around the Boleyn

It is a world almost unrecognisable from my childhood.  Very eastern.  We started at the Friends coffee bar (run by eastern Europeans)  The best, hottest, strongest coffee I have  had in ages!  Then past this wistful plaque on a unremarkable block of flats near The Boleyn. Lunch was at the sri Lanka restaurant for a fiver- no idea why the sign says £15!
So many cheap restaurants -mostly hindu around East Ham station. The shop window is pretty typical of the area too!

Very evocative memory

Spitalfields Life: On Sunday Morning


On Sunday Morning
Posted: 14 Jan 2012 04:01 PM PST
On Sunday – when I was a child – my father always took me out for the morning. It was a routine. He led me by the hand down by the river or we took the car. Either way, we always arrived at the same place.
He might have a bath before departure and sometimes I walked into the bathroom to surprise him there lying in six inches of soapy water. Meanwhile downstairs, my mother perched lightly in the worn velvet armchair to skim through the newspaper. Then there were elaborate discussions between them, prior to our leaving, to negotiate the exact time of our return, and I understood this was because the timing and preparation of a Sunday lunch was a complex affair. My father took me out of the house the better to allow my mother to concentrate single-mindedly upon this precise task and she was grateful for that opportunity, I believed. It was only much later that I grew to realise how much she detested cooking and housework.
A mile upstream there was a house on the other riverbank, the last but one in a terrace and the front door gave directly onto the street. This was our regular destination. When we crossed the river at this point by car, we took the large bridge entwined with gryphons cast in iron. On the times we walked, we crossed downstream at the suspension footbridge and my father’s strength was always great enough to make the entire structure swing.
Even after all this time, I can remember the name of the woman who lived in the narrow house by the river because my father would tell my mother quite openly that he was going to visit her, and her daughters. For she had many daughters, and all preoccupied with grooming themselves it seemed. I never managed to count them because every week the number of her daughters changed, or so it appeared. Each had some activity, whether it was washing her hair or manicuring her nails, that we would discover her engaged with upon our arrival. These women shared an attitude of languor, as if they were always weary, but perhaps that was just how they were on Sunday, the day of rest. It was an exclusively female environment and I never recalled any other male present when I went to visit with my father on those Sunday mornings.
To this day, the house remains, one of only three remnants of an entire terrace. Once on a visit, years later, I stood outside the house in the snow, and contemplated knocking on the door and asking if the woman still lived there. But I did not. Why should I? What would I ask? What could I say? The house looked blank, like a face. Even this is now a memory to me, that I recalled once again after another ten years had gone by and I glanced from a taxi window to notice the house, almost dispassionately, in passing.
There was a table with a bench seat in an alcove which extended around three sides, like on a ship, so that sometimes as I sat drinking my orange squash while the women smoked their cigarettes, I found myself surrounded and unable to get down even if I chose. At an almost horizontal angle, the morning sunlight illuminated this scene from a window in the rear of the alcove and gave the smoke visible curling forms in the air. After a little time, sitting there, I became aware that my father was absent, that he had gone upstairs with one of the women. I knew this because I heard their eager footsteps ascending.
On one particular day, I sat at the end of the bench with my back to the wall. The staircase was directly on the other side of this thin wall and the women at the table were involved in an especially absorbing conversation that morning, and I could hear my father’s laughter at the top of the stairs. Curiosity took me. I slipped off the bench, placed my feet on the floor and began to climb the dark little staircase.
I could see the lighted room at the top. The door was wide open and standing before the end of the bed was my father and one of the daughters. They were having a happy time, both laughing and leaning back with their hands on each other’s thighs. My father was lifting the woman’s skirt and she liked it. My presence brought activities to a close in the bedroom that morning. It was a disappointment, something vanished from the room as I walked into it but I did not know what it was. That was the last time my father took me to that house, perhaps the last time he visited. Though I could not say what happened on those Sunday mornings when I chose to stay with my mother.
We ate wonderful Sunday lunches, so that whatever anxiety I had absorbed from my father, as we returned without speaking on that particular Sunday morning, was dispelled by anticipation as we entered the steamy kitchen with its windows clouded by condensation and its smells of cabbage and potatoes boiling.
My mother was absent from the scene, so I ran upstairs in a surge of delight – calling to find her – and there she was, standing at the head of the bed changing the sheets. I entered the bedroom smiling with my arms outstretched and, laughing, tried to lift the hem of her pleated skirt just as I saw my father do in that other house on the other side of the river. I do not recall if my father had followed or if he saw this scene, only that my mother smiled in a puzzled fashion, ran her hands down her legs to her knees, took my hand and led me downstairs to the kitchen where she checked the progress of the different elements of the lunch. For in spite of herself, she was a very good cook and the ritual of those beautiful meals proved the high point of our existence at that time.
The events of that Sunday morning long ago when my father took me to the narrow house with the dark staircase by the river only came back to me as a complete memory in adulthood, but in that instant I understood their meaning. I took a strange pleasure in this knowledge that had been newly granted. I understood what kind of house it was and who the “daughters” were. I was grateful that my father had taken me there, and from then on I could only continue to wonder at what else this clue might reveal of my parents’ lives, and of my own nature

I found this piece beautifully written and very moving.  As the year has turned I think I find myself like the author- thinking back with some pain at how sometimes small events shape our lives and personalities.  And wondering what I could have done to have shaped better memories for my own children

Fit for a Queen: first sight of barge to lead Diamond Jubilee river pageant | News

Fit for a Queen: first sight of barge to lead Diamond Jubilee river pageant | News:

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Training for the New Year

http://spitalfieldslife.com/2011/11/02/anjum-ishtaq-heba-womens-project/


Anyone who is reading this, please help me publicise these wonderful classes run by Anjum! 
Every Saturday morning, learn pattern cutting, basic sewing- how to thread and use your machine- anything in fact.

Only £10 for three hours- local providors charge four times as much!

Queen appoints traditionalist as new chaplain | Christian News on Christian Today

Queen appoints traditionalist as new chaplain | Christian News on Christian Today:

Father Paul's badge 

With Mary after Mass on Christmas Day

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Councillor Norman Brooks

Councillor Norman Brooks Waveney!

Well done Norman !

Our Christmas cake

Ripped-off in a winter wonderland | The Spectator

Ripped-off in a winter wonderland | The Spectator:

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Just musing

The Revd Peter Liddelow, SSM Curate at Christ Church, Barnet (1414), and Chaplain to The Magic Circle, is to retire on 31 December but will remain as Chaplain to The Magic Circle.

 

From the diocese of London website news

 

also please read the ludicrous Bishop of London's christmas message- keeps mentioning St Paul as a tent maker!diocese of London Bishop Richard messagehttp://www.london.anglican.org/NewsShow_15785

Not' Songs of Praise'

My gift for the child:

No wife, kids, home;
No money sense. Unemployable.
Friends, yes. But the wrong sort 

The workshy, women, wogs,
Petty infringers of the law, persons
With notifiable diseases,
Poll tax collectors, tarts;
The bottom rung.
His end?
I think we’ll make it
Public, prolonged, painful.


Right, said the baby. That was roughly
What we had in mind


This was in 'The Times today - a poem by U.A.Fanthorpe


A friend of mine thinks Christianity is 'Songs of Praise' instead of an entertainment for mostly elderly people (like me)
I always try to imagine Jesus as a fat short man-maybe with bad breath!  If we are to think of him as a handsome young chap, tall bearded, cutting a fine figure in flowing robes this is a bit of a cop out. It has always been a shame to me that he died so young and we do not know how he would have coped with older age and declining health.  

The Spitallfields Winter Festival

part of the choir

women sing east

Laka D is the leader- very bolshie, bluesy lead singer and conductor. The programme was a mixture of carols, swing and a fantastic moving 'I wish I was in Carrick Fergus'

The Stratford East singers

Ann has started a late singing career.  She has made her début at the opening of 'Cinderella'- Stratford East's 2011 pantomime

Spitalfields Winter Festival

the charismatic conductor and compère of Open Mic show

streetwise opera
This was a great night out. It was an example of being joyous -people who on the surface have very little to cheer them materially and some cannot really sing in tune- (like me) but they put on one of the best shows in Spitalfields Winter Festival

The Selling Season

Una wearing a copy of a Joan hat- sold out

 We took on many markets this year- mostly selling Joan's knitted goods- and Geena's dog bags plus some Heba Christmas stockings
http://www.ssba.info/heba_enterprise.html
. Joan made a killing on the Kaffe Fasset socks and sold out completely. My favourite venue was the church in leytonstone where the west indian Reverend started the fair off with some fervent prayers.  She was accompanied by a sort of posse of Caribbean women of a certain age (mine) who were just brilliant in organising the stallholders as well as cooking a mean chicken curry with rice and peas for £4. This was such a great atmosphere- far better than the snooty evangelical church where we sold out of stuff but had to endure an inspirational talk that the rector's wife has decided was suitable for the holy season- a posh frocks shopping service

part of our stall- obviously better display skills needed

Hand Ball at the new stadium

ic

We had free tickets to go inside the Olympic Park and watch the handball between Angola and China.
The walk from the gate to the stadium seemed )and probably was) about a mile. The wind whipped through the site and plenty of us non athletes struggled to reach the new stadium.
Inside the functional building was a brilliant view of quite an exciting game with loads of funky music and an american style commentary.  The score board had graphics and was very informative on a game unfamiliar to most of us. 
Some minus points price of a cup of tea was £2.  And the knackering walk to the event.
The security was pretty annoying too- phones and keys in plastic bags airport style. 

Benarasi Fashion Show

I wanted to buy the dress on the right for Mary

For me and my friends, it was our first fashion show. the black dresses were made at Heba and their beauty and intricacy cannot be seen in this shot.  The outfits were amazing- some traditional, most very modern. The snacks afterwards were gorgeous too.

New Sculpture in Spitalfields (Spital Square)

This installation replaced the Bees in the case. 

The Webb sisters at The Union Chapel

 We got free tickets to hear these very talented musicians.  To be honest I found then very worthy and quite dull.  The Union Chapel is stunning though and I could imagine the old christian revivals there- full of wonderful fervent singing- not choruses about 'relationships'

Free Download | Vile Pervert - The Musical

Free Download | Vile Pervert - The Musical:

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I have always felt very sorry for Jonathan King.
He has never been someone I particularly liked but was sad how much he has been vilified by lots of people.
Very sad...
good for Rod Liddle who has given him some support this week in an article in The Spectator

The Church of England is mired in adolescent politics. That's why it doesn't know what to do about St Paul's – Telegraph Blogs

The Church of England is mired in adolescent politics. That's why it doesn't know what to do about St Paul's – Telegraph Blogs:

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