Bulmershe; Islington; Salman Rushdie

Dived into my quite generous leave entitlement to take Thursday and Friday off last week. On Thursday morning, took the bus up to the university’s Bulmershe campus with the intention of spending some time in the library perusing education journals and having a bit of a brainstorm generally. Did this for an hour or so. Bulmershe library is considerably quieter and, arguably, pleasanter than the main library at Whiteknights, and also houses a goodly number of both education and linguistics resources.

The Library at Bulmershe

The Bulmershe campus was built in the 1960s as a teacher training college, later became Bulmershe College of Higher Education and finally became part of the University in 1989. It has been earmarked for sale and redevelopment, meaning that the current buildings will be knocked down and a gazillion houses will be built to further enlarge the sprawling housing estate that is Woodley. I would just like to put it on record (not that anyone cares) that I LIKE Bulmershe and its ilk. 1960s-built campuses somehow smack of REAL PUBLIC SECTOR – none of your old-buildings-covered-in-creeper or the current rash of spanking-new-all-ensuite-wifi-enabled-studenty-hub type buildings (why is ‘hub’ the latest buzzword in new student developments?). To preserve the memory, in case the whole campus has been razed to the ground the next time I go up there, I took a few sneaky photos with my phone.

My mother arrived to stay on Thursday evening and we spent a pleasant couple of days - went up to London on Friday and did a lovely walk around Islington, one of a number of walks out of Andrew Duncan’s Secret London. The ‘Islington spur walk’ took us on a pleasant tour of elegant streets and squares including a stop-off for a lovely lunch at The Albion on Thornhill Road.

Lunch at The Albion

After lunch we took the tube from Angel to London Bridge and paid a brief visit to Tate Modern, which included taking in Miroslaw Balka's How It Is. The installation itself is impressively huge, but the experience of going inside was somewhat underwhelming. According to The Guardian: Miroslaw Balka's black hole at Tate Modern is terrifying, awe-inspiring and thought-provoking. It embraces you with a velvet chill. I suppose knowing a bit about the intended historical allusion helps a bit, but in itself the experience simply involved walking a few feet into a not-actually-pitch-black space. Even when we reached the end we could still see reasonably well, helped by the number of people in white tops, which unfortunately for the artist had something of a luminous quality in the darkness.

'How It Is' by Miroslaw Balka

On Saturday we went over to Hungerford, where Mum and Dad lived for a few years in the early-mid 1990s, and spent a few hours mooching about, including noting that the formerly extremely bijou end-of-terrace where they lived has been significantly extended and is now on the market for £285,000. Blimey. Had lunch in the improved Plume of Feathers before taking a short walk out past St Lawrence's Church to Freeman's Marsh, beloved of the somewhat annoying Johnny Morris.

14a Park Street, Hungerford

Canal at Hungerford

At last night's Book Group meeting was forced to report that I had only made it halfway through The Satanic Verses - luckily turned out to be in good company. I usually like to finish a book once I've started it but Rushdie's writing style is too irritating for words.

Norham Gardens; Take a Break; goji berries

Norham Gardens

Ruth and I went over to Oxford on Sunday afternoon for a bit of a mooch as I had an urge to go and look for the street that features in the title of Penelope Lively’s children’s novel The House in Norham Gardens, to see if it was anything like the representation in the book (see here for a potted review). Indeed it is, being a pleasant genteel tree-lined street of large Victorian-era houses, most of which seem to be nowadays either in flats or used as offices/educational centres of one type or other. Here's a picture of me posing outside a Gothic-style pile (can only see the ground floor windows unfortunately).

Me enhancing Norham Gardens

On the way back, we went for a bit of a browse around the Oxford University Museum of Natural History and the attached Pitt Rivers Museum (also mentioned in the novel). The Natural History Museum is the usual somewhat dusty collection of ancient stuffed animals and birds but there are some more interactive displays to attract the young including quite a bit of stuff on dinosaurs (presumably always a crowd-puller); the main draw for me is the building’s extravagant architecture. The Pitt Rivers Museum is an amazing collection of tribal plunder of various sorts, including a collection of shrunken heads.

After the museum we went to Brown’s for a lovely late lunch/early dinner. To while away the time on the train home, bought a copy of Take A Break, a low-budget magazine that I used to buy quite regularly – now buy it only infrequently but I do get an urge to enter the competitions from time to time as there are some quite attractive prizes on offer, not that I’ve ever won anything but as with the National Lottery one lives in hope. The magazine is mainly based around ‘real-life reader experience’ type articles; a typical issue contains one, or at most two, genuinely moving articles where you think ‘blimey, good on them’ and a number of others that range from dull to the frankly outrageous where one marvels at the sheer stupidity and crassness of the people involved. One particular gem I shall always remember was a mother and daughter bemoaning how, having somehow been defrauded of their benefits by an unscrupulous relative after inexplicably handing power to handle their financial affairs over to him (because he was ‘family’ (say in requisite Cockney Wanker accent) and because presumably they found filling in the odd form too difficult to contemplate), they were forced to live on baked beans and their ilk for six months. The photos featured of the doleful-looking duo, presumably following these starvation rations, suggested that their combined weight was almost certainly in excess of 40 stone. One wondered what they weighed BEFORE the baked bean diet.

This week’s Graze box contained a mix that included goji berries – never having heard of these, I did a few minutes desk research. According to Wikipedia, the goji berry is native to southeastern Europe and Asia, and is apparently the commercial name for the wolfberry. It appears to have a whole slew of alternative names including ‘barbary matrimony vine’ and ‘Duke of Argyll’s tea tree’. Apparently the bulk of commercially produced wolfberries come from China. They seem to have been trendy among skinny celeb-types and marketed as a bit of a ‘superfood’ (so presumably the Gillian McKeith munches quite a lot, in between inspecting folks’ dung). My verdict: they’re OK.

Okra shortages; mantras and beads; grapes

Ruth and I went up to the marina on Saturday afternoon to give Ray a hand painting his boat. It wasn't great painting weather but we managed to fit in an hour or so. A start has been made on applying the green top coats. We then barbecued some sausages and spent a pleasant evening sitting around his darling new little wood-/coal-burning stove.

In a fit of attempting to support local traders, I strode out along the Oxford Road (see 3 June post) on Sunday morning, stopping first at Super Foods, one of many Asian supermarkets in the locality but with one of the nicest selections of vegetables. Bought half a dozen or so small aubergines and a substantial pile of okra, which Waitrose appear to have stopped selling. Have been vaguely intending to take issue with them over this but haven’t got around to it as yet. Rather shockingly, my mother informed me on the phone that she can’t find okra in her local Waitrose either, but did find some in Tesco. Feel as though all is topsy-turvy with the world. Anyway, after purchase of veg, proceeded further out to the recently-opened Sari Sari Oriental supermarket to re-stock with Shin Ramyun. County Delicacies in St Mary’s Butts are no longer reliable stockists of this, and I don’t always feel like trekking up the hill to the Oriental supermarket at the University, the only other known source in Reading.

On Wednesday evening I went along to a meditation class at RISC courtesy of Meditation UK. The meditation classes I’ve done before have been of the silent ‘focus on the breath’ type so I had been naively assuming that this class would be the same and was unprepared for the hour of mantra-chanting and bead-fondling that awaited me. The first hour of the class was evidently intended as an introduction for novices; we worked through a couple of mantra meditations, starting with ‘Gauranga’, uttered slowly on an out-breath, and then up-skilling ourselves rapidly to move on to ‘Gopala Govinda Rama Madana-Mohana’, said quite quickly while threading beads through our fingers. On learning that the second hour of the class was due to involve musical instruments, I beat a hasty retreat during the brief comfort break, as did one other chap, muttering darkly about how it wasn’t what he’d been led to believe on the phone.

The young woman who led the class was very smiley and friendly but a little ditsy (came out with some gem roughly along the lines of “this will help you if you want to do spiritual things, like, you know, spiritually”) and did make some seemingly ill-informed comments about ‘silent’ approaches to meditation and their unsuitability for the modern age. Still, Meditation UK’s website claims, in grandiose fashion, that the classes will involve ‘understanding your true identity and the goal of life’.


My main experience of meditation previously was some classes hosted at the University of Essex’ Multi-Faith Chaplaincy Centre, led by a bruiser of a man with a Scottish accent who introduced himself as Amogrivajra – I remember smirking at some other class members before realising that this wasn’t supposed to be funny. Assume he’d been re-birthed at some point.

Attaching a photo of our now-white garage, with now-ripened grapes. They look pretty but I haven’t tried eating them. Probably should do something creative with them like trampling them into wine, but can’t be arsed really.

Center Parcs part 2; saints

Returned intact from our mini-break at Center Parcs. Very nice accommodation and a lovely woodland setting. The central 'Plaza' and similar areas did become a wee bit trying after a day or so due to the crowds of young families, but I suppose that was to be expected. I'd definitely consider going back though. It's certainly a cut above Butlins - here's a picture of me at Butlins in 1992, the one (and only) time I've been there.

Budget-class accommodation at Butlins Bognor Regis, 1992

To offset that depressing picture, here's a photo of the lake at Center Parcs.

The lake at Center Parcs Longleat Forest

Spent much of Monday on the train, travelling to a meeting at Staffordshire University (formerly Staffordshire Polytechnic, formerly North Staffordshire Polytechnic, formerly Staffordshire College of Technology. Phew.).

Staffordshire University

From Wikipedia

Tuesday was the feast day of St Michael the Archangel, my confirmation saint. Catholic Online gives you the lowdown on Mike here. He’s the patron saint of both paratroopers and the police, so presumably a bit of a hard law-enforcement-type dude as well as being a blond fluttery angel creature. The Wikipedia entry on Michael currently has an amusing image of a Guido Reni painting featuring Michael standing on Satan’s head. After that he probably took Satan’s dinner money as well.

I chose a male confirmation name largely in an attempt to be a bit rebellious, and in part because I was (apparently) christened on or around Michael’s feast day. In the event it caused a bit of confusion on the day, as my brother and I were confirmed together and the bishop made the not unreasonable assumption that it was Dave who had chosen the handle Michael – resulting, as I recall, in the parish priest having to hiss in the bishop’s ear “No, Michael’s the girl!”. Such fun.

Scanning down Catholic Online’s vast list of saints, there’s certainly a wealth of choice when it comes to choosing confirmation names. Had I been more creative, I could have chosen to honour St. Amaswinthus, St. Macrobius or St. Sexburga (despite her name, renowned for piety and humility).

Open House London; bowels; Center Parcs

On Saturday I finally, after several years of just thinking about it, made it up to Open House London. Met Helen at the National Theatre and had a bit of a poke about - the intention had been to join the OH-advertised tour but in the event we arrived having just missed one and decided against waiting around for an hour for the next one. Instead we wandered around the ground floor space and I took some pictures. It is a truly fantastic building – and I hope it outlives Prince Charles by a very, very long way.

After leaving the National we went for a pleasant lunch at Strada and then walked westwards along the South Bank to the Garden Museum on Lambeth Palace Road. I had never even heard of this place, which claims to be the country’s only gardening museum, before I noticed it advertised in the Open House brochure. The museum was set up in 1977 in the former parish church of St Mary-at-Lambeth (which apparently had been just about to be demolished and turned into a car park) as the ‘Museum of Garden History’. The main point of interest was the temporary gallery space made from prefabricated timber that’s recently been erected within the church – this is, apparently, a freestanding timber “belvedere” structure that works within the existing church to provide a new exhibition gallery for the museum’s exhibits. There’s also a tiny but attractive garden in the former churchyard. Helen and I spurned a talk about asters (a tad too specialist for my interests) in favour of tea and a thumping great piece of cake in the café.

Items of note in the museum include (apparently) a total immersion font, which Helen and I managed to miss completely. We were also intrigued to learn that Archbishop Parker’s bowels are buried in the churchyard, although the rest of him is buried at Lambeth Palace ... why? Were they special enchanted bowels? The mind boggles.

We ended a pleasant day out by going over to Trafalgar Square to see the giant chess set installed as part of the London Design Festival. When we got there the square was packed and a game was just beginning between two young players, one of which was apparently the top girl chess player in the UK currently. She was a surprisingly trendy-looking lass - I had been expecting thick glasses and sensible shoes. The Fourth Plinth (see 9 September post) was occupied by a woman wearing several placards and having a bit of a rant, but unfortunately it was impossible to hear her over the traffic and the commentary on the chess game, so from her point of view a bit of a wasted slot, no doubt.

As of Monday Ruth and I are now ensconced at the Longleat Forest Center Parcs for a four-night midweek break. Spent Tuesday morning in the (extremely nice) Aqua Sana spa flitting serenely from one steam room/sauna/meditation room to another, finishing off with a Tranquillity Scalp Massage. Did hire a bike, partly because I felt I should, but so far have not actually ridden it much and am realising it's quite a while since I've done any cycling. Duller day today so braved the Subtropical Swimming Paradise (!) for a bit of a dip, unaccompanied by Ruth, who scorns getting wet - doing much actual swimming isn't really possible but the main pool has a wave machine every 15 minutes so one can do some bobbing about, and I did brave a go on the Wild Water Rapids.

Wednesday 16 September 2009

Met up with some of my old team from CfBT after work on Friday to raise a glass to our colleague Ginette, who tragically died last week.

On Saturday dragged Ruth around a few local sites courtesy of Heritage Open Days 2009. We visited two churches in the morning, St Bartholomew's and St Luke’s, which together form a joint parish. St Bart's is used not only by a CofE congregation (they appear to use the Nave) but also by Greek Orthodox and Serbian Orthodox congregations (who use the Chancel – this had icons and decorative bits and pieces dotted about). The pulpit at St Bartholomew's was apparently the anonymous gift of two ladies who carved it themselves - Ruth and I were amused at the anonymity aspect and had visions of two elderly ladies smuggling a pulpit into the church under cover of darkness. St Luke's - the left-hand picture on the joint parish homepage - is a more imposing and coherent-looking building, probably thanks to being designed by just one architect (James Piers St Aubyn) as opposed to being a collection of add-ons.

We were welcomed at both churches by a few elderly members of the congregation who were so pleased to see us one suspected that they were having a quiet day. One chap at St Luke's even pursued me down the street to ask whether we were interested in seeing inside the church hall as well.

Had an hour to kill so descended on our friend Helen for a refreshing drink before heading to the Royal Berks to see the Medical Museum, part of the Berkshire Medical Heritage Centre. The museum, tucked away at basement level in the former hospital laundry, is a fascinating if gruesome collection of medical equipment and memorabilia. Some of the old obstetric and dental equipment is particularly unpleasant - thank God for progress - and an 'aerial' shot of what must have been close-on 100 patients in iron lungs was pretty sobering.

On the way out, I noticed a corridor going off to the left in the direction of the main hospital building and got to wondering about the no-doubt fascinating maze of underground tunnels that probably runs under the buildings. Found myself wishing for an alternative Heritage Open Day offering tours of underground tunnels and abandoned buildings - I'm sure it would draw an audience. My suggestions for an Alternative Heritage Open Day for Reading would be:

• The suspected sub-hospital catacombs, as mentioned above
  
• The disused Mecca Bingo above the (very) disused bus station. The bingo hall has been closed since 2003; the bus station underneath it has been abandoned for a lot longer. See pictures here and also a short piece from a contributor to the Urban Exploration forum - a fascinating (and doubtless not strictly lawful) endeavour. The contributor also has some photos of Friars Walk, a now-closed shopping precinct that used to house C&A among other places.
  
• Aldwych House, on the corner of Blagrave Street, which used to be occupied by Foster Wheeler. It had (or used to have) a bar in the basement – I once went there for a drink with a flirtatious Detective Sergeant when briefly temping for British Transport Police back in the early 1990s (see 2 September post).
  
• And possibly the long-abandoned Western Tower on Station Hill, which may still be the tallest building in Reading (not sure - I know it was at one point) – there are some entries on the UE forum - here and here - about this as well.

Wednesday 9 September 2009

Ruth and I wandered down to King’s Meadow on Saturday afternoon to sample Reading Pride, as I had never been to a Pride festival before and felt I should sample the local offering. Ruth, a veteran of several such festivals, spent much of the time muttering about how it wasn’t as good as London/as Brighton/as it used to be in the 18th century, etc. It had a slightly scrappy feel to it, possibly because of its attempt to be a family festival as well as catering for the LGBT (loathsome acronym) community – hence funfairs, candy floss, loads of pushchairs etc. We enjoyed a quick browse around the various stalls, at least half of which were political parties and campaigning groups such as Amnesty International. There were a few people waving ‘Against the National Front’ banners, obviously not having realised that the NF had already cancelled their planned protest – they had threatened to picket the march but in the end pretty much announced that they couldn’t be arsed to turn up. We then met up with our friend Claire and used the dodgy weather as an excuse to decamp to the pub for a beer or two, and thence to Carluccio’s for an unplanned dinner (damn the beer or two).

I was quite taken with the gay Conservatives stall and intend to read through my list of bios of top gay Tories.

We now, hopefully, have a rabbit-proof fence, as Ruth spent a good few hours on Sunday nailing chicken wire down the whole length of one of the back garden fences, in the hope that this will prevent Harley escaping. We then coaxed him out into the garden to test it - certainly he stayed within the confines of the garden tho' this may just have been coincidence.

Went up to London on Monday morning for a meeting at the National Gallery Dining Rooms. The DRs are dead posh though it took my boss Paul and me a while to locate them, as we didn’t realise they’re located in the new Sainsbury Wing – managed to visit the Café and the shop before finally locating them. As it was mid-morning I just had a mint tea but the food on offer looked very nice.

On the way in to the gallery, the sight of a chap sitting reading a newspaper on top of the Fourth Plinth reminded me that Antony Gormley’s One and Other project is now underway.