4. Said the bells of Shoreditch

This morning my mother told me that my aunt had found out some information (from a census of the 1880s)about my great-great-great-grandparents John and Mary Troubridge, who then lived in Shoreditch, in Wenlock St. John worked in the dockyards but had also, strangely enough, given his occupation as ’song-writer and composer’. The nearest Tube stop to Wenlock St, Shoreditch, is Old Street – and oddly enough, we were going there today, to meet with the people at Peters’ Edition. So we went, and we found Wenlock St. It must have been fairly comprehensively bombed in the War, like so much of East London, and there was only one old house still standing, the rest was awful post-war blocks of flats. But Shepherdess Place (which Wenlock St runs into) was largely intact, and I think Wenlock St must have looked much like that too (the second photo). And there was an old primary school and church just around the corner from where no. 35 would have been – so perhaps my great-great-grandmother Florence went to school there, and my great-great-great-grandparents worshipped in the church. Strangely enough, on their roll of those who had died on active service in the War was an A. Trowbridge.

(and just down the road on Shepherdess Place, just off City Road, was a pub called The Eagle… as in ‘up and down the City Road / In and out the Eagle / That’s the way the money goes / Pop! goes the weasel!’)

3. In the fen country

I see by my computer, which I’ve left on South Australian time, that it’s 4:04am. That is possibly why I’m feeling rather sleepy right now.

We’ve just got back from a weekend in Cambridge - Roy had what he called an ‘Old Codgers’ dinner at Kings’ College. Partners weren’t invited, unfortunately, but I did manage to slip in with him into the priority seating for Evensong in Kings’ College Chapel, which was rather special. It was a gorgeous afternoon, blue and sunny and clear, and the evening light through the stained glass was just magical. (Rachmaninov Vespers for the Magnificat and Nunc, responses by Phillip Radcliffe and Faure’s Cantique de Jean Racine as the anthem, for those of you who follow these things… plus a truly silly piece of Vierne to finish with; it sounded extraordinarily like a horror-movie soundtrack. Gothic horror, of course.) Roy and I rather disgraced ourselves by giggling at some particularly marvellous bits of King James’ Bible language; the chap sitting next to me (who knew all the responses by heart) gave us a very stern English glare. But honestly, ‘and then he appeared unto the residue…’ – it sounds like a chemical experiment! (And in any case Roy said that chap was a bit odd; as everyone was milling around and meeting their friends, he was wandering from group to group talking about global financial meltdowns and food riots.)

While Roy was mingling with his fellow distinguished alumni, I went for a happy wander around the colleges and the river – it was beautiful but terribly crowded, the weekend before term begins I think so the place was full of enthusiastic freshers and their extended families – many people falling out of punts and much general hilarity. We stayed with a friend who lives in the suburbs, right on the river – the back garden opens out onto the tow path (as you can see in the photo).

This morning we drove up to Ely, to potter around for the day. It is so beautiful, very ancient – one of the oldest places in the Fen country – because it is on a hill, solid ground, with a rather incredible cathedral – the original church was built by Ethelreda in 693 I think and the current cathedral was begun around the time of the Norman Conquest and, in the manner of such things, took several centuries to complete… with the result that it’s rather like a bric-a-brac shop, bits stuck on everywhere, completely assymmetrical, Roman windows alternating with Gothic and as many frills and flourishes as they could stick in. But beautiful… even more beautiful, though, is the Close and the Chapter buildings around - also very old, but they have evolved more gracefully and there are gorgeous gardens and it feels spacious and ancient and magical. I particularly loved the meadow area just behind the Deanery – suddenly you feel like you’re in the country but you look up and there’s the Cathedral looming there. We wandered around the old streets and down to the river (Cam) and watched barges and swans. It doesn’t take long at all to walk out of town, along the river, and suddenly you’re there, in the Fen country…  so low and so flat, green and peaty and a big pale sky, very still, full of reflections.

And then we got in the car and I managed to negotiate the terrifying M25 (the London orbital freeway) and nobody crashed into me so that was good. It’s scary. Roy’s currently doing the dishes, which is an excellent thing… so I shall stay quietly up here in the bedroom and not distract him.

We spent the latter part of last week sleepily (in my case) reorganising a lot of the house (mostly to fit in all my possessions). This has involved putting up some more kitchen shelves, a bit of serious op-shopping (and a trip to Ikea), a lot of me wandering into wherever Roy’s working and saying things like ‘Where on earth did you get this from?’ and ‘Do you really need eight suitcases and sixteen double sheets and about seven thousand little hotel shampoo and conditioner bottles?’ Quite fun really.  I made a solo excursion to Wimbledon on Friday (which was my most jetlagged day, as it happened) and visited every single opshop (of which there are many) and homeware store looking for suitable containers to store things like spare kitchen utensils and seven thousand hotel shampoo and conditioner bottles in (actually, I did a cull; there aren’t quite that many now). Wimbledon Village (the upper, older, posher part) is beautiful and reasonably peaceful, if extremely up itself; lower Wimbledon is more approachable but full of people, so many people, and it’s noisy and chaotic and rather overwhelming for a jetlagged and extremely foreign-feeling Adelaidean.  I do rather wish that more people would smile at me. They don’t, as a general rule, in the streets. I miss walking into shops and greeting the shopkeepers (as one must always do in France) and being greeted in return; here, in so many shops, the shopkeepers avert their eyes when you come in. Which at least makes you feel less guilty about not buying anything. Even this morning, wandering along the towpath by the Cam, I passed so many people, walking and jogging and cycling, and of all of them only one returned my smile and said ‘good morning’! I really don’t want to use this blog to moan about London or England or to draw unfavourable comparisons, but I have to say that this – this pattern of interaction, or non-interaction – does trouble me.

Roy’s just come in to say he’s managed to cut both his index fingers while doing the dishes, and he can’t find the bandaids or the antiseptic cream (on my reorganisation mission, I cleaned out the bathroom cupboards and jettisoned various medicines that were 10 – in one case 20 years past their use-by dates, then went to Boots and bought a new stock of first aid supplies. These are now arranged in a nice tidy basket on the bottom shelf). Anyway, that’s nearly enough to make me feel guilty about skiving off the dishes, so I shall go and look after him. 

 

The view from our bedroom window, looking onto the River Cam, about 7am

Ely Cathedral, from the Deanery Meadow

The view from our bedroom window in London, 7pm

2. ‘They order these things better in France’

Notice at the end of a letter from Électricité Réseau Distribution France

Information aux heureux propriétaires de chiens:

Votre compagnon n’est certainement pas méchant mais il peut avoir ses têtes ou se sentir agressé. Aussi, je vous remercie de prendre des précautions pour éviter un éventuel incident.

Notice to all fortunate dog owners:

While your companion is undoubtedly not vicious, he may still have his moods or feel a little threatened. Therefore, we thank you for taking precautions in order to avoid a possible incident.

1. Being a job description for the post of immigration officer, Heathrow Airport.

Ever secretly dreamed of being the dictator of some small South American country?

Ever wanted to make people grovel at your feet and beg for mercy? Ever wanted to feel like the most powerful person in the world? Then this job is definitely for you.

 

• When supplicants arrive at your counter, on no account say ‘good morning’ or ‘welcome to Britain’. Even a simple ‘hello’ may encourage over-familiarity. Instead, bark (this is vital), ‘Why are you here?’
• if anybody mentions the words ‘academic’ or ‘research’, look very, very suspicious (you may wish to practise narrowing your eyes and baring your teeth).  Musicologists In particular should be treated with extreme caution (although if you actually know what a musicologist is, then you are over-qualified for this job).
• Remember that a working holiday visa has been issued solely for the purposes of ‘extended cultural enrichment’. (If the thought should occur to you that two years is rather a long period to do nothing but be culturally enriched, banish it). Important note: undertaking a little freelance research (there’s that word again) or writing does in no way count as cultural enrichment. As Alexander Pope put it, a little learning is a dangerous thing.
• It is your duty to teach people passing into the UK  that glib expediency is always better than honesty. On no account is any variation on the standard interchange to be allowed. We are British and we like rules. (After all, we’ve been ruled by a Germany family ever since Handel began writing operas, although the two events are not necessarily connected.)
• Therefore, don’t ever, ever let anybody try to explain themselves. (Note: Australians are particularly given to this.) If anyone ventures to put together more than three words at a time, tell them they’re being rude and aggressive. You should practise yelling a lot; an extended stream of vitriol will come in handy at this point. (Note: if you know what the word irony means, don’t even bother applying.)
• If they refuse to grovel in an appropriate manner (lowered eyes, aspect of abject humiliation, attempts to kiss feet etc.), threaten to cancel their visa. Works every time.