for a train arrives: three carriages, which are insufficient given that there is football at Bristol and rugby at Bath today. It’s impossible to get a seat together so I sit next to a woman who has a number of tissues stuffed in each ear.

I’ve been like this since Yeovil, she says. That man two seats behind is driving me mad.

I don’t know what man she’s talking about because all I can hear is Barbara who is behind me, having forced a youngster out of his seat by looking aged. So, there are some advantages to being in our sixtieth year. She’s engaged the woman next to her in conversation. This poor trapped being, it seems, started out on this torturous journey from her home in Poole. That would be her home which is in the next road to my home. Weird.

Meanwhile, the woman next to my seat starts telling me about the play they’re all going to see at the Theatre Royal to celebrate her sister’s birthday.

Who is in it I ask?
Pardon?
Who’s in the play I try again?
I was talking to my son she said. Rather abruptly, I thought as I looked round for said offspring; who turned out to be three seats in front.
………………………………………….

We make the mistake of going into Debenhams. Barbara says we’re just having a quick look at the shoes, then going for coffee. An hour later, she is still missing in action. During this time, I have tried on a number of garments, travelled to the top floor to use the facilities, travelled back down again and outside into the pouring rain where I had a lengthy conversation with someone, went to Sainsburys and bought some cigarettes, had a little walk and smoked a cigarette, went back into Debenhams and searched all the floors and ended up at the make-up counter.

Excuse me. Do you have a means of locating lost people?
A message is relayed over the intercom generally used for absent children and Barbara instantly appears clutching her newly purchased shoes.

I saw you once she says. You were going up an escalator.

Now she has to change the shoes she only bought twenty minutes ago because they don’t match the bag she hasn’t yet bought. I, meanwhile, have bought a very nice orange top that I don’t have anything to go with. Yet.

And so it continues. For some considerable time. At one point, I lost her again in M & S but I did at least receive a phone call to say she was depressed.

There are no bras to fit me she cried.
Get a grip woman; this is M & S. They have bras for everyone.
Oh. Just spotted a yellow one. I’ll call you back.

I bought another orange top. Still nothing to wear it with though. Yet,.
Hours later, we trudge back to the train station which necessitates a detour back through Debenhams.

Oh look she says. There’s an orange top you haven’t bought yet.
…………………………………………….

There are about 400 rugby fans on the platform. At least 375 of them are drunk. Reader, trust me: this is not an exaggeration. One man has located an ornamental tree and is wearing the bush part on his head like a green afro coiffure. Surely they’ll put on more than three carriages for the journey back? Wrong.

As many as possible from this throng try to get aboard and we wave at the 250 left at the station. Every time we reach a stop, there is a cry of ‘go, go, go’ as twenty five drunks disembark in order to let two people off. Barbara swings her bag round and it lifts the skirt of a woman crushed in the aisle. The woman with her skirt now tucked in her underwear turns immediately to slap the face of a man busily involved with a hip flask. It’s carnage. It’s hilarious.

When we leave this train, eight glorious hours will have passed since we first climbed aboard this morning.