The old bowling green in Clissold Park has recently become a martial arts zone. Of particular interest is the modern hybrid form practiced by two white-tracksuited youngsters. It looks to be a combination of tai chi, judo, robotic dancing and generally hanging around looking bored. Quite how this form would fair in straight combat is hard to say, though the bright white robes/shellsuits might be off-putting enough to an attacker for the martial artists to leg it in the other direction.
Golden skies over Holloway
The daffodils are out in Clissold Park. Squat dogs round and through them.
"Kaiser! Butch! Over here!" shouts an angry looking man with little hair. The sky over Lower Holloway is golden but greyness is descending as the wind picks up. A blue plastic bag joins us on our walk and keeps pace for a while before blowing up into the branches of a tree.
The old tin box factory on Blackstock Road
In my post-pub dreams the old deserted tin box factory on Blackstock Road was going to be turned into something exciting. Any day now. Over the years it has been the site of:
1) A writers' retreat with running water and personalised minibars
2) A cafe for nymphomaniac jazz chicks
3) A zoo for put-upon grey squirrels
4) A cinema for stay-at-home dads
5) A swimming pool for people with dodgy knees
6) A museum of cheese
Unfortunately I always dreamed these things but never did anything about them. Now the bulldozers have arrived and the old deserted tin box factory on Blackstcok Road is now just a few piles of browny-yellow brick.
So which of my ideas will become reailty? Or will it become just another shite block of modernist flats?
Avoiding the sailor
On days like this when I’m really busy it’s essential that, when popping out on errands, I manage to avoid the sailor. Whenever I bump into the sailor he tends to take up a blocking position that is impossible to counter. And I am stuck.
The sailor’s favourite topics of conversation are:
1) The speedbumps in the road that lorries drive over and keep him awake at night
2) The inevitablity of the UK become a Muslim state
3) Women and how he doesn’t have much luck with them
A while ago I rushed out to the corner shop to buy some herbs for some fish I was cooking. The sailor must have been hiding in undergrowth in his front garden for he suddenly popped out in front of me, took up the blocking position and started to tell me about his relationship with Michael Flatley, the Riverdance bloke. He even had a photo of the two of them in his jacket pocket.
ME: Got to go. I’m in a hurry.
THE SAILOR: You’re always in a hurry. You need to relax a bit more.
And it's true. I only ever seem to meet the sailor when I’m pushed for time.
Now and again I will try to predict where I’ll meet him. I’ll change direction at the last minute, but there he’ll be. He must have some kind of high tech sonar equipment built into his fedora.
“In 15 years time we will all be Muslim, you know.”
Parkland Walk
A slow walk with my daughter to Park Walk on the western edge of Finsbury Park. It's on the route of an old railway line which the Victorians built to link Stroud Green to the Winchester Hall Tavern on Archway Road. Commuters would leave the Finsbury Park area in the eary morning then get massively drunk at The Winchester and roll off home in the evening.
"Did you have a good day at the office, dear?"
"God it was tough. Took ages to get served."
The Newspaper Dilemma
On days like this when I'm really busy playing Operation with my daughter I'm faced with a dilemma. Do I go to the nearest newspaper shop, where the head guy doesn't really speak English (apart from 'hello' and 'yes boss') or go a bit further away - in fact, cross over the border into Hackney borough, on the other side of Mountgrove Road, to get my papers from Dursun. Dursun and his family are interesting talkative types. But his shop is about 30 yards further away.
I used to go to Dursun’s all the time but now I try to save time by going to the shop that’s nearest. What I think I’m going to do with this saved time I haven’t really considered. It's only about an extra minute. And I only buy three newspapers a week these days. That’s three minutes a week, 156 minutes a year. Could I write a novel in the time available? Yes, in theory. In 156 minutes I reckon I could do around 1500 words. So for a shortish 80,000 word novel, it’d take me 53 years. So I’ll have finsihed it by the time I’m 93.
It seems ridiculous but I think it's a worthwhile project and soemthing to keep me occupied when I’m an old dodderer. I’m going to give it a working title of The Newspaper Novel. One minute a day.
By the way, today I persuaded my wife to get the paper as I didn't want to leave the house. Some of the plastic bones from Operation have gone missing and I needed to do a scan of the living room. I think they’ve been deliberately hidden because my daughter knows they are my lucky bones.
Fox Rodent Hybrid Nut Fiends
A mother is walking through the park with a small boy following behind, dribbling a football. A squirrel runs across their path.
"I used to see red squirrels when I was little," says mum. The boy isn't listening. He's doing commentaries to himself as he jogs along.
" There were lots of them at my Auntie Jo's house," she says. The boy kicks the ball against the fence and makes a crowd noise. His mum sighs.
"They're mostly grey squirrels now."