Diary of the Plague Year: Day 18 2 April 2020: Mown paths

 

I have mown paths around the apple trees and narcissi.

Listening to Rameau Les Indes Galantes.

And whilst reading Michael Longley this thought suddenly came into my head: “What clothes we used to wear!”. No idea why.

But what clothes we used to wear!

A tartan nightshirt over leggings and pixie boots.
Layers of junk shop skirts
Bandanas
Junk shop earrings
A pair of striped metallic silver leggings so that I looked like a young tough in a Renaissance painting
Tiny, knitted mini-skirts worn, luckily, with thick tights and flat shoes
A peculiar mustard velour miniskirt that looked like it was made from carpet
Chef’s trousers
Zouaves – does anyone even remember what those are?
A gigantic tank top that must have been made for the fat man at the circus from Flip or was it Mr Howie?
A HUGE blue mohair tam-o-shanter – in payment for the first painting I ever sold
The pièce de résistance – the bottom half of some prison pyjamas, grey-and-white striped tucked into the aforementioned pixie boots under a moth-eaten old fur coat, with diamante clips in my hair – one half of my head shaved.  I remember sashaying down some steps at a Hayward opening and seeing Waldemar Januszczak at the bottom slack-jawed in amazement, as well he might. I thought I was the bees knees. I’m not sure what he was thinking, nothing remotely similar I’m sure. Strangely though, I was not a confident young person but I did have a lot of bravado.

 

 

 

 

Diary of the Plague Year: Day 18 2 April 2020: An old photo

It is a beautiful sunny morning.

I think I will mow the grass.

It’s funny what comes into your head when reading poetry. After reading Jo Shapcott’s Of Mutability I had the most vivid memory of a bedroom ceiling. It was the ceiling of the first flat I owned, in Camberwell, essentially the kitchen and scullery of an 18th century rectory.  And then the photograph of the flat fell out of The Whitsun Weddings. Tiny, and when I saw it, in the hands of the banks and looking very sad.  The fireplaces had all been boarded up by the previous landlord and nasty, smelly brown carpet throughout. The kitchen was a void without even a sink.

I have loved all the places I have lived for various reasons.  At first, I  loved this flat because of the magnolia tree in the garden, old and huge with bowl-like flowers. The garden had been carved up as so often in London conversions and I had the patch with the ancient magnolia, next door had an even more ancient mulberry. The fabric of the house went back to medieval times with wattle and daub foundations and Walter, thrillingly, said he could “feel something” …. I  never did.

I bought it by sheer fluke. I had just come back from Africa and was waiting for a bus – buying anything, much less a flat, was far from my mind. I had spent all my money on safari – my Dad had died and left me a tiny amount and I blew it all on the trip. I was living in a very expensive rented flat and wondered as I mooched around the estate agent’s window  – would that damn 36 ever arrive? – if buying would be as expensive as renting? With nothing to lose I went inside and started to chat to the woman at the desk. A dapper man breezed in and instantly said – “Enid, she looks like an Old Rectory Type”. Was this a good thing? I wondered, also to be classified so instantly was rather insulting. Anyway to cut a long story short it turns out I am an Old Rectory Type because the moment I walked in I knew I would buy it if only for the big old magnolia in the tiny garden.

The flat itself was minute – a sitting room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. Very dark, very tatty but with the tree in the garden, its branches tapping at the window.

Anyway weeks of hard work paid off. Ripping off the hardboard covering the fireplaces revealed beautiful Victorian fireplaces with their original tiles. I found an old German sink with brass taps in a reclamation yard and suddenly had a functioning kitchen but with no cooker for weeks until I managed to save for one. I existed on sandwiches in the interim.

The most exciting moment was walking in after the carpet had been ripped up and the floorboards sanded. Floorboards that had not seen the light of day for decades suddenly had a honey slick, so glowing and pristine so that I could hardly bear to walk on them. And after that the tiny flat became home. I found a wardrobe in a junk shop that just fitted its alcove, some ancient linen curtains looked just at home and I painted the bedroom ceiling cerulean blue and hung a kitsch old lantern. I woke up to a warm blue glow every morning. Most of the end wall of the bedroom was taken up by ancient rattling sash windows –  so cold in the winter with an icy draught whistling round my head.

The sitting room was the old scullery with a stone slab where the old washing copper would once have stood.  I painted one wall a pale, jonquil yellow and another a dark, shiny aubergine. Another rattly sash window and a door into the garden. I found it very easy to be happy in that tiny flat. Dark summer London evenings with the Proms on the radio and my legs dangling over the side of the minute two-seater sofa. It is hard to describe that solitary happiness, alone in the warm summer night with the faint sound of sirens carrying on the warm air, it was like living in a music box.

Wells Way Window

 

 

 

 

Diary of the Plague Year: Day 9 25 March 2020: Deptford Market

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Taken at Deptford Market some time ago. I fear for London. It sounds as if the NHS is already on its knees and there is not enough equipment, masks, protective clothing etc. Meanwhile people who have to go to work are crammed on overcrowded trains and tubes. This is just the beginning. People are losing jobs. Freelancers, musicians, artists, have lost their incomes overnight. The banks, meanwhile, are talking about putting up overdraft rates to 39%. To top it all the Bozo’s henchman has been reported as saying losing a few pensioners would not matter. It is the poorest who will suffer the most as usual, although if more middle-class jobs start to go it may just make people start to think. If you voted for the Bozo and are now considered collateral damage you might start to think.