Pretending that spring is on the way

 

Not bad for a few quid from the supermarket

That's the trouble with sunlight - it doesn't half show up the windows needing a clean. 

 A foggy Christmas Eve

Spring keeps on springing

As ever, the naturalised bulbs in St Anne's churchyard, in Limehouse, put out a brave display.

En route to an appointment at the Palace (all right, a visit to the new exhibition at the Queen's Gallery), one doesn't expect this sort of wildlife in Green Park:

Further on, there was a large herd:

and they appeared to be heading towards the Palace:

The head of the herd was calling, far far away, so Nellie and her chums plodded on:

It turns out that this is only one of several such herds across London, promoting an elephant conservation charity. Close up, one can see that each has been made of plant stems, an immense amount of skilled craftsmanship. 

As indeed was the Queen's Gallery exhibition - paintings usually seen (if you get to visit the State Rooms in the Palace) hung close together in several ranks, as used to be the show-off fashion. Refurbishing the Picture Gallery provided the opportunity to spread them out through three rooms, hung at eye level, and with time-slot admission allowing plenty of space for everyone to spend some time looking at close detail, helped along by the audio guide pointing out various technical details I wouldn't have known to look for.

Well, there's a thing

After months of not finding anything that novel to say about the usual annual round of events, what does it say that inspiration strikes at the sight of a load of old muck?

The Museum of London has a new section on the monster fatberg of Whitechapel, a vast conglomeration of (mostly) fat, setting to concrete as it accumulated around various sorts of undissolvable waste, grit and calcium in the sewers underneath an area with a high proportion of takeaway food joints.  As you enter,  a display cabinet shows you the sewer workers' protective suit - and the shovels they had to resort to at times to dig it out.

There's also an informative video, complete with questing rat, showing just how huge the problem was, and outlining the facts and figures, together with the issues in creating a museum display (how to protect conservators and public from potential infection, not to mention the pong, and will it gradually break down till there's not much left to show anyway?).


As is traditional in high-profile exhibits, the headline item is reserved for its own special spotlit case within a darkened inner sanctum: no more prepossessing than a piece of rubble on a demolition site, but what lump of gunk could be anything else?

It serves as a warning of the damage simple carelessness can do, and a reminder of the things so many unseen workers do to keep the city going. There is some good news : it can all be used, refined for fuel for buses, with the residue burnt in power stations.

And, of course, the museum shop serves handy mementoes: badges, T-shirts, shopping bags, cuddly toy rats, and should you feel like a themed snack, a bag of toothsome "Fatberg sludge".

Everyone's a critic

You spend who knows how much time, ingenuity, sweat, tears and money developing some technological marvel - and then there's always someone to point out you've missed a bit:

Mystery in Mile End Park

Cycling along the Regent's Canal, one gets used to the narrowboats moored alongside, and they seem to be more numerous than ever this summer. Mostly they look almost as purely functional as they did in their cargo-carrying heyday, even if their interiors might be well and truly spruced up as mobile homes with all mod. con. Some are clearly only being used as temporary, rough-and-ready or even downright scruffy boltholes for the knit-your-own-bicycle artistic set. I've seen the odd mobile café and bookshop as well.

They all look ready to move, as indeed they mostly must: "home moorings" aren't that common and are expensively over-subscribed, and only a maximum stay of 14 days is allowed anywhere else.

But then one day there was this - a complete garden occuping every square inch of roof and the minimal decking. Not, you might think, the most easily moved. Canals may not be prone to massive waves and washes, with a maximum permitted speed of 4mph, but it would only take a small bump in a lock or a sharpish turn to topple over a few pots and statuettes.

Nevertheless, a few days later, it had gone, or at least, none of the boats on view had anything like this degree of decoration. If they put all this lot inside, there wouldn't be much room for anything or anyone else: so where did it all go?

Click to enlarge

My dental appointment would just have to be on the day summer finally looked to have decided to make an appearance, wouldn't it? But all was in order, and a few  (if interminable-seeming) minutes of scraping and polishing wouldn't spoil the rest of the day.

Just the sort of day, and time of year, for a look at Queen Mary's rose gardens in Regent's Park. Not exactly a quiet walk in the park, what with the numbers of people with the same idea, but still restful.

Not all the bushes were in full flower, and some were definitely not living up to their names - not a bloom was to be seen on Sight Saver, and Song and Dance was doing anything but.  However, Majestic was looking sufficiently Queen Mother-like, and Ingrid Bergman certainly suggested the lady in question (but Deep Secret was hardly in deep cover):

Majestic

Ingrid Bergman

Deep Secret

If winter comes...

As the poet says, can spring be far behind? Except that winter didn't come this year, and spring seems to be a bit ahead of itself. This local display cheered the eye about this time in 2014; but we've already had this year's - before Christmas.

And Limehouse churchyard's spring show has been in full swing for a week already:

I gather there was a big cycling campaign ride in London yesterday, in advance of Thursday's local elections. Apparently it was combined with the London Tweed Run, which doesn't sound quite so serious, though right up my grandfather's alley.

I might have gone (though not for the tweed bit).

If I'd heard about it beforehand.

If my "get up and go" hadn't got comfy on the sofa.

If I hadn't just discovered a broken spoke anyway.

Ho Hum.

Photo borrowed from http://www.james-davis.com

It's the bluebell season again, but I haven't actually made a journey to see any of the established swathes this year. Instead, this striking contrast of some escapees with a stray rubbish bin on an ordinary roadside verge,  demanded to be photographed:

Fashion tips for cyclists

Gentlemen, please note the correct attire for cycling 200 miles or so to Land's End: in particular, the complete absence of dayglo Lycra.

According, that is, to my grandfather in 1926 (at the age, as he proudly noted on the back, of 59).

Here's an interesting idea, if (like me) you were brought up to abhor throwing things away, and to keep stuff "in case it comes in useful some day".

Pity about the fact that their website isn't (as yet) working - and about their stereotypical view of old ladies and people who like to keep things simple. But if they get the support and interest - and if it can be made to Fairphone principles as well.....

Guinea pig on wheels

It looked like an interesting day out of London, or at least something different: being one of a bunch of test cyclists for the Transport Research Laboratory's mock-up of a separated cycle path running round the outside of a traffic roundabout. However, no photos or videos are allowed, and they'd rather anyone else didn't know too much about what they're looking at, for fear of biasing the way people behave in or react to the tests.

Enough to say it involved using one of their bikes (acquired from the London cycle hire scheme) for a couple of sessions performing various possible ways of using the roundabout, with different forms of entrance to and exit from the cycle lane, and cars making their own way round, with stops to check reactions after each test, and a questionnaire at the end.

As ever in experiments and surveys, it doesn't seem possible that any individual reaction could tell them much, not least because in my usual blithe over-confidence, I wasn't particularly noticing the various subtle differences in layout and markings (perhaps that was the point). I did suggest it might need some more realistic circumstances (the odd pedestrian stepping out without looking, motorists jumping the give way lines, van drivers cutting in unexpectedly - that sort of thing); but they just smiled politely.

Still, there was a cup of tea, a chocolate biscuit, and time to chat about things like the quirks of recumbent bikes, Horrific Accidents I Have Known, and when it will be economically feasible for the cycle hire stands to be equipped with one of these newfangled 3D "printers" to produce cycle helmets on demand.

Oh, and £50 for expenses. Did I not mention that?

It was all over at a civilised hour, but then the limitations of public transport outside London became clear: buses only every half hour, and a slight delay en route meaning a half-hour wait for the next London train. That would have been the sum total of that observation, but then.................. (to be continued)

Having grown up in a Victorian house with the kind of plumbing that, if it ever needed attention, seemed to require copious amounts of teeth-sucking, solder and swearing, I'd always vaguely assumed that getting a water meter installed would be a major operation requiring lots of forms, several appointments and various sorts of precautionary clearing out.

Not so, in these modern times. An enquiry online to book a survey, a quick inspection of the pipework available (admittedly, some head-shaking over the peculiarities of the way the developers of this estate installed the exterior stopcocks and pipework, but that's no surprise), and the fitter had all the kit already with him to install a meter beside my water tank.

All done within the hour; and I now have an additional stopcock that doesn't require arm-dislocating contortions.

As to whether it will save money - we'll just have to see.

Quietly miraculous

That's how Transport for London describes the bicycle, in Our Beloved Mayor™'s latest plan for cycling in London.

At last it looks as though someone on high has got the message that it will take consistent - and persistent - planning and commitment (and money) to achieve any sort of shift towards Dutch levels of usage. All the right noises are being made about what and who it's all for (ordinary people pootling to the shops, the station, the school) and what they might need to encourage them (segregation in time and space, thought-through planning of routes, junctions and integration with other public transport, consistent and easily understood signage and mapping). The headline spending figure looks eye-wateringly substantial too.

But that "quietly miraculous" is attached, in the document, the potential effect on health because of the reduction in air pollution if enough people ditch the car for the cycle; and no doubt neither it nor the date of publication has anything at all to do with the current  embarrassing court case about our laggardly progress in dealing with air pollution - dear me, no.

New arrivals

Two days ago, the swan nesting on Millwall Dock was diligently turning three eggs to stop them overheating. Today, there is one contented-looking ball of fluff peeping out from underneath her wing, some frantic cheeping from somewhere underneath, and a head that looked sadly inert until some maternal nibbling prompted it into rather groggy movement.

As I recall, the first year I was here, cygnets hatched on May 14th, so perhaps the cold spell earlier this month delayed this brood. The coots have been breeding all over the dock for some time; the one who won the confrontation just by the swans' nest is still there, seeing off any attempt by the new cygnets' father to use the back way to get to their nest.

The grebes who were scared off have moved upmarket, to a purpose-built set of floating mats looking like artificial marshes, handily placed by one of the main entrances to Canary Wharf. Here there are two pairs of grebes as well as several coots and moorhen, each with their own area. None of them seem bothered by the others, or by the passing traffic and people who stop to watch them.

There's been at least one grebe chick (grebeling?) for several weeks now; it's already much bigger than its parents, and quite happy to come close to people on the dock walls.

Des. res., Docklands, self-build

Finding accommodation in Docklands isn't easy. As the estate agents' begging letters keep telling us, there are prospective tenants and buyers just waiting to snap up anything that comes on the market.

It doesn't seem to be any different for the birds around here. There are "official" nesting rafts on the docks, moored out in the middle of Millwall Dock, where the residents are permanently on show; but there's a quiet, unofficial-looking spot between the moored barges and the dock wall, which many seem to find safer. Here the coots and a pair of swans have been nesting for some years, protected by solid wooden fenders that keep the barges away from the wall: and now a pair of crested grebes are trying to join them, collecting an assortment of junk ("I said it'll come in useful some day!").

But this is not the quiet, neighbourly sort of spot that it seemed to be. At the other end of the fender, a pair of coots seemed to have abandoned an egg, as a handful of other coots swaggered in and started squaring up to each other in the traditional East End "D'yer want some then, eh? eh?" style. One coot, perhaps trying to escape, found its way blocked by the irritated swans, as the confrontation spilled over to the grebes' end of the fender, and a shouting match ensued, just as a police siren went off.

Quite like EastEnders, really.

A weekend in Amsterdam (1)

If postings have been a bit sparse recently, one of the reasons why has been a burst of early spring-cleaning, to get the flat ready for a weekend exchange with someone in Amsterdam. There's nothing like trying to see your own space with someone else's eyes for spotting scuff-marks and wonky cupboard doors that you've taken for granted for too long: and sorting all that out needed an extended plan of campaign.

Well, that's my excuse.

I've been to Amsterdam often enough not to be rushing around the regular sights; this time I was noticing more interesting details.

Take the cycle culture, for example. Bikes are used everywhere, and accumulate in drifts wherever there's a railing to chain one to (you've only to look at the 2500 place - count 'em - multistorey bike park at Central Station to imagine what Amsterdam would be like if cars were used as widely).

But these are mostly rather different bikes from what we see in this country or elsewhere. It's easy to spot the specialised work-bikes, with a handy box (at the front, rather than behind) for small children (once they're past being perched on a extra seat in front or behind the rider) or quite substantial freight; but it also dawns on the observer that very few are anything like racing bikes or mountain bikes (nor does anyone attempt to dress up in special cycling gear, let alone a helmet). On closer inspection, "city bikes" or "grandma bikes" turn out often to have only the one gear (it may be a flat country, but there are some impressive hump-back bridges), which makes it easier to instal a complete enclosure around the chain (that must save on the cleaning - I'd want one, only it wouldn't fit on my bike).

But, lest you think the cyclists have it all their own way in Amsterdam, here's a sign of the times, just outside where I was staying: a recharging point for electric cars.

Moving Planet

This is a picture of one of many eye-catching stunts dreamed up around the world last Saturday for Moving Planet. Rehearsals for the "bike" were well under way by the time I got away from my Saturday chores to make my way up to Haggerston Park, but eventually we latecomers made up the numbers, lining up along the banner.

That left me time to wander around taking photos of all the action (and, as is the way of such events, inaction, since the organisers had been efficient enough to get all their photos taken before the press arrived, and everyone had to wait a while before doing it all again).

The end result may not have been as spectacular as Melbourne's; and one has to admit that, actually, bikes do need a bit of oil to keep moving (not to mention the fossil fuels involved in manufacturing them and getting them to market, since so many like mine were made in Asia); but people got to make a bit of noise and a point, of sorts. The odd thing is, there don't seem to be any aerial videos of the "wheels" going round, so you'll have to imagine it from mine.

Oh, and I got a puncture on the way home. Heigh ho.