On being a Member of the Flock.
I have already spoken of the occasional need to guide lost members of my flock back to the righteous path--- (See Ministering to my Flock, November Archive)
I can now report what it is to be on the other side, to be a member of the flock of The Lost Souls of London.
What I had to find was Holloway Market. I had actually been there before by catching a 91 bus from Crouch End, but this time I had arrived in Holloway by the 29 bus from Camden Town, and at the corner of Holloway Road and Seven Sisters Road, streetscapes in all directions looked remarkably similar. It is Christmas shopping time, and I had been successful at Camden Lock in finding two skirts for Emma, but what defeated me was a certain item for Pennie (It must remain nameless until after Christmas). Maybe Holloway market could supply.
First you have to be canny about whom to ask. The first two, a 30-ish woman, had little English and no idea. The second, a young African, was not too sure but thought the Market was weekends only. The third man confidently directed me first right up there, which proved to be a dead end with not a stall in sight. The next, a Canadian girl, to judge by her accent, wrestled with it a while and gave me two possibles, in opposite directions, in a very helpful and concerned way.
Changing tack, I asked an older, apparently native Pom, gent, who unerringly set me on track, but added the tip to go through the Safeway carpark as a shortcut. And so it proved. But still no luck, Holloway Market did provide one useful additional item, but not the elusive Holy Grail. Watch this spot to see what Pennie got for Christmas.
Lest you think, “Oh Dear, he’s losing the plot…” let me assure you the old charisma has asserted itself, and at Kings Cross Underground station the other night, awaiting a train to Amersham, I was approached by no less than four persons for advice.
The station is very confusing, because for historical reasons one set of platforms serves three distinct lines, the Hammersmith and City, the Circle, and the Metropolitan. A Frenchman wanted Northwick Park: I thought quickly, shoved him towards the train standing at the platform but the doors closed just a moment too soon, so I said catch any Uxbridge train, All Stops, or Semi-Fast. (I had been overhearing the station announcements and was beginning to get the idea).
A European of indeterminate nationality and little English wanted “Lad…something”: I guessed Ladbroke Grove and set him up with a Hammersmith train.
A Chinese man, with unmistakeable native London accent, wanted to know if all trains stopped at Baker Street. Obligingly standing away from the route map, which I had obscured by standing in front of it, we established that yes, all did. In retrospect I think it was just his polite ruse to get me out of the way.
An English couple, confessing they had not been back to London for years and had lost their bearings, wanted Paddington, so any Hammersmith or Circle train was fine for them, but I tried to do a deal first: if I found them a Paddington train, they had to find me an Amersham train. They agreed readily (just jokes) but theirs turned up first and I watched 5 or 6 trains come and go before ‘Amersham’ finally showed on the front of the next one.
And at Amersham that night, the annual dinner of the Amersham and District Omnibus Society was a most convivial affair. I met a couple who own an ex-London Transport double decker of unusual type, and a 1904 James and Brown motor car which they use in the London to Brighton run (I probably saw them at Hyde Park corner on that November morning), and are great pals with a lady I know well in Turramurra, one of my former washing machine customers. The beer, India Pale Ale, was superb, as was the pub dinner, and the night went in a hubbub of earnest bus discussions.
I can now report what it is to be on the other side, to be a member of the flock of The Lost Souls of London.
What I had to find was Holloway Market. I had actually been there before by catching a 91 bus from Crouch End, but this time I had arrived in Holloway by the 29 bus from Camden Town, and at the corner of Holloway Road and Seven Sisters Road, streetscapes in all directions looked remarkably similar. It is Christmas shopping time, and I had been successful at Camden Lock in finding two skirts for Emma, but what defeated me was a certain item for Pennie (It must remain nameless until after Christmas). Maybe Holloway market could supply.
First you have to be canny about whom to ask. The first two, a 30-ish woman, had little English and no idea. The second, a young African, was not too sure but thought the Market was weekends only. The third man confidently directed me first right up there, which proved to be a dead end with not a stall in sight. The next, a Canadian girl, to judge by her accent, wrestled with it a while and gave me two possibles, in opposite directions, in a very helpful and concerned way.
Changing tack, I asked an older, apparently native Pom, gent, who unerringly set me on track, but added the tip to go through the Safeway carpark as a shortcut. And so it proved. But still no luck, Holloway Market did provide one useful additional item, but not the elusive Holy Grail. Watch this spot to see what Pennie got for Christmas.
Lest you think, “Oh Dear, he’s losing the plot…” let me assure you the old charisma has asserted itself, and at Kings Cross Underground station the other night, awaiting a train to Amersham, I was approached by no less than four persons for advice.
The station is very confusing, because for historical reasons one set of platforms serves three distinct lines, the Hammersmith and City, the Circle, and the Metropolitan. A Frenchman wanted Northwick Park: I thought quickly, shoved him towards the train standing at the platform but the doors closed just a moment too soon, so I said catch any Uxbridge train, All Stops, or Semi-Fast. (I had been overhearing the station announcements and was beginning to get the idea).
A European of indeterminate nationality and little English wanted “Lad…something”: I guessed Ladbroke Grove and set him up with a Hammersmith train.
A Chinese man, with unmistakeable native London accent, wanted to know if all trains stopped at Baker Street. Obligingly standing away from the route map, which I had obscured by standing in front of it, we established that yes, all did. In retrospect I think it was just his polite ruse to get me out of the way.
An English couple, confessing they had not been back to London for years and had lost their bearings, wanted Paddington, so any Hammersmith or Circle train was fine for them, but I tried to do a deal first: if I found them a Paddington train, they had to find me an Amersham train. They agreed readily (just jokes) but theirs turned up first and I watched 5 or 6 trains come and go before ‘Amersham’ finally showed on the front of the next one.
And at Amersham that night, the annual dinner of the Amersham and District Omnibus Society was a most convivial affair. I met a couple who own an ex-London Transport double decker of unusual type, and a 1904 James and Brown motor car which they use in the London to Brighton run (I probably saw them at Hyde Park corner on that November morning), and are great pals with a lady I know well in Turramurra, one of my former washing machine customers. The beer, India Pale Ale, was superb, as was the pub dinner, and the night went in a hubbub of earnest bus discussions.
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