Tombstone

Supplies of proper cheese having been exhausted for some days, a day to visit London. A day which was damp and overcast, but which, in the event, failed to deliver rain.

Log from the day's Bullingdons

A snap which also demonstrates that I have finally twigged, after some month's with the Microsoft Snip & Sketch tool, that I can actually sketch as well as snip: that I can actually scribble on the image that I have snipped from someone before I save it on my own drive; a wheeze that might well prove quicker, on occasion, than doing the same sort of thing in Powerpoint, particularly as a few seconds investigation reveals that I can open a previously saved file, just in the way of Powerpoint.

The only point of interest on the way to the cheese shop being the tweeting of a rare freight train in the vicinity of Vauxhall, a train made up of long, low and red boxcars. A phrase which I now know means fancy red dresses to Bing, boxcar red apparently being a favourite colour. And you still get more dresses than trains when you add the qualifier 'train' to the search term.

Al fresco ashtray, Soho style

After cheese, my usual stand at Moor Street was empty, so a short wander through Soho to pick up a Bullingdon at Frith Street. Raising various memories from the days when there were plenty of relaxed public houses in the area, not exclusively populated by OAP's in the afternoons. And so down to Storey's Gate and into Westminster Abbey. The Japanese gentlemen behind me were very impressed with my annual pass, particularly at the notion that it cut out most of the queueing. While the two German girls in front of me were failing to impress the ticket office clerk with their telephone transaction and generally blocking the queue. Eventually they were invited to stand aside while they communed with their telephones.

The High Altar was in a state of high decoration, including a number of large plates, probably silver or pewter. It turning out that this was the week of St. Edward, the founder of the abbey, and that if I turned up on Saturday, it would be possible to see the shrine itself, not available to tourists any other day of the year. Sadly, it turned out that we were to be in Guildford that day, so St. Edward will have to wait another year.

While going round, it first struck me that Henry VII must have been a very rich man to put up the large and ornate Lady Chapel as fast as he did - although the suggestion at reference 1 is that it was not quite complete at the time of his death. Maybe he had managed to gather up the wealth of both the House of York and the House of Lancaster. Or was it just his miserliness?

Second, I starting thinking about the monument lottery, with the size and position of one's monument in the abbey being only loosely connected with one's fame in the centuries to come. One might, for example, have put a lot of effort into acquiring a good spot, only to have it obscured if not obliterated by some new office. Perhaps a rest room for the duty clergy, perhaps a ticket office. (With tickets for tourists having replaced indulgences for sinners as an important source of revenue). While the celebrities of today have to make do with very modest tablets, squeezed in-between the tablets, stones and monuments of all those who have gone before. Should there be an arrangement whereby older tablets, stones and monuments get reviewed every 10 years? Reviewed with a view to demotion.

Walhalla

I was also struck by the glittering decoration which must have adorned the royal sarcophagi when they were first installed, with that for Henry III particularly catching my eye. What is now sober and dignified stone, started out as a very gaudy affair, no expense spared. So very fancy stone boxes, but no fancy effigies lying on top. No doubt historians have written at length about these matters - while I rest with the thought that the Greeks were and the Saudis are quite keen on paint jobs for their statues, while we cold northerners prefer naked marble.

There was also the question, as yet unresolved, as to who put Richard II in the abbey, in one of the regular regal slots. Did Henry IV, who ordered his murder, see no reason not to afford him the honours dead that he was denied alive?

And it so happened that the next day I was reading in reference 2 (first noticed at reference 3) about Walhalla, a large Greek revival temple built on a hill above a Bavarian stretch of the Danube to celebrate the heroes of Germany. By which the royal founder meant anyone whose mother tongue was German. No need to actually have lived or to live in Germany. But it did help to be both a man and a Catholic. MacGregor suggests that will the criteria for inclusion have been loosened, the whole subject remains a matter for earnest public debate in Germany.

While the French have the Panthéon, a place starting life as a church in the mid eighteenth century, but settling into its present role of celebrating famous Frenchmen during the second half of the nineteenth century. Perhaps most rich countries have such places, in one guise or another.

Querying the lack of traffic in Whitehall, a cheerful policeman explained that the Climate Extinction people had been banned from London, so Whitehall was not closed on their account. To which I made some blokeish response, not thinking to point out to the policeman that most of Westminster was apt to be under water in the not too distant future if we did not pay more attention to these people. That maybe by the year 3000, the pinnacle on the top of Big Ben will just be poking out above the sea. Maybe visible on days of very low tides. Maybe I will do better on the next occasion. In the meanwhile, see reference 5.

The station end of Victoria Street, Vauxhall Bridge Road and Vauxhall Bridge, all seemed very congested, in part because of the installation of cycle lanes everywhere. On one of which, as it happens, I was cycling. There was also one small Extinction demonstration, bustling along under the arches of Victoria Street with a large paper animal of some sort. Plus a couple of mental disorders and a couple of alcholics. The 'Surprise at Pimlico', a place I used to use occasionally after work, appeared to have shut down. At least, it did not appear to be a regular public house any more.

Got out of the train at Earlsfield, where there was a chap with the sort of moustache one takes tweezers, curlers and wax to, after the manner of Poirot. Not the sort of thing one sees very often. And as it happened a bus hove into view just as I came out of the station, so, for once in a while, thought to pop down to the Wetherspoon's at Tooting Broadway - rather than having another go at the fine bacon sandwiches offered by the Half Way House.

Caffee Manal

Before entry, an excellent bacon sandwich in the still present Caffee Manal, patronised by employees of the London bus services and others. No unwanted twiddles on the side, beyond a small jug of milk, so that I could milk my tea to suit, which I thought a nice touch. The avocado which foodies seem to need in such places did not seem to be anywhere on the menu, although one could have Nutella on one's toast for a 20p supplement. Wetherspoon's still present also, around the corner, clientele not much changed, although no-one I recognised, either bar side or customer side. Quite a lot of sticks and I suppose I was slightly above the average age - so not Soho by a long chalk, at least not in the middle of the afternoon. There was one lady, who reminded me of a large lady from Zimbabwe who could do clicks and whom I used to know - and I wondered what she looked like now. Weight and life-style not too promising.

Ancient décor

Pleased to see that the picture snapped above was still there, having been there as long as I can remember - that is to say for around the 25 years I have been using the place. Was it a work from a local art school? Did it come from some higher grade décor outfit? A chap at the next table had been using the place for as long as I had, although I did not recognise him, and he claimed that the Balham branch, another place I have used in the past, was closed rather abruptly when the landlord suggested that a rent rise was in order. Mr. Wetherspoon not having any of that sort of thing: can't offer good value, make a profit and pay good rents. It just doesn't add up. Nor does his espousal of Brexit, given where he must get a sizeable fraction of his staff from. The chap also thought that this Tooting branch had been a washing machine showroom in its previous existence, while I thought some kind of bus or tram shed. Something else I have not got around to checking. Although thinking about it now, the tram shed might have been the place down Mitcham Road, down a short alley somewhere between the tube station and the picture palace. Nowhere to be seen on Street View, so yet another thing to be check out.

Back at Earlsfield, a very helpful lady got me through the self-service checkout with my newspaper, a pink'un, for some reason discounted by 30p by Mr. Sainsbury. The second in two days - and I am starting to think that the pink'un is more sensibly lefty than the Guardian, which is odd given that it is the chosen reading of many city boys. Or perhaps lefty is right and the pink'un cannot tell a lie - unlike some people we can think of.

On the platform, scored, after a couple of ones, what has become a rare two.

On arrival at home, not impressed by a page from the Evening Standard, snapped above. To my mind it is not healthy to be pumping up the thrill of such a cesspit in this way - and it perhaps no wonder that some immigrants find that they don't want to buy into the whole western package.

Reference 1: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_VII_Chapel.

Reference 2: Germany: Memories of a Nation - Neil MacGregor - 2014.

Reference 3: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/09/a-day-at-library.html.

Reference 4: https://www.bavaria.by/experiences/city-country-culture/monuments/walhalla/.

Reference 5: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/08/advertisement.html.