Streets of London

Let me take you by the hand....

In the winter of '71 (I think - it was some years ago.....) I stayed with my second (?) cousin Jasper and his wife.  They had a flat on the third floor in Vauxhall Bridge Road and I was a wayward sixth former with pretensions towards further education...

Anyway, it became dark, and it became quiet, and we realised that it was snowing.  All of a (what's the opposite of sudden?) we realised that this was a Dickensian moment.

So we hurried to explore the city in their Ford Prefect, and soon the headlights were blinded by snowflakes and the wheels were slathering in the slurry of dying snowmen in deserted squares.  

It was an eerie, timeless experience.  I don't believe that anything similar has happened since, in London.....

Until, perhaps, now.... In a curious way, the Covid 19 blight has recreated the silence of those city streets.  I have not walked undeafened in London until now, and it is extraordinary.  This very morning I wandered across the Western centre of our greatest metropolis, and you could hear a bee buzz...

It is (almost) possible to breathe...

It is almost possible to pause and greet a passer-by without feeling it's all improper....

One could almost be enticed to catch a bus  on Regent Street (though there is the fear that that may not be all you would catch....)

And there is also the thought that you could pitch camp on the street and not really cause any harm...

Though the churches are closed, they still embrace wanderers in their porticoes....

And for those with access to wheels, it's a free paradise at the moment...

But, though you may have to crane your neck for them, there are signs that all is not well.  It's a sic-fi world.  Butterflies were trampled years ago for this....

I am about to reach out to this young woman to say beware, this road is dangerous.....  But before I make a fool of myself I see the emptiness around me, and remain a lonely cameraman....

Nearing the great pile of Gilbert Scott's St Pancras Hotel I am almost taken in by the shiny marble, but find that all is not what it seems....

And down the road I am brought back to Ralph McTell's new verse of his legendary hit Streets of London .

First recorded in 1969, the song at one point sold 90,000 copies a day and has been covered by more than 200 artists. It also won Ralph an Ivor Novello award for best song and continues to feature in folk music's "best of" playlists.

In March of this year Fergal Keane talked to his neighbour, and as a result Ralph added a verse to his career-defining hit song.

In shop doorways, under bridges, in all our towns and cities

You can glimpse the makeshift bedding from the corner of your eye

Remember what you're seeing barely hides a human being

We're all in this together, brother, sister, you and I.

Despite, or inspite of, the attempts of the gods of government, the city has lost its heart.  There are signs of life, but they are insipid, and there is no way they will pay the price of this virus.  

I know this will infuriate some, but at the Eurostar terminal things are quiet, and I cannot help but feel that this muffled disaster is like a suppurating wound hidden by the gangrenous bandage of Brexit.  

John Betjeman stands aloof on the first floor, a master of words, but a set of bones sticking through the flesh of the world he loved.  If he were here today, would he understand Dylan's Murder Most Foul?  Or would his attitude be that of amused and befuddled bystander where German Bombs were acceptable on Slough?

I have had enough of this heartless city.  I follow a cyclist down the escalator to happiness...

I wait upon the departure platform to hopefulness...

And then, on my walk home from the station I find traces of life that simply didn't make it....

In shop doorways, under bridges, in all our towns and cities

You can glimpse the makeshift bedding from the corner of your eye

Remember what you're seeing barely hides a human being

We're all in this together, brother, sister, you and I.

So how can you tell me you're lonely,

And say for you that the sun don't shine.

Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London

I'll show you something to make you change your mind

Ralph McTell

It's strange that those we miss the most 

Are those we take for granted.

John Betjeman

What A Wonderful World.....

And I think to myself.....

I see trees of green

Red roses too

I see them bloom

For me and you

Yes, the human beans are back in the field.... And all is rosy. Nothing could be finer (than to be in a care home diner....)

All this lock-in/up/down we have been yearning for the things we missed. And now, perhaps, we can see clearer. Yes we....

 can see clearly now the rain is gone

I can see all obstacles in my way

Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind

It's gonna be a bright (bright)

Bright (bright) sunshiny day

It's gonna be a bright (bright)

Bright (bright) sunshiny day

Johnny Nash

It's a glorious morning....

And it's so good to bee

A live....

[Comma]

Even in the dark woods

Where the nettles blow

And old chestnuts die

Who would be a Red Admiral?

Or a Marbled White?

A Small Skipper?

A gatekeeper?

Or even a Large White?

[Size isn't everything....]

It's too much to swallow....

But it's better by far,

than being in a car.....

Or in some fairy shanty town....

Please don't be a teasel....

Give us a rye smile....

And move over darling.....

The colors of the rainbow

So pretty in the sky

Are also on the faces

Of people going by

I see friends shaking hands

Saying, "How do you do?"

They're really saying

"I love you"

Yes, I think to myself

What a wonderful world

Oh yeah

[Written by Bob Thiele and George Weiss]

Oh, yes I can make it now the pain is gone

All of the bad feelings have disappeared

Here is that rainbow I've been praying for

It's gonna be a bright (bright)

Bright (bright) sunshiny day

Look all around, there's nothing but blue skies

Look straight ahead, there's nothing but blue skies

Johnny Nash

Oh Yeah!

Thanks Louis!

I remember, in 1971, I was on a train, and I saw a discarded newspaper with the headline Louis Armstrong dies.  It was 1971.  I was 20, you were 71, and no more.....  

It was a wonderful world

 

Who knows where the time goes?

Who Knows Where the Time Goes?

Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving

But how can they know it's time for them to go?

Before the winter fire, I will still be dreaming

I have no thought of time

For who knows where the time goes?

I'm just back from Kingshill Cemetery, Berkhamsted, where we have just interred my mother's ashes in my father's (and her) grave.  My black Skoda the hearse, a purple cardboard box the coffin....

It's not far off ten years since dad died, and though I still miss him, I guess I was getting used to it.  Then mum passed away at the end of October last year, and we managed to get together as a family for a funeral in December....

Since then we've been waiting for the right time, with family all over the place, and the world struck down by a virus, and waiting for the stone to be cut....

And all that time she's been with me, in my room, waiting to be back with her man....

With the virus in mind (and travel restrictions) we decided I would go ahead with the burial, and then we will get together when we can, and visit and mourn and celebrate....

I thought it would be easy.  A piece of cake, perhaps....  She died at the age of 96, severely affected by dementia, and in these last months of lockdown, I have often thought that it was merciful and good that she passed away before this wretched time.  And I thought today would be a simple act, a kindness, of sorts.

But....  Then come washing back the waves of years, the memories of life and youth, and happiness.

Who knows where the time goes?

Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving

Ah, but then you know it's time for them to go

But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving

I do not count the time

For who knows where the time goes?

I notice a bumble bee entering a hole by a neighbouring grave.  The sexton tells me there are several nests around, and that the badgers from adjacent Brickhill Green (where I used to ride my bike in and out the claypits) dig them up and unearth the graves.

Nature, take your path....

I take Amanda for a walk in Hockeridge Woods, just down the hill from the cemetery.  I grew up round here, and as a family we walked here timeless times. Later I took my own girls here, telling the names of trees....  

These beautiful woods, owned by the Royal Forestry Society, have grown with me throughout life.  I wish there were more like them...

We used to stop sometimes by these shaded picnic tables.  It was in this grove the pictures at the head of this piece were taken, many years ago.

It's quiet here now.

Sandy Denny wrote the song I've chosen here. It was the last song she sang in public, before her untimely death, the result of a mixture of drink and dangerous medications and a catastrophic fall down stairs.

The song itself, and Sandy's life and death, have nothing to do with my parents. But she had the voice of an angel, and I find her thoughts on the passing of time appropriate to this day.

I don't mean this flippantly, but I often think of Sandy, especially when I come down the stairs at home.  Who knows where the time has gone?  And who knows when our time will come....?

Who knows where the time goes?

And I am not alone while my love is near me

I know it will be so until it's time to go

So come the storms of winter and then 

The birds in spring again

I have no fear of time

For who knows how my love grows?

And who knows where the time goes?

The Lady

Alexandra Elene

MacLean Lucas

(Sandy Denny)

6·1·47 – 21·4·78

In memoriam

Mum and Dad