Early early early leaving. Alarm at 5:45… ow. One had only barely got used to the time zone and now I’m up at an un-godly hour? Brrrrrgggggg…

Dress, shove the last things in the cases, descend to lobby and do the “rapid check-out” by tossing my key and form in a slot in the front desk, and I’m out the door to locate a taxi… which immediately presents itself. Huzzah!

On the way to Paddington Station [not the one on the left, that’s St. Pancras], we discuss the much over-discussed Economic Situation and the need to stick it out. He’s been driving a taxi for 24 years, and worked through the last recession; now he’s married 16 years and is continuing to continue as before, with the benefit of experience to show the way again. This ought to be good, and the thought in one’s mind is that perhaps it’ll be of assistance to one’s own business is tenuously accepted.

We agree that it’s best to try not to obsess about the whole matter, while still being well-informed about the events at the same time. A difficult, yet important balance. I tip £5 on a £10 fare, telling him to “weather it well”. He seems to be a sound feller.

Train, terminal, check-in (with security confirming I’m not some other guy yet again), locate æroport gate which isn’t open… ‘daft buggers!’, think I; and so I sit on a six-inch-deep ledge covered in some sort of fine plaster dust, and listen to the tiny lap-top with noise-cancelling headphones eliminating the hum of the “Air Conditioning System” and some bizarre drilling being done somewhere which is altogether inconvenient. All but a remaining 15% of those both are gone when the switch is “on”. The women prattling to my right about sweet nothing at all, however, comes through loud and clear. Damn.

The return flight comes complete with Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (aka: “Indy IV”; a daft, un-necessary corollary to tie-up some loose ends which didn’t need fretting over in the first place, and along the way provide more trivial inside references than any film warrants at the best of times, but ultimately benign with solid production values and editing), the meals are okay, and there is turbulence over Greenland as seems to be usual.

I am tired, so very tired.

One suspects that this was the correct time to have left, albeit with un-resolved questions regarding others’ degree of dedication and timely effort regarding various matters left in their hands. Having not actually checked e-mail before leaving Heathrow, it’s quite possible there’s more encouragement to be had than appears just now. One hopes so. Have those individual boxes left yet to various people who’ve paid for their books months ago? Have a couple of boxes left headed my way? Do we have a rough inventory of stock on hand at the moment? What of… oh, a gazillion things, really…

While it’s tempting to conclude the whole thing as a corporation and rinse ourselves of so many heavy debts — to say nothing of the fact the President & C.E.O. (Acting) doesn’t live on the right continent — the effort to wrap-up a company in the UK is an insane amount of paperwork and shit, so we’re stuck with this structure, it would seem. Lord knows how we’re going to sort that, though. Damn it, we need to sell a shit-load of books and then pay bills… and then sort some way to make some decent money to get the next lot printed… and so on.

Grumble…

Need sleep.

So, in conclusion:

Once again I leave the UK with the sense that the place is crawling with things almost the way they ought to be done, to wit:

• pubs are plentiful and convenient
• people are able to speak to complete strangers without being thought about to begin proselytise for Dianetics or something
• art and culture are considered ‘parts of life’ and not “something them fucking book-worms’ do ’cause they’re not real peoples”
• traffic is grudgingly accommodated, but walking about in areas un-trammelled by motor-vehicles is far easier than one might think
• mass transit is seen as a requirement
• buildings which aren’t fresher than yesterday’s milk aren’t immediately ripped-up and replaced with big ugly blocks of concrete (well, mostly)

Essentially, things there are as I wish them to be.

Well, except for the bits that cost money. That’s a pity, but ubiquitous the world-over, damn and blast.

Too Bloody Early; Terminal 3, Heathrow, England

The final day of my stay in London began with a sky looking a tad grey. Having arisen around 8:30, the forecast on Breakfast was for a slight improvement, but not much. All in all, the weather’s been quite un-London-in-October, really and one cannot complain in the slightest.

“Palace of Westminster, London” by I.A.M.

After the usual trip down to Caffé Nero for breakfast and e-mail, I arrange to go on a walk along Southbank with Christopher Fowler, who’s been so very good to me over the past week, sharing both his love of people and what is probably the city with the most complicated historical and cultural structure of many World Capitals. There’s probably others who are more complicated in both those ways, but this is certainly the most fascinating of places I’ve ever been. Granted, people often say one ought to get out more.

We meet, and then take the tube to London Bridge Station. Only after emerging from the gloom does one realize that at some point we travelled under the Thames. Slightly disoriented, we head into a market where things have been sold and bought for literally hundreds of years. Mr. Fowler tells me of the re-discovery of Porter Ale’s recipe which was solely due to a barrel of the stuff which was found at the bottom of the river but hadn’t leaked a drop (being surrounded by water probably kept the wood swollen enough to maintain the seal, for a start). After some boffin did some chemical analysis of the beer inside, then discounted some bits due to things gathering mould and so on due to age, proper Porter Ale was once again in production after years of ‘best guess’ versions. Having enjoyed that form of beer myself for years, it’s fascinating to hear that it was very nearly lost altogether. How good that the old becomes new once more.

“Southbank Promenade, London, UK” by I.A.M.

The walk along south bank of the Thames [image, right] is now completely accessible by wheelchair and scooter, much to some complaints regarding replacement of the old stairs with ‘new fangled ramps’ and slow inclines. Mr. Fowler points out the obvious advantage is that older citizens now may easily go for a wheel along the river of an afternoon, if they so wish, and indeed there’s many a person seen doing so as we walk. Additionally, a large number of nearby apartment developments have been designed specifically for ‘mature residents’. “Suddenly people are able to have the time to enjoy things like this,” he says, waving to the beautiful and spacious areas, “and then, because there’s some stairs in the way they can’t go there? Where’s the sense in that, I ask you!” Apparently many of the shop keepers along the river walk complained about the ‘modernization plan’ as well. How stupid are they, one wonders, to refuse to see the logic in having more people able to visit the shops previously on the other side of impenetrable staircases. It’s as if some people’s cash is preferred over others’! Logically, these days at least, anyone’s money is welcomed if not down-right yearned for by the average retailer.

Shortly after leaving the tube station, we stop in at Southwark Cathedral, a beautiful place of worship, and examined the mosaic in the entrance way as a memorial to a boating party who were lost in the river a few decades ago. While you can drown in as little as four inches of water or thereabouts, it the Thames seems so innocuous when you look upon it. “Everyone forgets how powerful it is”, he tells me. “Every year someone gets pissed and then decides to swim across to get home instead of heading to a bridge or bus line. Inevitably, they have to be fished out of the water when they get pushed down stream and are unable to get out of the claw of the currents’ grasp. Remember, that river has a tide! It’s terribly cold when you get toward the bottom as well! You’re never in control on the water; it controls you!”

I look again at the water, and wonder what else is at the bottom that has yet to offer up its secrets of the past. Probably most of the crap down there is a combination of every version of shopping trolleys made during the past millennium.

We pass the HMS Golden Hinde quickly, pausing only long enough for me to grab a quick photo of it. Shortly thereafter Mr. Fowler tells me of a wall which was discovered, in a bizarre turn of events, inside a wall. For some reason about a century or so ago, someone decided to build their new wall using an old one as a kind of shoring material, and encased the old one inside the new, where it remained until a building project was taking down the outer wall to reveal the one inside. The stained glass window in the original, inner wall is being refurbished and will be placed in roughly the same spot and at the same height as it was years ago before it was hidden away. And again, the old is re-discovered and made fresh again.

Does one see a pattern building here? There are no new bits of London, just old ones that have been hidden for a while awaiting re-emergence.

“Dali Meets Palace of Westminster, London” (idea c/o C. Fowler, Gentleman Author)

We pass the Globe Theatre shortly thereafter and nearly miss the thing. It’s so un-assuming and restrained in calling attention to its existence. Had it been New York City, there’s be some huge neon monstrosity on the roof flashing “World Famous Globe Theatre! Visit History! See Birthplace of Culture! Be Elizabethan for a Day!” Thank Christ this is England.

Right next to the Globe is a really old building and — here the memory gets dodgy — it’s the oldest building in Britain (or, possibly, London) which is still in private hands… or the oldest still owned by the same family… or something. Next to it is an alley,which is now closed, but what that detail in my notes means is something that’s disappeared. Answers on a postcard, please…

On we head to the west and the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, the great showroom of art which some decry as ‘tripe’ and others declare ‘the brilliance of cutting edge creativity’. I’m not sure where I stand, frankly; when something has an effect upon me, that qualifies as “good” right off the bat.

We strolled through the Generator Room (the building was a power station originally, after all) where a massive piece is viewed with multi-brightly coloured metal bunk-bed frames are set up in rows, some with books on them, and a couple with little radios playing odd sounds. On the rear wall are projected snippets of odd films, including one which was quite possibly from Fahrenheit 451°: a massive library-sized collection of books are blown-up, the camera showing the view from far above them, as they fly both up and apart in slow-motion. It’s a striking image, one which speaks of both the physical and spiritual destruction of society and its ability to provide a structure and collective existence.

Far too heavy, this. Time to bugger off and find something fun! [see image above, left] Read the rest of this entry »

Arise around 9:30, I think, and feel the pain of last night. Errrrrgh. As one heads to Caffé Nero for e-mail, etc., the face of the most notorious punk band in the world appears on a billboard advertising butter. Yes, Johnny Rotten of The Sex Pistols shilling for Country Life Dairy Products; and he’s wearing an excretiable red plaid jacket. Surely this is one of the signs of the apocalypse?

Breakfast out of the way, I seek an alarm clock so as to ensure catching my flight in a couple of days… Hang on, Jennifer’s note mentions picking me up at the airport Friday afternoon, which is excellent… but, erm… FRIDAY?!? Wasn’t it Saturday…? Shit!

I rapidly e-mail a few people pointing out that they now have a 36-hour window to meet me before I leave the country at an abominable hour Friday morning.

Back to hotel we head, after buying a newspaper for the sole benefit of confirmation of today’s date (and ensuring that there is a world outside for which to return), then check my printed flight information and itinerary. Friday, yes. Good to know that now. It might have been a bit of a problem had I got it wrong by a day.

Right. So off to Soak-Up Culture of Great Worth: the British Library to wander and stare at Really Old Books and Papers. These include (but were not limited to only): Read the rest of this entry »

Due to popular demand… Many people have asked… Someone idly asked yesterday… ‘when would this series continue?’ And so, because I am here to give the people what they want, here is what happened on the day The Colonial Went to the B.N.G.

Arising around 8:00 (although the notes for the day state an uncertainty about that time), St. Pancras International Rail Terminal is headed for, with a desire to locate coffee and food. Also, connectivity to confirm that Trudi Topham is still meeting me for the purpose of both delivering some material to me which has been ordered from both small publishers as well as through Amazon UK (which wasn’t available through Canadian sources; mostly books with different editions and/or covers), as well as accompanying me around the National Gallery.

Happily, one can check e-mail over breakfast of coffee and muffin-thing, as St. Pancras Station has free Wi-Fi! HUZZAH!

Sadly, Trudi is at King’s Cross Station on the other side of Pancras Road, but I’m able to see the grandness of this international terminal with its impressive roof of the Train Shed [image, left] which was designed by William Henry Barlow (who’s been immortalised in a statue in the Station). So, in the end, NICE!

I wander across the road, and — after working my way through a teeming mass of humanity down the entire King’s bloody Cross Station’s bloody warren of platforms and levels — locate the lady herself, complete with massive box of books. Huzzah! We head to hotel, dump the shit in my room, and then head to the wilds of the underground, where I buy an Oyster Card so as to be able to move about easily on any number of methods of available public transportation without the need to ensure my tickets not expired, correct change, and so on. For anyone visiting London, this is a boon, as you are only charged for the tickets you would normally need, but the most you can ever pay per day with this card is the maximum daily charge for unlimited use of the system and that flat rate is less than the cost of several tickets. If you plan to use the tube or the bus more than three times a day (go somewhere, go somewhere else, return to where you began), you’ve just saved money, and all you had to worry about was slapping your card on a big yellow disc when entering the tube or when both getting on and off a bus. Brilliant! Get one and make your visit to the City of Western Culture a breeze. You’ll thank me for it, I’m telling you!

The card, oddly, comes in a little yellow wallet with an advert for IKEA on the back. “Oh…! It’s got IKEA on it”, I remark to Trudi, whereupon we say “Oooooooo-OOOOOO!” at each other. Why it’s called an “Oyster Card” and not a BLAN or TORVELD as a consequence of the IKEA sponsorship is good for a few minutes of discussion. It may have something to do with IKEA’s brand-new Family Mobile — a virtual mobile phone network — but I suspect the new London Buses will be built from flat-pack kits. Read the rest of this entry »

After beholding the wonder of the Swiss Re Tower (or whatever you wish to refer to it as), I headed directly North, taking the rather narrow and un-welcoming route of Bury, Goring, and Cutler Streets. In the process, I happened upon The City location of the infamous financial institution Northern Rock, which caused a panic in the streets of England last September when I was in the country (that being my first time in England, this being my first time in London). Northern Rock suddenly found itself running short of cash due to lending more money than it had and had borrowed money in turn from other banks, who had also… does this sound familiar? Yes, spot on, this was the start of the entire matter that was done on a much grander scale — as it usually is no matter what the undertaking — in the American Financial market. Now, just over year later, here I was in ‘the Sceptrèd Isle’ again as the economic world exploded around me; earlier there was a report in a newspaper of the Toronto Stock Exchange having a record-breaking one-day drop in stock prices, causing one to wonder if the entire world monetary system was on the brink of collapse and would one be able to return home after all? The answer to that question was simple: if that happens, max-out the VISA, head to The Pineapple in Kentish Town, and bolt the door; job done!

The matter of the financial world going hay-wire every time one’s visited the Mother Country does make one feel a tad self-conscious, however: soon someone will make the connection and ban me from ever returning to ‘this green and pleasant land’. I don’t think anyone’s blaming me for these things… yet…

Arriving in what is probably “Cutlers Gardens” (it’s around here that I decided to merely head in the general direction of ‘north’ with not much more than impulse to dictate the specifics, so details get a tad fuzzy as a result), wandering into a large assemblage of buildings enclosed within a wrought-iron fence of tall spikes. A pocket-handkerchief-sized lawn was just off to the right inside a traffic-controlling arm, and the path lead on into the heart of the stretch, where an alcove revealed a raised plateau leading to an entrance to one of the buildings. At the front edge of the plateau was a planted area with a sculpture of an arresting design [see image, right]. Upon closer examination, an explanatory sign was at its base, stating:

King Edgar (959 – 75) granted this derelict land to thirteen knights, on condition that they each perform three duels, one on land, one below ground, one on the water. These feats having been achieved, the King gave the knights, or Cnihtengild, certain rights over a piece of land ‘from Aldgate to the place where the bars are now, toward the east, on both sides of the lane, and extended it toward the gate now known as Bishopsgate in the north, to the house of William the Priest… and to the south to the Thames as far as a horseman riding into the river at low tide can throw a lance.’

This sculpture by Denys Mitchell, commissioned by the Standard Life Assurance Company, commemorates the Cnihtengild and was unveiled by the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor, Sir Alexander Graham G.B.E. D.C.L. on 21^st November 1990.

How fascinating! As a good photographic angle or two was being determined, one was hailed by an astonishingly polite and friendly-looking security man whose accent sounded vaguely African in origin, and whose over-all shape seemed vaguely Brobdingnagian in dimension. “Excuse me, Sir”, he said, “are you a tourist?” Initially the whole thing was a bit of a rattle-inducing moment, so this sounded like something ending in “florist”, but obviously wasn’t, so I merely replied “…sorry?” He repeated his query and I replied that he was correct in his assumption. “Well, Sir, photographs are not allowed to be taken here. I’m terribly sorry, Sir.”

This degree of seeming reluctance to actually enforce the regulations of his employer, with which he was specifically tasked, seemed a bit at odds with the fact he could have easily killed me using but his bare hands and not even a modicum of effort. My mind boggled with a number of thoughts, including ‘but why pray tell; this is hardly a headquarters for MI5, surely?’ as well as ‘I do apologise for being so forward as to give you cause to kill me; please forgive me, as I’m suffering the nasty birth defect of being a Canadian and know not the ways of this land…’

Suddenly a taller — and presumably more senior — like-dressed individual appeared from behind a construction screen and called out “It’s alright! I’ve called him in, and it’s fine. Leave the man alone.”

As the question of why one’s presence and/or photo-taking activity would have to be called-in — never mind the thought of ‘to whom would such a call be made?’ — I turned to the polite monstrosity of human flesh and sought confirmation of what seemed to be permission to record the sculpture’s greatness, which was granted by a simple nod and his hearty smile’s return to his face.

Mildly shaken, I took a few photos, then went my way through the quadrangle, which seemed to be under some sort of refurbishment. There also seemed to be an inordinate number of security personnel throughout the area. Why this was so wasn’t apparent, as a Life Assurance company doesn’t exactly rate National Security Protection, surely? Perhaps there was a Minister of Some Important Office or the Chancellor of the Exchequer was to give a speech or address a conference somewhere in the complex about the continuing financial turmoil. Not a clue ever presented itself, but the amount of security at the New Street entrance, through which I made good my egress, included a very plain vehicle from which a pair of serious-looking and heavily-padded gentlemen emerged. How the control on the south-side of the area could be so lax as to permit a common git to wander in entirely unchallenged is an intriguing contrast to the other end of the experience. Perhaps because I was wearing a tie and jacket? And I’m both short-haired and an honky?

Answers on a post-card, please.

Also confusing was why there was a statue of a ram on the top of an arch at the end of New Street. Perhaps it was Aries, which makes it even more confusing. Perhaps it represented the source of the wool or mutton which was originally processed in the area the other side of its opening. Whatever the reason, it seemed incongruous in the extreme.

As I continued north — past the massive Liverpool Street Station and into the Shoreditch District of Hackney — the close proximity of contrasting highs and lows was awe-inspiring. Behold, for instance the two images taken at Fairchild Place and Great Eastern Street below:

This is the same spot, and the two face each other. Stunningly wonderful, as all matters and undertakings have a place in the city’s whole. Fabulous!

I meandered further along Great Eastern, noting the continuing contrast of old and new happily co-existing, and then happened upon a sign that drew one’s mind to thoughts of Dickensian literature supposedly being honoured: Expectations. “I wonder”, one thought, “if they’re being modest and leaving off the ‘Great’ so as to not to raise people’s hopes unduly?” Passing the entrance’s alcove, a poster revealed itself, displaying an image of an entirely opposite nature to anything ever even hinted at in a book with Dickens’s name upon it’s frontispiece. Expectations, you see, is a retail company who specialise in leather, rubber, latex, and fetish gear, marketing principally to the Homosexual market. Which I’ve nothing against at all, but it wasn’t what one had in mind when seeing the sign, really.

So much for Victoriana…

Eventually I returned to the hotel, realised I hungered, then went out seeking food. Sadly, owing to lack of enthusiasm and imagination, dinner was located at the corner of York Way and Pentonville Road: M^cDonald’s. I know, I know… there I am in one of the very first World Cities and I head for something which at home I would avoid like the very plague which destroyed in this area only because of the city burning to the ground. Yet, fatigue of both the mental and physical sort was stronger than one’s resistance, and so the ubiquitous American Common Culture was knelt to.

Besides, when the day’s weather was once pleasant but has disintegrated to the sort presented below, the only other possibility would have been a chip van, but that sort of nonsense is looked down upon within Greater London, probably.

And so, to bed. Bah!