The East End is round the bend..

A couple of Sundays ago, a friend and I caught the tube to Old Street to visit Columbia Road flower market. The bright day had brought out the crowds and it was a struggle to make our way down the narrow road. We both have bladders the size of walnuts so our first stop had to be a toilet. We chose to bypass the Portaloos and headed for a small corner pub.

The Pub

It was 11.30am and at first glance we only noticed the 3 obligatory hardened drinkers sat propped on stools at one corner of the bar, nursing their pints. Once we’d sat down at a table with our Diet Cokes though, we realised there was also a group of twentysomethings at the other end of the pub. One look revealed that they had been out all night - a further look showed that they were all completely off of their faces.

The jukebox was playing Soft Cell’s Bedsit Land and one girl in an emerald green satin dress and leopard print jacket was dancing alone, in a style I recognised as one I’d executed myself many times in the 80s down at Nero’s 2000 disco on Ramsgate seafront.

The rest of the group were sitting at tables talking earnestly, or staring blindly at nothing, as befits those on the gentle slope down from an Ecstasy high. They were fascinating to watch and we found ourselves smiling indulgently at their antics – that is until I went to use the ladies toilet.

I walked round the corner of the bar to where the toilets were and opened the door to the ladies. I pulled the door back to reveal three young men slumped in a heap on the floor by the wash basin.

I managed to say, ‘I wonder if can just…’ when I noticed another guy hanging on for dear life to the door frame of the toilet cubicle. None of them had noticed my entrance. I cut my sentence short, backed out and scurried back to our table.

A short while later, one of the less out of it girls managed to steer the door frame- clinger out of the toilet. He swayed dangerously in the middle of the carpeted bar. He was propped up several times but kept buckling. Eventually someone decided to seat him in a chair.

Then another guy emerged, this time unaided – though he’d have done better asking for help. He propelled his lanky body in the direction of a chair standing against the far wall but his aim was wrongly gauged and he tumbled over the chair, landing heavily on the floor beside it. His friends all turned round but their drug haze prevented them from understanding or caring what had happened to him. He wasn’t too fussed either and stayed happily on the floor.

At last they decided to call it a night and slowly gathered their belongings together. They were unable to rouse the remaining bloke from the toilet floor so the barman (of a similar age to them and unfazed by their behaviour) had to carry him out.

After a good twenty minutes, they left the pub as an ensemble. Some barely able to walk, some barely able to see, but the girl in the green dress still dancing.

I ventured into the Ladies again. I won’t describe the state I found it in but suffice to say that horrific vision will stay in my mind for some time. One of the 3 old boozers showed his gallantry and inspected the Men’s toilet for me. Having passed it suitable for my use, he then kept guard outside while I finally managed to do what I’d gone into the pub for in the first place.


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The Market
Columbia Road is only short but the pavements on each side of the narrow road were crammed with pitches selling plants and flowers. The traders’ voices rang out like a herd of Mike Reids, hoarse from years of trying to out shout each other. Everything on sale seemed to cost a ‘fiver’. Poinsettias – 2 for a fiver. Roses – fiver a bunch. Cyclamen – box of 6 for a fiver. We bought 4 poinsettias from one. Further up another trader shouted at us –‘oose sellin’ them already, that fat bloke in the middle?’ Yes, we said, that’s the one.

For my birthday, my friend bought me a wooden barrel planter and a small olive tree. We put the plants in the barrel, which I carried on my generous hip looking not unlike an extra from Oliver - ‘who will buy?’ and she, being taller and a lot slimmer, carried the olive tree. We squeezed our way out of the market, cut across a housing estate and found ourselves in Brick Lane.

Brick Lane

It wasn’t our intention to go to Brick Lane but our ignorance of the area led us there so we decided to explore it while we could, as we’d surely never find it intentionally.

The first thing we came across was a demonstration outside a clothes shop. It was a small group of anti-fur protesters. (What is the collective noun for anti-fur demonstrators? A coat?) They had placards and a catchy slogan but I fear their message didn’t come across to full effect – the shop was closed.

After stopping for a bite to eat and to rest our aching arms, we carried on down Brick Lane musing at the various bits of tat that people were trying to sell from blankets they’d laid out on the pavement. Dotted amongst the art students and trendy wendys selling the quirky and the retro were shabbily dressed families – women and young children – and lone old men, desperate to make a few pounds by selling off old pairs of jeans and trainers that had already seen better days.

We passed all the trendy music bars that in a previous lifetime we would have been drinking in, no doubt watching two middle-aged women struggling down the road over laden with plants and swearing we’d never spend our Sunday afternoons doing anything so uncool.

The Bus

Eventually we made it onto Bishopsgate to catch a bus to Borough where we’d pick up the Northern Line. The bus as already fairly busy when we got on but we managed to get a couple of seats at the back. More passengers got on and by the time we reached London Bridge it was packed to the gills. We’d been chatting all the while and hadn’t been taking much notice of what was going on around us. However, some raised voices at the front of the bus stopped us in our tracks.

A disabled woman in a wheelchair wanted to board the bus but the wheelchair space was already filled by two pushchairs. The driver said she couldn’t come on, the woman insisted that she should and that the women with the pushchairs should get off to make room for her. As news of this altercation spread, all of the passengers on the lower deck decided to voice their opinion on the matter. The passengers were mainly African and made their opinions heard loud and clear – no tutting or whispered asides for them.

One of the women with a pushchair relented and attempted to leave the bus. She was told in no uncertain terms to stay where she was – she had every right to be there. Not so said an elderly man, who’d stood up to make his point, the disabled should come before babies. More debate ensued. Meanwhile the woman in the wheelchair was demanding the driver’s details so she could report him. This was too much for one woman who shouted to the driver that she would be his witness and for him to take her details so she could make a statement. More and more people joined in the row, everyone shouting in indignation. By this time the driver had switched off the engine and was cowering silently behind the safety of his plastic booth.

Another bus appeared behind us and the woman in the wheelchair whizzed off and boarded it. That bus drew away and continued on its journey whilst we were still stationary and still mid-debate. My friend and I, sides now aching from laughing at sheer farce of it all, decided to quit the bus and walk to Borough station.

On board the tube, heading for the sanity of the suburban south, we reflected on the day. Who would have thought that a simple visit to a flower market would have led to such bizarre encounters? Is the East End a crazy place to visit, or where we just lucky?

Everything in the garden is far from rosy..

Strange things have been happening in my little strip of garden over the last few months. I have two window boxes on the ledges outside my living room window which I fill with various plants, according to the season. I've got accustomed to them regularly being dug at by various nocturnal creatures, but I wasn't prepared for what I found when I went to replant them after the summer. As I turned over the earth, my trowel hit something hard. Thinking it was a stone, I put my fingers in the soil and pulled out an egg. A chicken's egg, just like the ones you buy in boxes in the supermarket.

It perplexed me for some time. I asked friends and colleagues for suggestions as to how it could have got there. Several people suggested that a squirrel had buried it. I know squirrels bury nuts but I doubt that a squirrel is big enough to run around with an egg and hold it under one paw while it digs a hole with the other. Eventually I put it down to a one-off unexplainable mystery.

Time passed and I forgot about the egg incident, until the end of September when the runner beans I had grown in pots in the back garden had finished their season. I dissembled the bamboo cane pyramids and pulled out the long tendrils that had held the beans. I gave a tug and out came the roots - what also came out of the earth was another egg. What was going on?

I did some internet research this time and found out that foxes often bury food too, to be dug up at a later date. That seemed to solve part of the mystery. A fox could feasibly carry an egg in its mouth. Where it would have got not one but two from (and months apart)still remains a puzzle.

One morning a few weeks ago I left the house for work. The glorious leafy shrub that stood resplendent in the middle of the front garden had been stripped bare. Not a leaf was left on it yet there were none laying on the ground. It was as if a plague of night-flying locusts had swarmed down and devoured it down to its bare branches. Why was my garden being picked on?

Yesterday though, things took an even stranger turn. Going into the back garden to check on the progress of my carrots (they're still the size of my little toe) I noticed something poking out of the earth in the - now moved to the back garden to avoid more disruption - window boxes. I bent over and pulled at the object. The attached picture is what I unearthed.

Surely this is not the work of some wild urban mammal? It looks like witchcraft to me. Have the Colliers Wood coven been cavorting in my back yard of a moonlit night? I'll keep you posted.

High on life ..

When people reach a certain age i.e. mine, they find themselves beginning a lot of sentences (particularly to younger colleagues, children's friends etc) with 'I used to'. It's a sad reminder that for various reasons, including physical decline, we no longer indulge in the activities that used to define us.

In my case it was clubbing. I never did much else with my spare time except drink and dance. Then it stopped being fun. Sunday morning's hangover stretched through until Tuesday night. My knees would ache and creak. As if by (tragic) magic my body morphed from hourglass to pint glass so that dancing in front of the mirror at home went from narcissistic to masochistic and sexy suddenly became silly. For the sake of my dignity as well as my health I had to stop. (If you’re reading this Madonna take note – you’re older than me for God’s sake).

For quite a while there was a void. What was I if I wasn't a life and soul, up for it, clubber? It was an unsettling time, the transition to middle-age. I still wanted to be in the fast lane but I could feel that I'd dropped down a gear, lost my revs and couldn't keep up the pace. Reluctantly, I eventually indicated and pulled over into the middle lane, watching enviously as the bright young things sped past.

Now though I've got used to the slower speed and begun to enjoy it. I’ve discovered that I can have a good time without the aid of alcohol or drugs (I don’t need to take drugs anymore; I get the same effect if I stand up too quickly). The only time I’m seen staggering around now is if one of my corns is playing up.

I've started to develop new interests - ones that don't require youthful stamina or toned arms and can be performed in comfortable shoes. I garden, bake and write – with varying degrees of failure. I visit garden centres, stately homes, museums and galleries – all of which involve a break for tea and cake. I read library books in bed and do Sudokos on the tube to work.

Does that all make me sound terribly dull and middle-aged? Well, I haven’t been entirely truthful, of course I still have my mad moments –why only last night I had a nip of Baileys in my bedtime Horlicks.