60 Going On 16

The window cleaner's theory of home

I said farewell to the window cleaner earlier this week and can honestly say that I will miss him. He is something of a gem among window cleaners, does a great job, has never once raised his prices in all the years he has been coming here and, as befits a true window cleaner, is the fount of all knowledge on matters local. 

He wasn't surprised to learn that, although I will miss the beauty of Exmoor, the good friends I have made in Devon, and the wildlife in my garden, I won't miss the village and the grumpy neighbours. 

"It's a funny place. They're a miserable bunch aren't they? I won't take on any new jobs here. Mind you, I feel like that about X . . .," X being the neighbouring village where he lives. "They're a miserable bunch too." 

And then we had a chat about connectedness and how some places immediately feel like home and others never do, however long you live there. As an ex-army sergeant, he's lived in many parts of the world but feels most at home in Kent, on the other side of England - because that's where he raised his family. He'd been back recently for his first grandson's naming ceremony and had found it very hard to leave. I mentioned this conversation to my daughter as we both have neighbour problems. "We were so lucky in Notting Hill, weren't we?" she reflected.  "Well, yes," I replied, "but don't forget the exceptions." 

The development in which we lived was something of a mini-United Nations, with residents from all over the world. For the most part, we all got along very well and many of us forged deep and long-lasting friendships that continue to this day, even though we no longer live there. However, among the delightful neighbours, there were a few blips.

"There was that odd chap, P," I recalled," the pasty-faced, middle-aged, short-tempered loner, who never opened his curtains." We all used to wonder what went on behind them.  

Then there was the family from Nigeria, who ran a car repair business from their postage stamp front garden.  And the four young Sudanese who had noisy barbecues every night during the summer, filling our bedrooms with smoke and the smell of burning flesh (not quite what you need as a veggie), then flooding the basement services area and their own ground floor, when they attempted to do their own plumbing. This involved drilling a hole through the kitchen floor and sticking their washing machine's drainage pipe into it. They weren't much cop in the house-cleaning department either and were responsible for a cockroach invasion, which spread to the entire development. The pest infestation officer said he'd never seen anything like it; when he eventually gained access to their maisonette, he'd opened the door to their service ducts and thousands of the beasties had tumbled out. Oh, how we all laughed . . . . 

Thankfully, the four young men were replaced by a delightful couple, also from Sudan, and who introduced us to Sudanese food; they would regularly knock at our door bearing culinary gifts. And I still have the book on Sufi mysticism, given to me by Turkish neighbours when they moved away.

There was also the quiet, elderly Iranian, who would occasionally attend residents' meetings but who generally kept himself very much to himself. One night I went into the area were the household waste paladins were stored and found hundreds of large hardback books, piled up from floor to ceiling. They were English language versions of a biography of the Ayatollah Khomeini, written, as it turned out, by our Iranian neighbour. A quick scan of the pages and it became clear that he was a very big fan of the Ayatollah. We never did discover why he'd deposited so many copies of his magnum opus in the bin area, nor what happened to them. This was, after all, in the days before recycling collections. 

An honourable mention too, for the very posh but argumentative and shouty type who lived above us, who would periodically get drunk and abuse everybody within hearing distance. From time to time, his equally posh mummy would arrive to try to to sort him out. She never succeeded. 

But, for most of us, there were years of informal parties, lunches and dinners; glasses of wine, cups of tea and coffee, and confidences shared, as well as many wonderful and sometimes bizarre conversations. We all had sets of each other's keys - in case keys anyone was locked out, or deliveries had to be taken in, or homes needed to be checked while owners were away. We were also united in our ongoing battles with the inept and bungling freeholders, battles which - 30 years after we all first moved there - continue, apparently. Our friendships have transcended the inevitable moving away to other parts of the country, to elsewhere in Europe and beyond - in one case  to China - as families expand and children grow up and leave home, while other people retire, and and as work and personal circumstances prevail.

So, when an envelope arrived containing an invitation to the private view later this month of an exhibition of paintings and illustrations by one of my former neighbours, I realised that if I got my skates on and moved in time, I might just make it.  Because it wasn't just the invitation, it was the signed, handwritten note attached to it. "We do hope you can make it. We would love to see you again . . ."

Shoulder to shoulder

July 7 is one of those days in the year - at least since 2005 - when I withdraw into myself, just for a while. Four years ago, at 8.50 am, I was in a crowded train at Edgware Road Station, when  - across the platform in a train going in the opposite direction - a young man detonated the bomb in his rucksack, killing and injuring many of those around him.

None of us realised what had happened and, when asked to leave the train and the station because of "a power surge", we obediently trooped up the stairs to Marylebone Road. Like most of the passengers that morning, I was on my way to work - in my case to see clients in North London. All we knew was that there was a problem on the Underground (nothing unusual in that) and we would have to find an alternative way to reach our respective destinations - by bus or by foot. 

Since none of us was aware, at that stage, that London was in the grip of the most extensive simultaneous bombings since the Blitz, we had no idea just how impossible our journeys would be. Some of us eventually made it onto a bus going towards Kings Cross Station but it became increasingly clear that something outside was very wrong indeed. People were pouring out of every station en route, and the streets were filled with thousands of commuters looking baffled and worried. On the bus, we were all making frantic phone calls to workplaces, to families, to friends. And we still didn't know what was happening; nor did the bus driver.

At Euston Station,  almost an hour after we had left Edgware Road, our bus was diverted into Tavistock Square, which was not the direction I wanted so I dismounted and began to walk away from the square. At 9.47 am, another young man in a bus on the other side of the square detonated the bomb in his rucksack. 

Four bombs went off across London that morning; 52 people were killed and hundreds more injured. I know how very fortunate I am to have walked away, physically unscathed, from two of those bombs. If I had ever taken my life for granted in the past, 7 July changed that forever. 

Today, in Hyde Park a memorial to those who died, will be unveiled. It is simple, dignified and has been designed in consultation with the victims' families. Many of the survivors will be there; others will be with them in spirit.

Just three days after the bombing, and in different but traumatic circumstances, we lost a young and much-loved member of our immediate family, someone who was doing good work that mattered and that helped to transform people's lives. So these early July days have a particular poignancy for us. We each reflect in our own way but are comforted by the knowledge that we are not alone. And that we are still here.

Screen idol

It didn't matter that he was only a dot on the stage and that we had to watch him on the mega screens. It didn't even matter that the clutch on my car decided to go into meltdown as I arrived in London. (No, I didn't do a Basil FawIty but I did give it a good talking to and left it parked on a side street.) It didn't matter that I had to wait after the concert until 11.30pm for the RAC man to turn up and then another hour for the recovery vehicle. It didn't matter that the car and I went back to the Chilterns on a lorry and that I didn't get to bed until 2.00am. And I tried to think that  it didn't matter that I faced a very large repair bill the next day . . .

Bruce Springsteen at the Hard Rock Calling Festival in Hyde Park on Sunday was like being at a fairground party with all your best friends (and cousins, in my case). 

 

Bruce and the E Street Band could do no wrong. Even the press thought so, as you can see here and here.  I haven't had such a good time at a rock concert for 25 years - and that was Bruce too.

A respectful nod in the direction of the Clash came in the form of a white-hot version of London Calling to open the show. Much appreciated by all the Joe Strummer fans in the audience. To close, Dancing in the Dark; inevitable perhaps, but none the less thrilling for all that. Almost too many highlights to list, although the Boss's rendition of an old Stephen Foster song, Hard Times Come Again No More will stay with me for a long time - into my dotage, probably.

In an otherwise sad week, and with my cousin due to have surgery two days after the concert, it was just what we needed to take us out of ourselves - to the place that only music can. And for the three hours that Bruce and the band were on stage, we were more than happy to be there.

 

Farewell to the Chocolate Wonder

I would have written today about seeing the Boss at Hyde Park on Sunday but I'll save that for later in the week. I've been staying with my daughter and her husband in the Chilterns and, by yesterday morning, it became clear that their elderly labrador and part-time Devon resident, the Divine Miss M, otherwise known as the Chocolate Wonder, was struggling . . . 

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you'll know that the Divine Miss M was diagnosed with osteosarcoma last October. The prognosis was, inevitably, not good; the vet advised us that my daughter's beloved dog would probably not make it beyond the New Year. As it turned out, she lived on for eight months, made it to her 13th birthday, and still managed to live her canine life to the full, until very recently. Her labrador love of snacks, however, never faltered.

Yesterday afternoon, one of the Divine Miss M's favourite vets came to the house to do that last, kind thing that we can do for our companion animals when they are suffering. It was quiet and very peaceful and our Chocolate Wonder slipped gently away. That night, over in London, Buddhist friends began their traditional 40 nights of chanting; something they do for the passing of any sentient being known to them - human and animal. 

Like all our  dogs, the Chocolate Wonder had been rehomed. She'd spent most of her first year in a crate, with few opportunities to run free off-lead, bought as a status symbol by a well-heeled family, who hadn't a clue how to care for animals and who weren't prepared to put in the time and effort needed to ensure that a puppy grows up to be a well-trained, properly fed, happy adult dog. When she was just a year old, the family decided that they couldn't be bothered with her any longer and handed her over to the local dog warden, instructing him to rehome her. Fortunately, the dog warden knew my daughter . . . 

For my daughter and the Divine Miss M, it was love at first sight, just as it was for my two dogs, the Squadron Leader and the Rough Diamond, when they met the Chocolate Wonder in 1997 at Buckhill in Kensington Gardens. Entering by separate gates they spotted one another immediately, ran towards each other and that was that. They became a pack for life and, in June 2000, that pack was extended to include two tabby kittens, although no-one is quite sure whether the cats became honorary dogs or the dogs became honorary cats. When the Squadron Leader died in 2005, the Edinburgh Boy joined us and brought the pack number up to five again.

The past seven months have seen that pack reduced to just two: the Edinburgh Boy and his remaining feline chum. There's altogether too much empty space and I think it will take a while to get the hang of putting out only two feeding bowls . . .

Just gimme that rock 'n' roll music

Away for a few days (dogs in tow) and making the most of the al fresco opportunities offered by what has turned out, so far, to be the best British summer for ages.

Yesterday, my sister, C, and her husband hosted a farewell party for their youngest daughter and her fiance. Work is taking them to Sydney, Australia for two years and family and friends turned up to wish them bon voyage. As it happens, C loves a party and knows how to give one, so everyone had a great time, including the Edinburgh Boy, who was fed chopped up turkey burgers by my brother-in-law. Plenty to eat and drink for the human guests too; everyone talking away to everyone else; music in the background, and it was hot, hot, hot. As the Irish in us would say, it was great craic.

It seemed that many of the guests (including me)  had offspring who were spending the weekend at Glastonbury and we, as in the 50- and 60-something parents, were all in agreement that, with this year's line-up, we would have loved to have been there too: Neil Young on Friday, Crosby, Stills and Nash and Bruce Springsteen last night . . . UK readers can see what they missed here.

And then, one by one, the 50- and 60-something party guests began to mention, just casually, whom they had recently seen, or were off to see, including U2 and Leonard Cohen. No surprise, really; this is a generation that was weaned on rock 'n' roll and popular music and is not about to give up the thrill and atmosphere of a live performance any time soon.

As for me, I'll be heading off a little later today to meet more of my music-loving / party-loving family at the Hard Rock Calling Festival in Hyde Park, where the Boss awaits us. So, if you happen to stumble across a couple of blondes of a certain age, dancing the night away to Bruce Springsteen, it'll be my cousin S and me, for sure, just carrying on as we have done since we were teenagers in London together, back in the 1960s, still loving the music.

Here's just one reason why:

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