Adults only

Flicking through the electronic programme guide list of movies to see if there's anything worth recording (you'd be surprised how many "Everyone's seen that" films I never got to - or maybe not), I found this warning in one movie's information note: "Scenes of violence/torture/sex/live octopus ingestion."

Ah well, it certainly helped me decide whether or not to bother. Unlike the occasional warning that a film "contains mild language". Are they imagining people saying "That's no good, I want non-stop swearing tonight"?

A little sunshine makes all the difference

Over the years, street organs seemed to have become less and less in evidence in Amsterdam. Bearing in mind what I'm guessing must be quite a cost in getting and maintaining one, it can't be easy to make much of a living from them. But this weekend, I not only saw one in one of the main shopping streets in Amsterdam, but also in the middle of some fairly heavy snow in Utrecht: maybe the Saturday shopping crowds brought them out.

In Utrecht, too, you can surfeit yourself at Museum Speelklok with all kinds of draaiorgels, circus organs, hurdy-gurdies, pianolas, orchestrions, polyphons, musical boxes, some monsters built for dance halls, and some strange mechanical musical instruments (I once saw a machine here that played four violins).

Visitors have the chance to wander around some of the many different examples, but the main interest is the tour of selected machines (though this does include plenty of chances for little ones, and one lucky grown-up, to turn a handle). There's even a bit of singsong, as was once traditional, though at least one of the old songsheets on display suggests something rather racier than you might expect.

Cold enough

Walking up to a tram stop, I noticed a group of people giving an unremarkable stretch of canal more attention than you'd expect at that time on a Saturday morning - and this was why:

Not exactly Nigella

Mumblety-odd years ago, on my first evening in Amsterdam, I ate at a restaurant offering traditional Dutch cooking. The special of the day rather appealed as much for the sound of the name as much as anything else: hutspot met sudderklapstuk, which turned out to be a mash-up (hotchpotch) of potato and vegetables with a huge piece of braised beef.

The restaurant is still there, though much more spruced up these days, and still includes such substantial fare on the menu (and in these temperatures, you can see the benefit).

However, the specials this time didn't particularly appeal (and what sort of beer were they offering?), so I chose a variation with curly kale, and a sausage and speck (bacon pieces).

The presentation was a bit...well, striking.

And then the demon of literal word-for-word translation struck on the dessert menu. Even with a cinnamon and caramel sauce, "bag cheese on a biscuit" doesn't entice.


P.S. I've just noticed Disqus's bizarre idea of "related" content elsewhere among their users - nothing to do with me. I'm working on finding an alternative commenting widget if anyone has any bright ideas

Greetings from a very cold and snowy Amsterdam, where (as you can see) if you want to tempt customers in by tempting other customers to sit outside, you might as well try offering them blankets, in fetchingly contrasting colours.

Feeling like a break, I've given the traditional rail and ferry option a try. They can zhoosh up the ferry as much as you like (comfy bed, own telly and ensuite bathroom well up to medium hotel standard), but I doubt if I'll ever be able to sleep properly on any sort of moving transport (not that the movement made itself felt on this trip, with much less juddering and jolting than I get on the bus of a morning). And the rail connections are still somewhat unwelcoming and inescapably tedious, with seasonal problems adding to the commuter crush.

Arriving in the murk of a winter twilight, the view is all shades of grey across the snow, apart from the lights of cars and the occasional advertising sign; and when the sun finally breaks through, the few distinctive objects on the landscape barely make a mark through the mist.

But Amsterdam retains its distinctive mixture. Amid the bikes and gables and down a side alley, the eye is drawn past today's graffiti art to the 16th century outline of the Begijnhof, more peaceful than ever in the untouristed snow.

Monday's sun made Sunday's constant snow look very different.

Round on the city farm, the ornamental fowl may not have been too sure about venturing out, but some animals come ready-wrapped for the weather.

I have some creative neighbours:

Sign of the times

A toddler, trying to grasp the idea that tapping and swiping the TV screen doesn't actually make it do anything.

Yet.

Time was, a trip "to see the lights" was a semi-compulsory part of the season, but fell by the wayside in the face so many other distractions. It was by chance that a walk through Seven Dials and Covent Garden suggested it might still be worth it, if you choose the right time of the late afternoon.

Forget the disenchantment of the most-hyped displays, in Oxford St and Regent St, which have mostly seemed not quite enough or too commercial (who thought it would be Christmassy to have the lights in Oxford St advertising Marmite?). Here, the lights are just that, with Seven Dials and the surrounding streets in a more modernistic orange and yellow, and

Covent Garden in more traditional red baubles with silver (and, appropriately for the weather, those lights that look like dripping rain), complete with a red-nosed reindeer and Lego advent calendar.

Trafalgar Square is the most traditional of all, with just the Norwegian tree and its austere plain lights. I arrived in the middle of a carol concert underneath it. Part way though a small commotion and applause among the crowd on the steps revealed a marriage proposal, greeted by a call for three cheers from the choir leader.

Magical mystery tour

Whether it's the planetary alignments, Mayan calendars, climate change, squirrels nesting in the works, or just plain human error, there have been a number of occasional slips with the audio announcements on the buses locally. Repeating the name of the last stop, or anticipating one or two ahead, is nothing new; but just recently I've heard some rogue announcements of places way off the route.

Today was such a lowering grey, seeping sort of day, that something obviously decided the thing to cheer us all up, on the pootle up the road to Canary Wharf, would be some outdoor swimming on the other side of London - for it suddenly announced the next stop would be Tooting Bec Lido.

Since we're all still here..

..why not get on with the seasonal celebrations in style, with this offering from the home of innovation, artistry and design of lasting value (well, that's what they say, and who am I to disagree?) - the Elvis Christmas Tree.

In case you were wondering...

(Mind you, he did hedge his bets by waiting for the lights to change before crossing Charing Cross Road):

Inescapable (2)

On a recent sunny day, what else but the You-Know-What would serve as a test for the 20x optical zoom on the new replacement for the camera that went on its own holiday in Austria last summer? (The insurance company kindly didn't quibble over the claim - they just knocked off so much for depreciation and the excess that in effect they refunded my premium for the year; still, anything's better than nothing).

In the end, I went for the newly-introduced upgraded model of the same type (Canon SX240HS, for the technical). This is the view from the riverside here - at least 4km or about 2.5 miles:

What difference a few months make. On a return visit to Stratford in miserable weather, it's clear from John Lewis's third floor (no queueing to peek into Olympic Park this time) that, even while they still have lots of London 2012 tat souvenirs to sell, on the Park itself the only movement to be seen comes from distant orange lights on the diggers and lorries clearing up.

The temporary tentage for ticket and security checks has gone, revealing just how much space is available to be turned into parkland:

and the wings on the Aquatic Centre are well on the way to being removed:

No doubt the completed park will be the spectacular bonus we've been promised, but (as with the Olympic preparations two years out) it's hard to imagine in a bleak and rainswept December.

Inescapable

Cycling round Limehouse Marina en route to the Regent's Canal, it struck me just how much the Shard building stabs its way into the view from just about anywhere within a substantial radius (it must be two miles or so from Limehouse, and I could even see it from Broadway Market up in Hackney).

But I have no intention of paying £25 to go up to see the only views in which it wouldn't appear (not when they put them on their website).

Is it just a coincidence that the two monarchs who were instrumental in the biggest upheavals of this country's lurches towards modernity weren't actually born to rule? I've no idea, but it is a fact that both Henry VIII and Charles I came into the world as Spares rather than Heirs Apparent, and only moved into pole position at the age of eleven, or thereabouts, the elder brothers both having died around the age of eighteen.

It's one of those pointless "what if" questions as to whether subsequent history would have proceeded any differently if that hadn't happened, not least because the elder brothers never had much chance to show what sort of king they might have been.

The National Portrait Gallery's current exhibition on Henry Frederick, Charles I's brother, tries to give an idea of what he was like, though how much is contemporary hagiography is hard to tell. He was (of course) a paragon of all the princely virtues of the time - one wonders if some of the praise heaped upon him was intended or seen as some sort of implied criticism of his father. He apparently had his own ideas about foreign policy (as least as regards potential marriages), and about Sir Walter Raleigh (not one of the king's favourite people). He assembled the basis of Charles I's famous art collections, and after his death poets and composers seem to have been more than perfunctorily productive in the lamentation department.

One thing is clear, though. If his death aroused seemingly mediaeval suspicions of poisoning, an emerging modern science made clear through an autopsy report (also part of the exhibition) that he was genuinely sick - with what seems to today's scientists to be typhoid fever. Unfortunately, science hadn't yet got as far as to do anything about the malevolence of Jacobean drains, for which no amount of princely virtues could be much of a match.

Is it my imagination or have I just been able to avoid the over-early signs of Christmas this year? Until this weekend that is: a Scandinavian Christmas market in Rotherhithe. Not so out-of-place as it might sound, because from the days of the docks, there are Norwegian and Finnish seamen's missions established close together and almost within sight of the river; so their Christmas markets combined with a series of commercial stalls along the street between them, to make an all-Scandinavian event.

Plenty of the traditional Christmas, of course, but instead of Santa's sleigh a pair of huskies (not that many seemed to be paying for a ride in the sled - there was hardly the road-space for it, for one thing). There was also plenty of what you might expect from Scandinavia at any time of year: bright designs and bakery (saffron buns or chocolate honey cakes, anyone?), smoked fish, strong drink, knitwear, Moomins, and sweets with names that mean something else in English.

But that was Danish; Finnish being such a singular language, the chances of unfortunate similarities to English are rare. Looking along the shelves of the temporary supermarket in the Finnish church, even the most ordinary sorts of foods appear mysteriously exotic. What about some makkara and hernekeitto with a Lapin Kulta for lunch? Don't worry, that's sausage and pea soup with a bottle of beer.

Oh, and even in Finland, would you expect to see a sauna in a church? Well, it's one way to celebrate a hyvää juolua.

That time of year

Never mind the horrors of what Guy Fawkes had in mind, and of what eventually happened to him, but one bang and some sparklers, and somehow we're all children again:

Something fishy

7.30 am on the coldest morning of the autumn (so far) isn't normally the ideal time to be up and about sightseeing, but if you want to see Billingsgate fish market, that's getting a bit late. And it is only a short bus ride away from me, so there's no excuse for not having visited before.

It's a prosaic shed (quite unlike its former building (now an upmarket conference centre) in the City), and it's tucked into a nondescript plot of land handy for the main road (but no doubt now eyed covetously by no end of property developers).

Once you're inside, the display of fish is as far from the average supermarket display as you could imagine, with whole huge fish and wholesale-size packages of processed products on every side. There are, of course, familiar products of our own waters, like dressed crab for £2.50, and those vacuum-packed kipper fillets with a lump of butter in; uneasy memories were stirred by the sight of a sign for coley (my mother would occasionally boil "six-pennorth of coley for the cat", which would drive the rest of us out of the house) - I had no idea they were such a big fish. But what caught my eye were the exotics, like parrot-fish, needle-fish with alarming green teeth, baby sharks, and the like. That, and the pile of salmon heads (4 for £1) that presumably someone might want for stock.

Eventually, the traders' banter was sounding a little forced, some of the stands were closing, and the pressure-washing of stands, trolleys and floor was moving rather pointedly towards people who were gawping and photographing rather than buying. So it was time for a scallop and bacon roll in one of the onsite cafés (sorry - caffs), and on with the rest of the day's business.