Out of the Loop

In just one week away on holiday I forget the most basic things about London - for instance that you can't just bowl up at a theatre and expect to get in, even on a Monday night and even for the first night of a play that hasn't yet been reviewed.

'I have people queueing for returns in the shopping centre', said the box office assistant, waving towards exit right.

I don't know the form at the Donmar, not having been before. It's a victim of its own success, going by the attitude. 'Oh, how will I know if there are any returns?' Cold stare, then, 'We'll come and tell you'.

Welcome back to London, Sheila.

Still, there were only what we'd call in the North a courting couple and three gay blokes in front of me, so if someone came back with a single ticket I was in with a chance. Two other single people came behind me. Still in with a good chance. But no, just after the first bell rang the box office assistant appeared and addressed the trio: 'You were hoping for a single ticket, yes?' and as one of them left the other two went in.

'Ive got standing tickets only, now.' So the two behind me went in but I remember it's quite a long play and my legs aren't up to it. It's not age - I wasn't any good at football matches for the same reason. I can't concentrate if I'm standing up. I once asked the Shakepeare Globe people if I could bring my folding chair to the pit, but no.

I'm sorry now I didn't go to 'Ghosts' at the Arcola in Dalston, but was still feeling knackered from the long drive the day before and didn't fancy a bus ride from London Bridge. A lot of travelling puts you off for a while and we'd got stuck in traffic in St Albans on a lunch detour.


Never mind, I have my Cineworld ticket with me so I'll to the Haymarket and see a film. It doesn't start til 9pm so first I eat a pizza to pass the time, and think 'Oh well, I'd have spent the money at the Donmar if I'd had the chance. It'll be a late finish, but R's at his bridge club, so I won't be missed. The new lodger's probably glad to get a night on his own.'

I quite enjoy the trailers, as they're all new. But hang on, there's something familiar about the credits for the main film!

Oh no! I've only seen it already - the week before I left for the North.

It's a very good film the first time you see it, with an excellent performance from Sam Rockwell. He plays a space-ship employee, at the end of a three year contract, monitoring equipment for an company that's somehow getting energy from moonrocks and sending it back to earth. I say he's the only actor, but there's a voiceover from Kevin Spacey as one of those silky-toned computers who's supposed to look after astronauts welfare and keeps sidling up behind them saying 'Can I help you?

It's even better the second time, though, because it's a film with an excellent narrative, that intrigues until almost the very end, and it's satisfying to see how you could have picked up on the clues all along. It's also an opportunity to note how good an actor Sam Rockwell is in a demanding part. He's no Stanley Kowalski in terms of physique, but he spends a lot of time in his vest. So I wasn't even tempted to leave early.

R chuckled at my mistake, even though I called him just before midnight to escort me up the hill. 'Moon!' I complained, 'What kind of a totally non-descriptive title is that?

I've learned my lesson, though - leave the choice of play to my friendly neighbourhood theatre-paperer, who deals in cheap tickets for untried or tired-out plays, or book in advance. Oh, and check to see if I've already seen a film before I go in.

A Streetcar named Desire at the Donmar: http://www.donmarwarehouse.com/pl102.html

Moon: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1182345/

Divided by a Common Cuisine

Naturally, there's a certain amount of interpreting necessary when I go to the North with R, and it came to the fore when we visited the biggest fish and chip shop I've ever seen, in Bolton, Lancs. It's so big it's taken over the shop next door.

I explained, for instance, that a 'scallop' in Lancashire-speak isn't a shellfish but a thick slice of potato dipped in batter and then fried.

The 'scallop' , I imagine, derives from 'escallope' or 'slice', as in French 'escallope de veau', but there's no reason it has to be meat.

Butties he knows about, but 'barm', short for barm cake, was a puzzler. As with 'scallop', I knew what it was, but had to scratch my head to remember I was told as a child that 'barm' means 'balm' or 'yeast'. It's a kind of non-sweet teacake, but flatter and crustier.

I felt at home in a town with a statue of an engineer in a flat cap and a model engine in the main shopping street - nearby was a carved stone frieze to show stages in cotton manufacture, from picking to weaving.

Bolton's town hall is a building of such Victorian splendour it almost equalled, with it columns and pediment, the Harris Library in my home town

The dining potential of Northern towns is dire, although cheap enough. Bolton is a vast improvement on Blackburn, the town in the other direction from the Travelodge on the M65 where we spent three nights. The fish and chips were excellent but there was no room for fancy grills or salads in the Olympus .

After a week of cheap eating in the North, I

cancelled the cholesterol test I had slated for this morning. I hope a week or so of southern food will restore the level to more or less what it was before I left.

Our new lodger suggested he take us out to dinner this week. He's from the North, on three months' probation in his new job. I suggested 'Zero Degrees' in Backheath Village. There's no ambiguity when it comes to mussels, but I think I'll steer clear of the frites. I've had it with chips for a while.

Menu at Zero Degrees: http://www.zerodegrees.co.uk/restaurant.php

A Quiet Belief in Angels

‘But he isn’t Steinbeck or Hemingway, so why does he write like that?

Do we like contemporary novels to remind us of past writers we admire? When does too literary a style detract from a crime novel? These points are relevant to a discussion of RJ Ellory’s A Quiet Belief in Angels.

The crime reading group were all agreed this was is not a traditional crime story or thriller, and some thought it too long. At times compelling, it covers events in the life of the narrator over a period of about thirty years, moving from the American South to New York.

Sections are introduced in what is almost a cliché format of American crime novel narrative – a dying protagonist looks at the man he has just killed and recalls the events that brought him to this point

Thirty years before, ten year old Joseph Vaughan was singled out by his teacher in Augusta Falls, Georgia, as a young man with a great future as a writer. She introduced him to Steinbeck and the American classics, to which the style and themes of the book pay homage: Faulkner, Salinger, and Auster are all echoed in the assured, densely written text. The writer’s great strength is an ability to evoke atmosphere.

The consequences of WW2 in Europe and a series of brutal child murders set Joseph on a path of suffering and loss.

A series of child murders baffle the local sheriffs. Joseph, a classmate of the early victims, resolves to catch the killer. Like Salinger’s Holden Caulfield, he is a self-appointed ‘Guardian’, first as the leader of a group of boys and later as an adult, long after the community has decided to bury the past and its memories. His unwavering resolve and courage are matched with a sensitivity that finds an outlet in writing. That and his complex personal life distract him.

As Joseph makes a move from small-town America to Bohemian Brooklyn, the number and importance of themes, including links between secrecy and mental instability, romantic love, suffering and injustice threaten to bewilder the reader. When Joseph seems to have escaped the suffocating atmosphere of Augusta Falls only to meet with fresh tragedy, the story seems repetitious, the odds stacked too heavily against him.

In a way the indulgence in a rambling narrative detracts from the interest in the crimes. It’s to the author’s credit that it does keep you guessing until the very end and the last fifty or so pages are riveting. For me the literary style was a plus, but I could understand the objections raised by other members of the group. Hopefully we won't have too many problems with the next choice, a novel by Raymond Chandler.


RJ Ellory website: http://www.rjellory.com/page12802641.aspx

I ♥ Google Alerts

Months back I read an article in The Society of Author’s Magazine, The Author about books being sold as illegal downloads with no payments reaching the author. Google Alerts was recommended as a way of keeping track, as it can be set to monitor the web for any mention of your book(s) or articles as well as your research interests.

It’s a long time since I earned any royalties, as the book I wrote on Chinese cinema is an academic one, published in 2002. Not exactly a text book, it's aimed at undergraduate film students.

Still, the library lending fees come in handy and tracking them is one of the services offered by The SoA. As they say, the fees they recover pay for the membership. I’ve been to a few of the Society’s practical talks and I’d definitely seek their free advice service before I’d sign a contract.

So I occasionally get an alert to say my book is on some reading lists that’s published on the web, or that it’s for sale on a website. The original print run of 2,000, at £12.99 a copy, sold out ages ago. It’s of interest, to me if no-one else, to check occasionally on the current price.

But what’s this? Yesterday I get an alert about a site that’s charging £31.50! Admittedly I have to convert it from Australian dollars, but there it is – what can’t speak can’t lie, as my Camberwell mother-in-law used to say.

If I thought £31.50 was excessive, Amazon is even better. My book's becoming a collectable!

Just a minute though – on the same list you can still get it new for around the original selling price - less if it's 'slightly worn' ! Now why would anybody pay £35.93 ? It doesn’t make sense. Interestingly, the publishing date's being changed, too. It says 2002 in my copy, and it's not the sort of thing'd forget.

All the same, thank-you, Google Alerts, for cheering up one jaded writer.

Google Alerts: http://www.c4lpt.co.uk/Top100Tools/googlealerts.html

China Book Site(trawl down page) :http://www.chinabooks.com.au/ChinaBooks/search.cfm?UR=20084&search_stage=details&records_to_display=1#

Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/1903364132/ref=sr_1_olp_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1247644040&sr=1-1

A Touch of Flu

It’s R’s idea on Friday to see a harrowing Wajda film about a massacre. When I start coughing I assume it’s a reaction to some cleaning product in the cinema. Afterwards, I put the feeling of general malaise down to the depressing film.

Next morning, though, I wake up with full-blown flu symptoms: headache, sore throat and aching limbs. Too bad I’ve chosen the weekend to get sick; the doctor’s surgery is closed and the phone message is quite strict – don’t go to the hospital or use an emergency number unless you are at death’s door. As I had the antiflu jab last October it must be the latest strain – swine flu. I check it out on the Internet and the only symptom I don’t have is a high temperature.

‘No, Mum, you haven’t got swine flu’, says my daughter on the phone. ‘You have to be under 60 to catch it’.

Meantime my head feels as if it’s clamped in a vice, my throat’s been rasped with a cheese-grater and I’m coughing every few minutes. The slightest effort makes me feel exhausted.

By this time the only way to ease the ache in my legs is performing a horizontal St Vitus dance. Sitting in a hot bath has the same effect, and means I can doze for a while. My chest emits a kind of high-pitched whistle.

I spend the night in the spare room so R can get some sleep. Reading makes the headache worse but I listen to a radio play and an audio book.

R contacted the surgery today and the doctor rings at noon. She tells me if I want an antiviral medicine I can have one, but they do affect the stomach and as mine is already dodgy that’s not such a good idea. Besides, I’m over the worst.

I ask how long I’ll be contagious – I'm planning to drive to the North next week. The doctor says it’s only the first few days that are infectious. So that’s a relief. Now all I need is to get my strength back.

Symptoms of Swine flu:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wK1127fHQ4

Decisions, decisions!

‘Where did you buy your sandals?’ The question, spoken in Italian, caught me off-guard. Surely the elegant teacher standing next to the overhead projector didn’t covet my battered Clarks? My Italian may be rusty, but I can recognise ‘where’, ‘buy’ and ‘sandals’.

A glance at jewelled leather straps on the feet of a neighbouring student made me realise she didn’t mean me. However, I added ‘catena’ (chain) to my meagre vocabulary. If, come September, I need to find a chain store in Genoa, I’ll be OK.

When you learn a language you learn a culture, and ‘Consolidation Italian 2’ is a sartorial challenge, even before I try to get to grips with the grammar. The teacher has brought this class of lawyers, accountants (and did someone say she was a stockbroker), to their current standard and it’s pretty good. After the shoes, we moved on to peruse an interesting text about Italian newspapers, their history and political leanings. So it’s not just the long words in La Repubblica that put me off, as I'd thought.

But I wouldn’t even be in this situation if the Spanish hadn’t gone wrong. Classes often combine above Level 3, which what happened at Mary Ward, but it didn’t work well. I decided to change.

Thirty years ago I wanted to visit Pirandello’s ‘casa natale’ in Sicily and went to evening classes at Goldsmiths for about three years, so it’s the obvious choice, but what about the level?

The need to find a class coincides with the fatal blow delivered to my Frith Street Chinese class. So I have to find classes that a) don’t cost a lot b) don’t overlap c) are at the right level and d) are within 40 minutes travel of home. I’ve decided to switch to evening classes, to free up the daytime for writing.

It looks as if I’ll be doing Chinese, not Italian, at King’s College. It’s about the only place that offers the right level. The fees are manageable, because I can get a 30% alumnus discount. That’s something I didn’t know before.

Finances won’t stretch to Italian as well – I’ll have to find a class in an outer borough. Not easy when so many being scrapped. Still, at least I don’t have to go after working long hours at some demanding job. Will I feel comfortable in well-worn trainers, though?

Sunday with a Purpose

'I'm looking forward to Dartford Festival' said a young woman to her friend on the train last week.

When every London borough and hamlet hosts a Summer festival, chill-out Sundays are essential.

But what's this? Last Sunday morning, as we strolled to Blackheath village with coffee and a read in mind, we found the heath a sea of pink, and hundreds of spectactors cheering. A taped –off track seemed to stretch as far back as the A2.

Women who'd evidently been running some kind of race spilled off the heath around the church and were crowded into the village. Even the area outside the Crown pub had turned pink. An infectious cheeriness emanated from supporters congratulating the runners. They gasped, sweated, laughed and hugged one another as they made their way down towards refreshment in the village.


I had to admire the dedication of runners who'd turned out in the heat. Two young women clutching wine glasses who agreed to be photographed reminded me of an extra cost. 'The worst thing is it's Sunday morning. When I got up I was still hung over from last night!'

A loudspeaker announced the men' s run would take place in the afternoon. Just as well, I suppose.

For most of the runners, there was a personal story. In addition to numbers on the fronts of their vests most had notices on their backs carrying sad messages: 'For Dad and Angela' or 'For my aunt Susan'.

It suddenly seemed churlish to resent not being able to get a seat in the Blackheath Costa. It looked as if our best chance of a coffee was to turn back and walk home. Besides, the detour necessary to get across the heath would be too impossible. Dark clouds overhead seemed to act like a lid on a steamy pot and when the sun broke through I felt dizzy.


We did get a trip to Costa after all, though. A 54 bus carried us to Lewisham and we took the DLR to Greenwich. The cafe in Waterstones, which I prefer anyway because of the location, was crowded too, but the runners and their supporters all stayed at the other side of the heath.

It was a sober reminder that some people are willing to sacrifice a Sunday for charity. Well, there's always next year for me, I suppose. It certainly looks a lot more do-able than the London Marathon.

Race for Life:
http://www.raceforlife.org/choose-your-event/london---blackheath--05-jul-0.aspx

Meeting the Author

I've enjoyed going to book launches, signings and talks for a while now. Whether it’s Waterstones or the Southbank, an excuse for a country weekend, or my local library, I’m there flipping my note pad and swigging any wine that’s going.

The LRB Bookshop has the perfect format. It’s partly the type of book they publish that attracts me: political/travel/ historical fact, and 'serious' fiction. The organisation of events, too, is spot on. The small shop filled with rows of seats from counter to doorway has the intimate ambience of a fringe theatre. Even the technical side is expertly managed: no strained ears or whistling mics. It’s a formula that works: an introduction by an expert, usually some professor, who’ll give an overview of the genre and the writer’s career so far; an extract reading; presenter’s questions ; questions from the floor. Finally, there's the signing, which I must confess I usually skip.

Authors sometimes complain of the ‘media circus’ associated with publishing, the obligation to participate written into publishers’ contracts these days. You can’t blame them for diffidence; not every writer who routinely spends hours in a room with only a computer for company will suddenly adapt to conviviality and chat. It must seem daunting at first. When they've done a few, though, it's obvious they enjoy it. Why not, since the audience generally come to admire, as well as buy.

When two authors are combined it’s double the value. Hilary Mantel and Sarah Dunant, for instance, illustrated the difference between writing fictionalised biography and creating a ‘composite’ historical character, in Wolf Hall and Sacred Heart respectively. Joanna Burke, Professor of History at Birkbeck College, spoke about historical fiction, its practitioners, fans and detractors. Most interesting for me were the writers' comments about their very different research methods. Sarah Dunant only gives up when she's compiled several notebooks and can't stand any more, putting them aside and trusting to memory with occasional checks. Hilary Mantel says she researches and writes concurrently. The discussion touched on other authors in the field, from Walter Scott to C J Sansom, and even TV representation of the Tudors.

What a contrast with Chinese dissident author Ma Jian on a previous occasion: ten minutes late, unsmiling and relying on wife/translator Flora Drew to communicate with the audience. For a student of the language like myself it was a treat to hear the spoken Mandarin and the translation but it made for a tedious session, I suspect, for most members of the audience.

He was there to promote his latest book Beijing Coma a fictionalised account of the 1989 Tianamen Square event, when Chinese students and other protestors were killed by the PLA, ordered to clear the area. The presenter, another professor, described it as 'a landmark novel'.

The author left the room immediately after the session, and I didn’t get a copy of the book. I re-read his earlier Red Dust, an account of fleeing Beijing to escape imminent arrest, and his journey to Tibet, fascinating as a portrait of China and encounters with isolated peoples, as well as for the author’s comments. Strangely enough, the experience of reading was enhanced by being able to visualise a younger version of the author on his travels.

So maybe it’s just the familiarising process that works and the publishers are right to insist on the author agreeing to appear in person.

LRB Bookshop: http://www.lrbshop.co.uk/

Hilary Mantel:http://www.lrbshop.co.uk/

Sarah Dunant:http://www.sarahdunant.com/

Ma Jian:http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/may/03/featuresreviews.guardianreview22

'Ware Whitstable

You couldn't make it up. Forty years I've been gadding about London, ( my Regular Reader knows to what extent) without getting mugged, accosted or insulted. Well, that's not quite true. A few weeks ago a doglover called me an Old Bag on Lewisham Station , when I took precedence over her mutt getting on a train. She'd spread her arms to protect its progress, but I had the cheek to dodge past.

As I was saying, in forty years inside the M25 (although I'm not sure it was built when I arrived in 1969) nothing like that happened. Admittedly, I once fell asleep at a brass band concert in St James Park and when I awoke my bag had gone from beside the deckchair. Another time in the NFT cafe I sat down, then got up for a knife and fork. Less than a minute, and my bag was gone. That exemplary institution's dedicated room with a free phone and list of number helped ease the pain. Even so, the thief had time to get cashback on a purchase at the nearest M&S. It was pre-chip and pin days. Arguably, I was careless. and on neither occasion was the purse on my person.

Whitstable was my nemesis. After an relaxed Sunday afternoon of strolling by the shingle, sampling seafood and trawling the charity shops it was time to go home. As R approached the counter of the very last shop with a pile of £1 paperbacks ( the nearly-new one on how to use Windows XP will be particularly useful) my rucksack seemed unnaturally light. A quick glance at the outside pocket showed the zip was open and my heavy wallet-purse was gone. 'Are you sure you had it?' says R. It's true I had checked before I set out, found no money in it, so maybe I'd just left it on the table

It wasn’t at home, though. The absence of money was a good thing, but what the wallet did contain was all my cards - bank, building society, all my library and gallery cards, Cineworld and BFI membership tickets -plus my Freedom Pass!. A lot of palaver ahead. Then I remembered two door keys. 'That's OK, it didn't have your address?' Well, yes, it would be on the business cards those nice people at prontoprint provide free (except for postage)

So apart from all the phoning round we had to call out a locksmith. £155 for two locks! Yes, I know it was Sunday and the guy drove from Haywards Heath.

So I'd say don't put your wallet in your rucksack pocket if you go to Whitstable. Or anywhere else outside London, for that matter. As for my Freedom Pass, after the locks it was the first thing to be replaced, of course.

Prime Time Greenwich

'Say, can you direct us to the Prime Meridian?' said one half of an American couple. The light was fading as I pointed to the path winding up towards the observatory. They'd left it late to photograph themselves astride the line but maybe like me they'd latched on to the idea that evening is best time to visit Greenwich Park in Summer.


On hot days it's crowded, mainly by tourists, and it's good to see at least one sector of the economy is flourishing. The DLR brings a lot of Londoners as well . So it's the last place I'd spend the day in Summer, except when the grandchildren visit and occasionally for the brass band concerts on Sunday afternoons. I walk through it a lot, though, crossing the heath and entering by a side gate near the Ranger's House.

It was different when I arrived at 7pm last Thursday, seeking respite after a day of hot classrooms. The top of the park is some 100 feet above the river and well supplied with ancient trees, so much cooler than the slopes, where couples were still lying on the grass. The Pavilion Cafe was closed, of course - Heaven forfend English people should drink tea beyond the prescribed hours, and closing time is around 5pm.

R and I had a a difficult time finding a tea-shop open in Greenwich town at 5.30pm last Saturday, except for a place called Biscuit, where youthful assistants were enjoying a Heavy Metal concert from the speakers and didn't seem to care it was completely at odds with peaceful recuperation. We carried tea in cardboard cups across to the Maritime Museum gardens, until we were turned out of there, too.

Fortunately, the park itself is open until dusk. The outdoor seating area behind the pavilion was deserted so I read a book, listened to birdsong and watched squirrels having an evening frolic. A pair of Magpies stalked around the bushes.

The light was beginning to fade as I passed General Woolf's statue overlooking the grassy slopes, down to the white square of the Queen's House flanked by colonnades. The domes of the Naval Hospital beyond were barely visible but the Thames was a silver ribbon meandering left towards the city.

It was good to rediscover the park as a quiet green retreat. I expect the Americans thought flash-lit photos were a small price to pay for the tranquil atmosphere.

Greenwich Park: http://www.royalparks.org.uk/parks/greenwich_park/

Dangerous Corner

A gunshot sounds offstage; a female voice shouts from the same direction: ‘It can’t happen! It shan’t happen!’

A man’s voice from voice calls from the audience: ‘Well, it already has happened!’

The moment reminded me of Dickens writing about a staging of ‘Hamlet’, when someone from the stalls shouted at the Prince, ‘Oh, for goodness sake, make your mind up!

As an ex-amateur trouper myself I’m biased, but there’s a lot of charm about amateur productions, apart from impromptu audience participation: they usually put on out-of-copyright plays which have proved their success over the years, you don’t have to travel far and the price of tickets, refreshments and programmes are a fraction of what you pay in the West End.

I hadn’t seen JB Priestley’s Dangerous Corner before, so I gasped with the rest at the plot twists in this otherwise rather static thriller. Three company directors and wives in the 1930s are gathered for dinner, a year after the brother of one of them has committed suicide. As the evening progresses dark secrets emerge - a bit like one of those ocasional episodes of Eastenders where the protagonists go in for a bout of clearing the air. In this case we, the audience, are just as surprised as the characters.

If it sounds familiar it’s because it has a lot in common with An Inspector Calls, although revelations in the better-known play are provoked by an outside agent – the eponymous Inspector. He questions a factory owner and family members about the grisly suicide of a former employee. In a series of startling twists every member of the ‘respectable’ family assembled for a family celebration is implicated in the death.

Bradford-born Priestley took on a kind of Daily Telegraph role in 1930s, although his characters were fictional. He thought society’s values were being destroyed by the greed of small-scale capitalists. The rest of the audience was as enthralled as I was at an amateur production by The Alaxander Players at Charlton, SE17.

They say in London you’re never more than twenty feet from a rat. It seems you’re never very far from a local dramatic society either, although I wasn’t aware of the Charlton company until I saw a leaflet at the local library.

I think the Alexandra Players are one of the best amateur companies I’ve seen. Set, costumes, directing and acting were of a uniformly high standard, and I’m looking forward to their next play. This may well be a pantomime, for which, apparently, they are celebrated locally. They more than deserve their supportive audience, even if some members feel relaxed enough to comment on the drama as it happens.

Website about Amateur Theatre in London: http://www.sardinesmagazine.co.uk/home.htm

That's More Like It.

I've been avoiding Leicester Square. It's an ideal location for me to eat my sandwich, en route between Charing Cross and Frith Street, but the normally peaceful spot has been been spoiled of late by a 'sound installation'.

My regular reader will know I'm no enemy to art, even of the most abstract kind. But this was too much - a disjointed soundtrack of dialogue and snatches of choral singing relayed through speakers, in a one-hour repeat loop. Not that I stayed longer than an hour on the day it was installed. As soon as I learned from a young woman clearing polystyrene cups from a table with a Starbucks logo that it would last ten days, I was off.

In contrast to next-door Trafalgar Square with its national monuments and celebration of Empire, there's something almost cosily parochial about Leicester Square, with its trees and benches, half-price ticket-booth and the statue of the 'bard' lounging on his plinth, surrounded by cinemas and pavement cafes.

Today, peace was restored and I sank gratefully onto a bench in the shade. Then I caught sight of the piano opposite. Oh no! It must be one of those automatic machines with a cylinder inside, an electronic hurdy-gurdy.

But it was silent, and carried a written invitation on a board above the keyboard: Play me, I'm Yours.

I think it's a publicity gimmick for West End musicals, because there was a book propped on it, the pages filled with the titles of show tunes.

As I read a novel and bit into my sandwich a young woman approached the instrument, sat down and gave an impromtu rendering of Für Elise. It was pleasant, and a whole lot better than the cacophonous din emitted by the loudspeakers for the past week or so.

With recitals of this quality, I hope the piano will remain. It'll be worth a detour on days when I don't even go to class.

Axe falls on Frith Street

'Ooh, what shall we do if we have no teacher!' wailed the French member of the class. Like the rest of the Chinese class she'd taken the low-priced daytime instruction for granted. We're an assorted crew of elderly Europeans and Chinese dialect speakers who've been studying together for years. Come September we'll be scattered.

My regular reader knows I've been involved with Chinese since 1994, when I returned from Singapore amazed by the respect for education embedded in Chinese culture. I had to find out more. Fortunately there was a Mandarin evening class at nearby Goldsmiths college. I studied for three happy years with an infinitely patient Taiwanese teacher.

I had reason to be thankful I live in London when I needed to move on to a higher level: to classes at Morley College, then Westminster University and even, SOAS, infamous for its exorbitant fees. You get to a certain level and I suppose they assume you're doing it for career reasons. I was still employed, so it was affordable

Progress is almost imperceptible with such a fiendish language. Even a year working in China didn't make much difference - there everybody wants to speak English to foreigners. I got more practice in Spain, really, where Chinese mainlanders have cornered the market in cheap souvenirs and household implement shops - a godsend for self-caterers renting flats with cups like thimbles and no corkscrews.

Anyway, for the last two or three years I've been commuting twice a week to Soho, climbing stairs to the top floor of a ramshackle stack of classrooms opposite Ronnie Scott's, between a stagedoor and a tattoo parlour.

We knew the premises were under threat, but it came as a blow when we heard our class was to be axed. It's the same all over, with adult education colleges facing funding cuts. There'll be handwringing and sad faces at the end-of-term lunch in Chinatown.

WAES: http://www.waes.ac.uk/

The Mysterious Case of the Jinxed Library Ticket

Whoever has cast a spell on my library ticket, please could they get in touch and let me know what I have to do to lift the curse.

It's a few since the Charing Cross Library upgraded their loans and returns system. I must say it was sometimes touch and go whether I made it on time to my Frith Street Chinese class in the past if I forgot to allow for queueing time at the the check-out. Then, after a very short period of closure the branch re-opened complete with three excellent self-service machines.

They're a lot more efficient than the supermarket ones, where you have to call an assistant every time you scan a bottle of alcohol or try to remove a full plastic bag from the dispenser or do any one of a dozen actions they don't like. At the library you simply place your pile of books inside a box-shaped space, push a button, put your library card into a slot and get a receipt for whatever you've returned or borrowed. Magic!

At least, I now suspect a supernatural agency is involved.

My regular reader will know that I have a fondness for this library - not just because I pass it four times a week en route to and from my class, but because they have an unusually good selection of crime fiction and foreign DVDs, as well as Chinese books. You can find out what's going on locally, too. The assistants are helpful and they're very efficient at reserving books.

But now there's one big drawback - my ticket is jinxed. It's not just my imagination working overtime after too many Harry Potters. I haven't even seen the latest Dan Brown film.

I introduced my ticket a few weeks back and not only was the number not recognised , but after telling me to report to the desk the machine itself expired! I don't mean it exploded or anything, but the screen turned pink and a red diamond began to spin in the middle. A message said the terminal was out of action. I tried another, and the same thing happened. Similarly with the third one - now my ticket had dissed every one of the scanning devices.

Fortunately, the people giving hard looks to the first two machines didn't realise it was me. I sneaked up to the desk and explained what had happened. Fortunately, too, it wasn't too difficult for the librarian to get them started again with a couple of flicks of switches on the wall behind. There remained the mystery of why my ticket rendered them defunct when I tried again. Even a new issue of ticket didn't solve the problem.

After some weeks even the library's Top Brains have failed to solve the problem. I can't use the remote terminals and I have to check in at the desk.

Of course, I can do this, and there's less of a queue these days. Even so, you get used to self- service privileges. Trusties in prisons must feel the same when they get their arm-bands :it's a step towards liberation. Also, I have to explain to tyro librarians why I'm taking up their time instead of using the self-help system. I'm beginning to feel persecuted .

So, seriously, I'd like to know to know how I can expiate whatever crime I've committed. I know I can be a bit outspoken, and a bit of a pest in that regard, but I want to use my library card unhindered. So I'm willing to recite whatever incantation it takes.

(Oh, and in case you think the problem is caused because I live in Lewisham but use the Westminster Library Service, that's not the case. You can use the libraries no matter where you live in London. )

Charing Cross Library:http://www.yelp.co.uk/biz/charing-cross-library-london

Not for These Two Pilgrims

'No, of course there's no satellite dish. It's a Grade II Listed Building!'

I should have known R would never fall for what looked like a small-scale castle, in the middle of a housing estate. It was a typical London surprise that reminded me of the pagoda at the top of our road, built for Caroline, the wife of George IV and also now part of a housing estate, called Pagoda Gardens.

I'd gone alone to view the property after a contretemps in Sainsbury's Homebase - alone, that is, except for Becky, the estate agent's assistant, who lived in New Cross. She seemed to be very good at her job.


The flat I'd gone to see was small, but exuded a mellow charm, from the stone-arched entries to the curious indoor window-shutters. A system of pulley chains opened sky-lights at the top of funnelled ceilings in kitchen and bathroom. It had no separate bedroom, and 'studio' seemed rather fancy when applied to the small living area. Some flats had drop-down beds fitted to the walls, said Becky. I thought that was a good idea, and easier than opening up a sofa every night.


They'd have probably been considered spacious by the '42 aged pilrims' for whom they'd been build in 1831, under the auspices of one William Peacock, partly paid for by 'public subscription'.


They weren't literally pilgrims, despite the Southwark location, but pilgrims in the John Bunyan Pilgrims Progress sense of pilgrims treading their earthly road to heaven. In effect, the 30 or so flats in the two storey dwellings built around a central courtyard were almshouses for the elderly.

And what a courtyard - enclosed on all sides by yellow brick and stone, the plants were of a tropical nature - huge fig trees and a variety I'd last seen in Singapore, called a Fan Palm.

A young man was sitting on the grass, singing and playing a guitar. It almost seemed staged.

It didn't occur to me that R would object to the local ambience: Lewisham's hardly salubrious. Following an email from Becky about a TV aerial in the loft I was sure he'd be won over by the charm of the interior. But two people who'd argue about a replacement loo seat would hardly be in accord about a flat.

I was taken aback when R told Becky he thought the walk from the bus stop, between tower blocks positively sprouting dishes, would lower the spirits. After all, he was brought up not very far away, in one of the barrack-like blocks opposite Camberwell bus station. Although not intended as almshouses they'd also had been endowed by a nineteenth century philanthropist, Samuel Lewis, with his own ideas about how the poor should live. They lack charm entirely, having more than a hint of the gulag about them.

William Peacock, by contrast, was a romantic. Not only did he he think the pilgrims should have bathrooms, and a garden, he stipulated that the ground rent for the properties should be ' a single red rose', to be paid annually. He also requested that he and his wife should be buried in the courtyard.

I can see R's point about the flat being too small, so I'm secretly relieved, although it was a pleasant weekend fantasy.

'Mmm. Not a bad loo seat, this. I think we should take it with us when we move.' I'm glad we finally agreed on the replacement. I hope he's joking about taking it, though.

Pilgrims Cloisters: http://www.woosterstock.co.uk/Detail.php?id=6501

Samuel Lewis Trust: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Lewis_(financier)

Pagoda Gardens: http://www.thegreenwichphantom.co.uk/2008/03/pagoda.html

Bring me Sunshine

Another success at bidding for a free preview. This one was on Sunday morning, but on locally, at the Greenwich Odeon. No surprises that only half the seats were taken

'I'm good at getting a guy to want me - not to date me, or to marry me, but to want me', says twenty-something single mom Rose.

'You were the best cheerleader in High School', says her old school chum

'Cheerleading isn't a very marketable skill', responds Rose.


So maybe that's what this rather rambling film is trying to tell us: get some qualifications if you don't want to end up as a single mum having to clean people's houses to support yourself and child.

As an ex-teacher I had to approve. The media are forever assuring young people success has nothing to do with exams, so at least it was refreshing.

It's a shame the rest of this upbeat tale contradicts itself. Nothing ever seems to get these people down . Heroine Rose is played by 'perky' Amy Adams, her sister by 'quirky' Emily Blunt and their grandfather by 'irascible' Alan Arkin. It's all slightly amusing, and what would be disasters if they happened to normal people just don't have any impact.

So the actual message is ' Carry on mopping '


Sunshine Cleaning:http://uk.rottentomatoes.com/m/sunshine_cleaning/

Last Chance Emma

Emma Thompson hasn't had much luck with her on-screen lovers. Maybe it's something about that slightly nasal voice that makes directors cast her as forever settling for second best or overlooking obvious drawbacks.

She hit an all-time low as as Carrington, in love with gay Bloomsbury-ite Lytton Strachey.

When asked 'How can you live with such a revolting pervert?' she simply rolled her eyes, and said, 'Well, there's always something to put up with in a man'

In Last Chance Harvey it's the (at least) 20-year age gap between her and Dustin Hoffman that's the drawback. He's 71, which I know from watching him on the Jonathan Ross show. The film publicity, however, says musician Harvey and airport employee Kate are 'two middle-aged losers who find romance by the Thames'

They seem to walk for hours along the South Bank without actually getting anywhere.

Well, to be fair she does spend some of the time in her 'writing class' which meets on successive days in The National Theatre. ( I'll ring them up later, and ask how much the sessions cost.)

It redeemed a film whose only asset apart from Eileen Atkins playing Kate's comic mother, was the scenery, with side visits to Trafalgar Square and Somerset House.

'How was your class?' says Hoffman.

'Oh, the usual - Mike read out an extract from his psycho-sexual saga.' Pause whilst she does her signature wry grin and eye-rolling, then adds 'He's 86!'

I'll overlook the agism because later we do actually get to see and hear said Mike reading his extract. That, for me, is much better than the one where Emma tries on a succession of dresses to kit her out for Hoffman's daughter's the wedding reception.

The try-on scene is surely completely played out now - the fact that it's speeded up here seems to hint at that. What we could do with is more writing class scenes. Besides, it would make much more sense, as she doesn't mind the age gap, for aspiring writer Kate to settle for octogenarian Mike. At least they'd have something in common.

Last Chance Harvey: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1046947/

Chilling Tale

Decorated hero Leo Demidov goes about his normal routine as a KGB officer in Stalinist Russia - arresting suspects and terrorising the populace in the snowy wastes north of Moscow. At the same time he watches his back because his deputy hates him and will stop at nothing to discredit him.

Asked to investigate his schoolteacher wife, who is suspected of spying for the West, Leo begins to have doubts about the regime. When he stumbles upon evidence that points to a serial killer of children on the loose, he decides to investigate. The only drawback is such crimes aren't recognised by the state; to believe otherwise is a crime against the state itself, punishable by death.

Child 44 is a remarkable debut thriller by Tom Rob Smith, based on the real-life case of a man who committed 50 murders before he was caught but re-crafted into a story that investigates the mind-set of the main protagonist as his search reveals as much about his own past as it does the motivation for the killings.

The story grips from the first page, when a woman dying of hunger releases a cat into the snowy forest, hoping it will survive when all other animals have long disappeared. The cat is stalked by a child, in turn stalked by a man carrying a sack and a cudgel...


'You should wear gloves when you hold that', advised R, after I read out a couple of chilly extracts.

Surviving in extreme situations, the nature of marriage, cold-war politics and the psychology of serial killers are just a few of the issues that make this a good reading group choice. It's the quality and intensity of the writing, though, that keeps you reading.



Child 44 taster: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/feature.html?ie=UTF8&docId=1000160973

Summer Bling at the Royal Academy

The buzz at the RA Summer Exhibition was more than usually raucous, especially in the crush of the smaller galleries where hundreds of paintings crowd the walls in haphazard layers. In part it's the reaction to a surprisingly upbeat collection.

The catalogue (£3.50) is entertaining, for perusing the evocative titles afterwards and gasping at prices, as well as adding to the meaning of obscure abstract works. Although notices outline themes and highlights for each room, the works themselves are just numbered. It's best to go with someone so you can join in the calling out 'Ooh, that would just go nicely with my curtains', or 'What? £3,600 for folded newspapers?.'

It's too big for one visit. The penultimate gallery had lots of small items on shelves, which I didn't see, and I'm looking forward, next time, to the film room.

The sculptures are excellent. Damien Hurst's magnificent St Bartholomew, Exquisite Pain is easily the best thing in the show - a larger-than-life silver nude. He poses with all his muscles exposed and his skin folded over an outstretched arm like a crumpled raincoat, except that it dangles empty feet and toes. He holds a pair of shears in his other hand, and smaller surgical instruments are scattered round his feet.

I liked an intriguing hollow cube of soldered numbers and letters - called Wittgenstein's Dilemma. The gilded Moon Gold Hare 2008 by Barry Flanagan, an exhilarating piece of bling, drew admiring comments.

There were few overtly political comment pieces. Marcus Harvey's diptych Male and Female wearing Masks (Tony and Maggie) had a pair of figures painted to appear as if behind frosted glass, the iconic cheesey grin and yellow hair making them instantly recognisable.

Of the paintings I liked the abstracts best, my favourite being Flux - hundreds of small pieces of paper in different blues arranged in swirls. It was big, which made the £10,000 price- tage seem a bit more reasonable. Tracey Emin's jokey monkey in a space suit looks like an illustration for a children's book, very reasonably priced in a limited edition of 300 but you'll have to be quick because there were plenty of orange stickers on the glass. There's another of hers at £90,000 but I missed it.

The northern grittiness of a rent-collector against a backdrop of yards and four grim housewives, called Shadows Thick as Felt hinted at a return to harsher times, as did the sculpted black bear about to pounce, but the tone was generally cheerful.

Ken Howard's picture of the inside of his studio with a model foregrounded a gleaming silver coffee set. £35,000 you'd have to pay for that - Self-portrait with Fantin Latour.

Among the superbly atmospheric paintings the impressionistic Dora,Snow in Kensington Gardens by KenHoward was untypically serious. Explicitly sexual or gloomy subjects were hard to spot in a celebratory collection full of 'witty' pictures. The giant stainless steel spoons in the courtyard add to the overall razzle-dazzle. It couldn't have been the Pimm's effect, because I didn't have any, (what, at those prices?) although its festive chunks of oranges and limes suited the mood of the show.

The Times Review: http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/visual_arts/article6410461.ece

French Thriller

I'm glad I didn't read anything Anything for Her before I saw it, because even the one-sentence summary in Time Out gives part of the plot away. The film wrong-foots you from a cracking start - and then draws you into into empathising with French teacher Julien, his wife Lisa and son Oscar separated when one of the parents is sentenced to 20 years in prison. Oscar is traumatised by the brutal arrest and alienated by grim prison visits. After three years and a suicde attempt , a prison break looks like the only option for the family to survice.

This the kind of intelligent thriller the the French do best : ordinary people in desperate situations. The first part is harrowing, heaping on the despair, and the rest keeps you on the edge of your seat as you follow complex events which contrast the protagonists desperation, grandparents' anguish, ruthless underworld thugs and cool police evidence-gathering.

The acting can't be faulted - the kid never plays 'cute', although one of his scenes really ratchets up the tension. Diane Kruger as Lisa resembles a young, low-key Catherine Deneuve , and Vincent Lindon has the kind of baggy-eyed, lived-in look that Frenchmen have perfected. There's strong support, too, from the minor actors, Lucien's father in particular bringing great emotional depth to a role requiring him to pretend he doesn't know what's going on. The prison rescue and subsequent police chase leads up to a nail-biting finish.

I wouldn't read any reviews before seeing it, though.

Anything for Her: http://www.anythingforher-movie.com/