Four Days in London: Wednesday: "...All across the town, all across the night..."

[rhythmaning]

Several days in London: I was talking to some people about doing some work with them, and I took the opportunity of being there to catch up with some friends, see some jazz (since my visit co-incided with the start of the London Jazz Festival) and see some art. (I am not sure how this is going to work: whether it will be one post; or, if too long for that, a series of chronological posts; or split by theme – work, jazz, art, friends… I can’t get my head around it, yet. Perhaps it will change, evolve. You’ll see.*)

I took the train down; it was a lovely ride. I sat by the window, staring out, pretending to write a bit, listening to music. (It was largely classical on the way down: portentous symphonies – Mahler, Bruckner.) I read – Kate Atkinson short stories; and I watched my fellow passengers. The Northumbrian coastline sped by, the North Sea rough, the clouds steel grey.

We were early into King’s Cross; I made my way to Hampstead, where I was again staying – once more, my brother managed to be away, so I could use his flat. (It really is only a one person flat.) It is still strange being back in London; I wasn’t sure what to do. I mean, I had a whole long list of things I wanted to do, but once I was there, I didn’t feel like doing anything. Being there, and not being there – being empty and vague.

I went shopping, and since I was there for five days or so, it was a fair bag of stuff: coffee, muesli, milk, fruit – apples and bananas; carrots to nibble on. I was going to buy some evening meals, but I wouldn’t want to cook; and the ready-made meals for one just looked so – well, unappetizing. I stood there for ages, trying to decide just which of pasta or pizza or curry dishes I might actually want to eat in the evening; and the answer was none.

So I condemned myself to eating out yet again…

I went down to the West End, to buy some tickets for the Jazz Festival. Most of the things I wanted to see were down on the South Bank; so to simplify my life, I decided to only go to things on the South Bank, to avoid dashing around London, trying to squeeze everything in. This would mean I couldn’t see the two hundred saxophonists celebrating the opening of the new Vortex in Dalston; but then Dalston is a real pain to get to. And it would mean that I wouldn’t see favourite artists – particularly, I would miss Stan Tracey & Guy Barker; but I have seen them a lot. Instead, I bought tickets for a couple of gigs with people I hadn’t seen before.

I took the tube to Embankment, and walked across the river. I can’t remember when I last did this: twelve years ago, I guess (that is how long I have been in Edinburgh). The bridge is new: it used to be a busy, rickety thing bolted onto Hungerford rail bridge – the trains loud and close as they rumbled by. The replacement – the two replacements, one each side of the rail bridge – are modern, complex structures, all white cables and towers; they were built to celebrate the Queen’s jubilee – the Jubilee Bridges.

(I remember the Queen’s first jubilee; fresh from watching the [original] Human League and Pere Ubu at Norwich, flaunting a badge which read “Stuff the Jubilee”, I went back to London to watch the fireworks from the Houses of Parliament with my grandparents. I don’t think I wore the badge that evening; perhaps I carried it in my pocket.)

The view from the downstream bridge was wonderful: looking east to St Paul’s and the City. It is still a skyline to excite.

Buying the tickets was a slightly surreal affair. The woman behind the desk wanted to know my address and phone number, so I asked why – there has been a lot in the press recently about the use of private data, and I was curious. (How merchants must hate people who are curious.) She said it was so they could contact me if the performance was cancelled. I then asked how my giving them an Edinburgh address and phone number would help them contact me if the performance was cancelled (and I was certainly not giving them my mobile number!). Well, she said, it was their policy. I should have said it was my policy not to give out my personal data; but I felt I had already made her life harder than it needed to be, so I didn’t. I did ask what they would do with the data, and she said nothing – they wouldn’t put me on their mailing list, for instance. I wanted to ask why they needed to data, then; but I didn’t.

I walked back across the upstream bridge, by the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament. Melvyn Bragg was hurrying south, his grey hair foppishly falling over his face. The London Eye is a beautiful structure: a giant bicycle wheel, slowly rotating. (One hell of a bicycle chain need to move that.) There are new buildings west of Parliament – some new flats in Pimlico or further, Chelsea perhaps.

I hadn’t taken my camera with me – of course not! This condemned me from returning to the bridges several times – although since I had tickets for concerts on the South Bank, I would have done that anyway. But it was a pity not to have a camera with me: it was a beautiful, clear day, the sky a lovely winter blue. Now, I am wondering why I didn’t go up the London Eye – it would have been a lovely afternoon for it, watching the sun set over London; but then I didn’t have my camera with me, so that wouldn’t have done at all!

I was feeling a bit out of sorts; I really didn’t feel like doing anything, so I went straight back to Hampstead, where I wandered around – trying to decide where to go for supper. It has changed a lot since I lived there, and hardly at all. Pubs seem to have become restaurants; what was the only supermarket is now a Gap; and there are now two new supermarkets. Well, new to me.

I ate in Carluccio’s, down towards the police station. (Well, it used to be a police station; I can’t help thinking it must now be a restaurant – I couldn’t see a blue light outside it, but I don’t know if modern police stations have blue lights outside; I should have wandered down to find out.) When I was last in London, a friend recommended Carluccio’s to me, but that time we couldn’t find one; I hadn’t realised there was one in Hampstead. It used to be a rather fun wine bar – not a swanky wine bar, but a good non-pub place to hang out.

It was busy; I sat at a small table, and read, and watched the other diners around me. I enjoy people watching: wondering who the people are, what their lives are like, why they chose what they chose.

I had risotto, which was good but disappointing (because I had high expectations), a salad, a lovely glass of wine – Montepulciano d’Abruzzo – followed by tiramisu (delicious but disappointing; the ur-tiramisu was just too good) and a macchiato. I think the waitress was a little surprised by the coffee order – a slight affectation, perhaps: I have tended to have macchiato since I went to a class on coffee given by one of the family that run V&C’s: he maintained that macchiato should be the real measure of how good somewhere makes its coffee. I really dislike milky coffee, and most places seem to make their capuccinos more like lattes (which I loathe); so I often have espresso or macchiato instead.

* So I went chronological; it was just the way it came out. It could still change. It will. Why be consistent?