Only another 364 to go...

Was a lovely day, slept late, woke up next to my best friend. B
reakfasted on bacon, eggs, tomato, beans and toast..Late lunch, with my best friend, at a local hostelry. Yummy roast pork, gammon (ham really) yorkshire pudding, roast veg. Topped off with christmas pudding and custard. Excellent fare and just the best company a person could ask for. Now lest see where shall we go for next year...

Greetings

Can't say it any better than Dickens
...and a merry Chistmas to ll and to all a good night...

Ramblings

When we switched channels a few moments ago it was to catch the tail end of a programme about the music of the sixties. Dave, Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Tich, singing Hold tight. Ah what a trip down memory lane. And the Sonny and Cher were on singing I Got you Babe.

It made me think about how music has changed and just what we respond to. I wonder if it is the sentiment behind the words of the song, or is it the beat perhaps. Sometimes I think the words can be so simple that it has to be the beat. I love Cecelia by Simon and Garfunkel. And in this particular one it is definitely the rhythm of the music rather than the lyrics.

So what you may ask….go on ask away... what is my favourite piece of music?

These days it would be a classical piece, but when I was a pupil at Petone Central School it defiantly was ‘Sailor’, sung in German of course. That was because my mostest favourite teacher in the world was the lovely Mrs Rose. The year 1960, I think, and the whole class was involved in a project to build a little trampoline for or vaulting horse. Instead of springs we cut tyre inner tubes. We raised money to buy some pipes then we all traipsed around to the workshop to watch somebody’s dad bent the pipes into shape to make the frame.

Then there was the class Christmas party. Everyone volunteered to bring in goodies to eat. I lived with my Mum and Dad above the café/dairy that my parents ran and so t ws easy to put my hand up and say I‘ll bring the Ice cream.

Another teacher at Petone Central was  Mrs McGarry. She wanted us to all take read the parts in a play. Not to perform in it but I think it must have been reading aloud exercise. I was fairly shy and had th misfortune to be given the part with the very first lines to read out. The play was about a group of children who were returning home after fairground visit.

My first line was  “I’m sorry that’s all over” Now I ask you would a child of 10 or 11 actually say those words?  Probably not. Well Mrs Mcgarry wasn’t happy with the way I said it, not enough sadness or enthusiasm or regret that it was over… Well if I read that line once i must have read it a dozen times. And never with enough emotion behind it to satisfy the teacher. I was never very fond of her after that.

It's in the local paper so it must be true, unfortunately it really is ...

The Man read this information in the local paper yesterday.  

During the Olympics the train drives are asking for and getting, wages are £52,000 per year, deals for extra payment include £1200 each per driver there are 3200 of them, £1000 for the 1000 overground employees and £500 for the 800 maintenance people making a grand cost of £27 million pounds and that in a falling economy, bus drivers on the other hand who are poorly paid by comparison earning £24,000 less than half that of the train drives are asking for £500 for that Olympic period and there are 28,000 of them. The rationale is that they will need that for just turning up to work cost the buses will be so busy

Also recently the train drivers struck for an extra 7% increase per year, and the average income in this country is £24,000

Another item was about a woman who tripped over a piece of litter in Santa’s a Grotto in 2009, seems she  is claiming £30,000 damages from the grotto cos her leg is still not right. It is a very litigious country over here

Funny how things trigger memories

This morning on the radio, they were talking about Christmas nativity plays at schools, and I was immediately taken back to mine

I went to Hutt Central School and as a member of the junior class we prepared with much excitement for our event. I was dressed as an angel. In a wide sleeved creating made from an old bed sheet. I can feel the thick weave of the fabric under my fingers still. I don’t remember if I wore a halo, but there we defiantly wings. Dad, clever as always with his hands, drew the pattern and he and Mum fabricated them from some sort of silver material. Not shiny as though made from tinfoil and not that thin. I think they were made up of several layers probably sewn together to give the definition of feathers.

I joined the host of other angels; standing on forms to give is height, to sing our wobbly song. Probably ‘Away in a Manger’

We had decorated our classroom with an enormous tree. It wasn’t a real one, rather one we had painted in pieces on many huge sheets of the ubiquitous grey paper, why was it never white. To us small beings it seemed to reach all the way up to the ceiling.

Stuck on at strategic intervals were small presents.  Matchboxes wrapped in paper we had painted in various festive colours. Nothing bright. I remember the paints were almost always wishy-washy watery colours often tuning muddy brown after our mis-dipping paintbrushes from one colour to another.  We hung up the streamers we had made from short strips of coloured paper that stuck to itself when wetted, which we did by licking it. Yuk I can still taste the glue.  

It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas

I've been pondering on why it feels that Christmas somehow seems more festive over here.

There isn't an over abundance of chrissy music in the stores, so it can't be that. I don't think there are any difference in the deckies than back in NZ. The stores do seems to be more in the spirit of it somehow than they are in NZ but I cannot put my finger on why that is.

I wonder if it is that the shortened days, and the prospect of another white one, fit more with my childhood perception of Christmas.

Last weekend, after a visit to the science museum, we decided to take the bus back to Victoria Station as the crowd waiting to get on the tube was too much of a crush. At 5pm it was already dark and our bus trip became and impromptu tour through the festively lit streets. Past Harrods and other delightfully decorated stores. The Streets have their best dresses on too, sparkly wrapped presents and baubles seemingly float above the shoppers. Down side streets we glimpsed trees, their shed leaves replaced with a crop of twinkly lights. The Eye has become a huge slow motion catherine wheel. Buildings have shed their plain daytime exterior and, like Cinderella, have been magically dressed in beautiful gowns of light and colour.

The price of borrowing money

I received an invitation from my UK bank today to take out a personal loan. Sounds good, right? Wrong, very wrong.

Borrow £,4000, pay back £115.48 over 60 months (yes that's 5 years) and pay back in total £6928.80.

Thats an anual interest rate of 24.170%

And that from the bank that pays less than 5% on the money I have in my account.

I don't think so Tim

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them...

Today is Remembrance Day.

And I do remember.

I remember how lucky I am to even be here.

Both my grandfathers survived WWI and my father survived WWII.

My father served with the Essex Regiment. He hardly spoke about the war.

One of the things he did say was that one night they had all their guns stolen by the enemy and were nearly court marshaled over it. I have yet to discover if it were true.

Dad’s father served with the 11^th Essex Regiment, in France. He was wounded a couple of times and eventually medically discharged. Mum’s father was a merchant seaman. In September 1917, he was a stoker on board the Port Kembla. Along with the rest of the crew, he would have had to make a mad scramble for the lifeboats when the ship hit a mine off Farewell Spit. Fortunately, no lives were lost.

I’ve met the guys who dived on the wreck, and held the ship’s bell and some of the crockery they salvaged from her.

http://www.petemesley.com/local%20trips%20port%20kembla.htm

http://www.divenewzealand.com/?s1=divetravel&s2=Dive%20Destinations&s3=Port%20Kembla%20Wreck%20Dive

Well....

Yesterday evening a quick trip to the supermarket was not what we expected. A very loud and foul-mouthed young black woman was telling her young man in no uncertain terms that what was the use of going to a party if all yu were going to do was sit there and not get drunk!
Then at the counter she let loose at an unsuspecting customer who got too close to her while she was keying in her pin number. He looked stunned, as was everyone else around her.
The interesting thing was that if she hadn't have opened her mouth and let all that filth out you would have thought by the look of her, she was well dressed and fairly good looking, that she was a nice youg woman. Instead she was totally the opposite.
Just shows the old adage is still true, you defiantely can't judge a book by its cover.

Insulated

As I sit at my usual weekday morning Starbucks I'm struck by the thought of how separate we make ourselves from each other. When I look around no one is making eye contact with anyone else aprt from the counter staff and I am struck by how different it would be in NZ. In London's seemingly ovepopulated world I wonder if it is an attempt to retain personal space in a crowd.. On the jam packed tube almost everyone is head down, eyes only for the newpaper or more likely a PDA. Ear plugs in listening to thier own world, not making eye contact with anyone else,  or heaven forbid actually taking to anyone else. I crammed myself into a crowded tube a while back, yes I can do that now, and said to the men surrounding me 'Gosh, haven't been surrounded with so many handsome characters for a long time'  All I got in return was a blank looks form them.
But if you do manage to engage one of them in conversation it can be interesting. I struck up a conversation with a young fellow the other day on my way home. Yes, I talk to anyone who will listen. He was sitting next to me on the tube and had his head in a very complicted looking text book. Turns out he was an electrical engineering apprentice in his first year and finding it quite hard going, but defiantely woth the effort.

Why can't I...

I'm getting a bit frustrated with this blogging. I wan to post a comment on a blog I am following, but everytime I try to post it I get the message that I do not have the authority to post on that site. have tried logging out and in, but no joy. What is it I am doing wrong?

Needles...

I've been giving lots of flu vacciantions lately and it remineded me the first time I had the flu. It was just before baby number four was born. The whole household was down with it. Husband, and all three of the kids. Guess who still wound up doing dishes, feeding kids (when they were hungry). soothing fevered brows, and dealing with the 101 houshold tasks. Fortunately I had a good friend who did the essential shopping.   

The smell of solder...

Yesterday we paid a visit to the Science Museum. Definately somewhere we want to go back to do more exploring.

One of the displays we looked at was a cut away motor. One of the things I recognised was the coil. It reminded me that winding coils was something my Mum used to do.

She worked for a company called Turnbull and Jones which was in Fitzherbert Street, not far from Ava Railway Station. I remember it as a large art deco type building, its facade painted pale green. As a pre-schooler I was cared for by my grandmother while Mum was at work. Unfortunately my Nan died just before I went to school. Apart from the grief of losing her Mum, it must have presented a child-minding problem for my own parents.

The problem was solved by the factory installing a coil winding machine in the back bedroom so that mum could work at home. The truck would back up our long driveway loaded with rolls of copper wire, which were handed in through the window, and the finished coils made the reverse journey out the window onto the back of the truck to go to the factory.

My abiding memories from this time are: the roughness of Mum's fingers as she applied cream to an already sore nose from me having a cold, the smell of solder, something I still like, Dad using one of the empty rolls the copper wire came in to make a holder for a long extension lead. 

Please to remember the 5th of November

Red and green and silver like the scattered beads of a broken necklace are the multi coloured starburst followed closely by the retort of their launching explosion.

Definitely sounds like Guy Fawkes Night doesn’t it? 

Please to remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot! 

When I was a kid the fireworks were less impressive than today’s expensive and spectacular offerings. But we thought they were great. Sparklers and Catherine wheels, and rockets that went off with a satisfying whoosh.

But along with the smell of gunpowder and singed fingers came fear, and bad dreams.

We’d make a ‘guy’ and trundle it around calling 

Guy guy guy,

Penny for the guy, Hang him on a lamp post
And leave him there to die.

One year the ‘guy’ we tossed onto or back yard bonfire was made of granddad’s old clothes.  I had nightmares for weeks after. It was much to real and similar the old man that I loved.

Year after year a huge bonfire was built on Petone beach and fired into life on Guy Fawkes Night. That is until one year the surrounding crowed surged forward and a child was pushed into the fire. 

Mum told me that we were celebrating someone’s gruesome death, a man called Guy Fawkes. He was Hung drawn and quartered, not a nice way to die. Caught in the act of trying to blow up the houses of parliament in 1605 the gunpowder plot players, betrayed by one of their own, were found guilty of treason and sentenced to a horrible death.

 So here were all these hundreds of years later still setting off fireworks but I wonder how many of the kids today, or even the adults really know why.

Now I've heard everything...well almost

In yesterday morning's paper was an item about a chap who was badly burned when his carbon fibre fishing pole touched high voltage ovehead lines. He was trespassing on council land having squeezed through a hole in a fence. He's suing the council for not making enough efforts to keep him out!!

In the paper this morning is a report about a chap in poland who waited ten, that's right ten, years to get a set of false teeth. After all that time the shape of his face has changed and the teeth don't fit. Guess what? ..
He has been told he will have to wait another ten years for new ones.

Ratbags

This morning when I went to put my phone in my bag, it wasn't where I thought it would be. "Bother" I thought "Must have left it at work." Get to work and no it isn't there. "Bother, must be at home after all"

At home tonight, looked high and low and the phone is nowhere in sight. So what do I do but ring it. And...Hello someone answers. Must have dailed wrong.
No I didn't 'cos when I dialed it again, guess what.?

Yup, you got it in one.. Someone answered.
Kid on the other end says I don't know anything about the phone, Mum brought it home.

What next!!! I phone security at work, who will talk to the manager of the cleaning company to see who was working in my office area last night.
Then call the phone company and they 'kill' the phone
Then call the insurance company. They say report it to the police and we will action a claim.
So no prizes for guessing what I'm doing in the morning.

Now and again I had thought that the odd thing was in short supply or not where I left it. Now I am
very suspicious and angry.

Memories

Twenty years, gosh is it really that long, ago I  lost a very special man.  Lost seems not the right word to be using because it implies that it was something I did. But whatever word I use, he is no longer here. Not physically anyway. In spirit though, well that is another matter entirely.
He is my father, friend, ally, guide and all manner of other things. He guided me through the making of my first dress. Well he could read a plan couldn’t he, so what was different about making a dress. And it was a success. Helped me put a colour rinse through my hair for the very first time. He even let me drive his car, alone, when I first got my license. I don't think he ever judged me or my actions unfairly, even when I was an obnoxious teenager.

This picture was taken in his parents backyard. Mum has a wedding ring on so it  must have been taken shortly after they married. They were  married by special licence just 10 days before he was sent away.

In his latter years, I am pleased that I was able to tell him that I loved him.

I loved the way he could turn his hand to anything, and do it well. An inveterate DIYer.
From the time I was very small he always had something on the go. Painting, or building or repairing something.
An early memory is of him persuading an uncle that it would be a good idea to take down that chimney. Well Dad had already taken a couple out of our house and it did make the rooms bigger. So chimney dismantled, and what to we do with all those bricks. Didn't have a car back then in the very early 1950's. I think it was Dad that came up with the bright idea to drop them one or two at a time into the river. Not far from our house, the railway bridge spanned the river and on the other side was a children’s playground. So two things could be achieved at the same time. well three if you count a walk in the sun.
All went smoothly until one day the uncle managed to drop one of the bricks on his toe. OUCH. Bu the lounge was bigger.

I’ve done a bit of chimney dismantling myself and kept up the tradition. No toes damaged though.

Can't complain abot the weather

Another lovely Saturday that we made the most of. With our trusty book of self-guided walking tours in hand and a packed lunch, and replacement thermos for our lunchtime coffee we trotted down to Crystal Palace Station.  With our usual knack for timing the train pulled in as we got onto the platform.  So off we go.

Yes it was cool, even a bit cold in the shade, but hey us colonials are a hardy lot. Our first ‘find’ was in Bunhill Fields. The name apparently coming from Bone Hill. , An ancient cemetery holding the remains of Daniel Defoe, John Bunyan and William Blake. Never heard of them? So google them. Here cheeky squirrels approached us every time we stood still. The Man broke a chestnut open and we were rewarded with a close encounter.

Following our guide we found ourselves waking through Liverpool Street Station. Oh look there’s a maccas, tie for coffee and apple pie to take the chill off us.

Wedged into the corner opposite, hunched over and obviously asleep, was a young woman, hoodie up hiding her face. It wasn’t long before one of the table hands gave the game away and set the manager on her.  She just collected up her things with a good natured shrug and a smile at us and left.  

Fortified with caffeine and sugar our next find was St Botolph’s church, not the most beautiful from the outside. In the warm interior we watched the last of a wedding party having their pictures taken. The Man chatted tot eh caretaker while I wandered and enjoyed the beautiful interior. One of the Stained glass windows was commissioned to mark the restoration of the church after the IRA bomb damage. Almost all the windows in the area where blown out and another little church was totally destroyed. Very Sad. The man told me afterwards the he’d been discussing rugby with the caretaker who said he didn’t like the game, too much violence against each other, he preferred boxing! Go figure that one.

Anyway. Onward past some amazing glass panelled building. Their facades ripe for reflections and I think I got one or two good pictures. Past the London Monument, build to commemorate he great fire of London. Designed and built by Christopher Wren (yes the one that did St Pauls) in the late 1600’s. We’ve climbed its 222 steps for a breath-taking view of the city. We found a sheltered seating area for lunch with the bells of Westminster pealing out across the river. The last time we lunched here they were ringing out too. Very nice accompaniment to lunch I must say.

Across London bridge, not the original (that’s somewhere in America) but this is the oldest Thames crossing. We gave the crowd along the bank a miss and diverted from the tour along much quieter streets ending at waterloo underground

Now Sunday was a different story altogether, anyway it was a bit more overcast and windy that yesterday and we had a good excuse to stay in.  I’m not usually much of a fan of football (here when you call a game football they mean soccer) but who could resist a Rugby world Cup final. Certainly not me. Just had time for a shower and breakfast before the traditional God defend NZ and haka.

Talking about God Defend, just what does ’guard Pacific’s triple star mean’? Well according to good old Wikipedia…

There is some discussion, with no official explanation, of the meaning of "Pacific's triple star". Unofficial explanations range from New Zealand's three biggest islands (North, South, and Stewart Island/Rakiura),^[2] to the three stars on the shield of the New Zealand Anglican Church, and to the three stars on the flag of Te Kooti (a Māori political and religious leader of the 19th century).^[6] Another explanation is that Bracken was referring to Alpha Centauri, the brightest triple-star system in the southern constellation of Centaurus, but this seems dubious since that system's third star (Proxima Centauri) was not discovered until 1915. There is also a joke that the phrase "Pacific's Triple Star" refers to the three stars on the Speight's beer logo, and T-shirts can be purchased especially in the South Island with the line "Guard Pacific's Triple Star" above the three Speight's stars.

Whatever it means the song always makes me feel patriotic.

And those black shirted men did the same this morning. What a game that was, it even had me on the edge of my seat, groaning when kicks were missed and cringing when the French seemed to be getting it their way. At not stage did I think that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. It was a hard won hard fought for match but The Blacks found the strength and determination to keep on pushing back against a very strong opposition and held their ground.

Well done Blacks. Makes me more than ever proud to call New Zealand home.

I remember a song with the line 'History Repeats'

I'd rather read my book on the train on the way in than the newspaper. For one, I don't like the way the ink comes off all over my hands no matter how carefully I handle it. For another I don't think much of the contents. Today was no differrent, but I did read the article The Man pointed out to me about rioting in Athens and here in the UK at a place called Dale Farm where 'travellers' are being evicted from their illegal homes. The Dale farm saga has been going on for 10 years and must have cost the tax payers a firtune in legal costs to-ing and fro-ing.
We went to Athens just a few short weeks ago. One of the highlights was a walk up to the Acropilis and to see the Parthenon. Now here's the repeating thing, thanks for being patient with my ramblings you knew I would get to the point sooner or later didn't you...
All those years BC, yes that's right BC there were wars and the common people paid the price while the Lords in thier ( I was going to say ivory towers but that is a bit too cliche) safe houses directed the battle. Apart from the fact that they were invading someone elses land I don't knwo why they were fighting.
OK, camera roll forward a few thousand years to the age the book I am  reading is set in 1600 and something. So it is a work of fiction by one of my favourite writers, Philippa Gregory ( Virgin Earth) but based on hsitorical fact. Fact,  the King of the time ordered the common people to fight. And they paid the price, taxes were raised to fund the fighting while the King and his court remained  warm snug and well fed (mostly). Roll the reel of film forward to almost any period in history and you will find the rulers commanding the common people to fight for one cause or another, or one excuse or another. Some of them righteous many not.
Got the idea now about history repeating.
Turn the handle on the film machine to my fathers and grandfather's time. Like thousands of thier generation the fought in world wars at the command of powerful rulers.
Where am I going with this you might ask, and whats the connection with the aforementioned riots?

Well here's the thought ...
Rulers and powerful people sent the likes of us common people to war on account of something about the oppostion they don't like or often something that they wanted. Rioters are like those rulers, they want to take something or fight for something. That in itself is not a bad thing. Standing up and fighting for what you believe in is a human right. But when you have rights you also have to have responsibilites.
Resposnibilites towards other people and thier property. Rioting and looting are not synonymous with protest. A few short moths ago there werre riots and looting much closer to where we live. Homes and jobs were destroyed, peoples lives were damaged forever and for what?
The cause of the common people was shamed by an ugly minority who used unrest to stir up trouble for its  own sake rather than to support the cause. Football hooligans are a case in point.

I think what I am trying to say is that violent protest and rioting for its own sake in not on. There is a small minority that think it is and use every opportunity to stir up the common people for thier own ends.
In a simplsitic world wouldn't it  be great if the powerful people of the world could sort out thier differences over a game of chess and a coffe. Instead of using people as pawns in their war games.

Wouldn't you know it...

Well wouldn't you...?
There I am all set to write another thrilling entry and ...hello... where's my trusty notebook?
Still on the kitchen table where I left it. That shouldn't be a problem should it. Out with the trusty iphone and...hello...it doesn't want to connect to my usual Starbucks free wifi. Several frustrating attempts later, it still wants to log in via Nero, a competitors site. Oh well never mind. Starbucks coffee is hot and strong and I have something to read.

What I was going to tirade about today is women (mostly it’s them) on public transport who carry huge bags over their shoulders. Apart from the fact that it will cause them back problems later in life, these bag carries are so inconsiderate when they walk past.
Oh there goes one now and boof!! I get hit on the head or shoulder with that darn bag. Even walking in a crowded street, they are a hazard. Worse still on escalators.  So the question is do these people have no spatial awareness or are they just downright rude.

Tuesday

Our walk to the staion is now done in the dark, good thing the footpath sweeper machine is at work or it would be very slippery underfoot. The trees are shedding theit leaves thick and fast. Soo we will be able to see the towers of the Dartfird Bridge from our window.
we haven't really missed having a vehicle, getting about in and around London is much easier by public transport and now that we both have freedom passes, ( one of the many benefits of being over 60, just) it is free. And parking does not look like an easy matter.Not to mention the price of fuel and the exorbitant price of insurance. It would cost us almsot three times the amount to insure one car here than it did to cover both vehicles back in NZ. 
Here the insurance company can sell your details to the legal sharks who will contct you if you have an accident and ask you if you want to sue. No wonder the premiums are so high. One of the apprentices who works with The Man wanted to buy a car for about £1500, the isurance per year was twice what the car was worth. How he did it on his apprentices wages I don't know.

yet another London Day

The man and I have been living and working in the UK for more than eighteen months. I fully intended to keep a diary from day one, but I guess I must have a black belt in procrastination after all this time.

Better late than never I guess.

So what did we do last weekend? Saturday was a beautiful clear blue sky day with next to no breeze. Much too good to stay at home, so we didn’t. Where did we go? Read on.

We use National Express a lot on our many trips out of the city, often passing the home of the Chelsea Pensioners.  Well on Saturday it became our destination. A short train ride to London Victoria and an equally short walk took us to the very grand home of the red coated gentlemen. Across the frontage, in Latin is written

 “FOR THE SUCCOUR AND RELIEF OF VETERANS BROKEN BY AGE AND WAR, FOUNDED BY CHARLES II, ENLARGED BY JAMES II AND COMPLETED BY WILLIAM AND MARY IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1692   (thanks Google)

More information about this amazing facility can be found at www.chelsea-pensioners.co.uk

Being our usual gregarious selves we stopped to talk to one of the residents, a fascinating chap who regales us with his history. A ten pound pom (ok if you don’t know what that is look here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ten_Pound_Poms) Anyway he had returned to the UK and was now a happy resident of what has to be one of the country’s grandest old peoples home. The grounds of this place are huge and in impeccable order, more park than garden. Complete with the obligatory cannon and statue, decked out in gold leaf of course.

The small but perfectly formed chapel was a delight and the dining room (now a café open to the public) was hung with old regimental flags and panelled in glossy wood. High windows and long tables completed the picture. No we didn’t stop for coffee, but we could have.

Next door is a War Museum, and not one to walk past such a thing we availed ourselves of the fantastic display. Not being a fan of any armed skirmish I was pleased to discover that it did not so much glorify the battles as the men and women in them.

I found the displays concentrating on WWWI particularly moving,

On a different tack I’m reading a Philipa Gregory book at called Virgin Earth. Call it serendipity if you like, but most of places we have been to in recent months have been centred on the time frame this book is set in. I have even seen portraits of the main characters in a museum

The Man led us to the river (Thames of course) and across the other side its statues gleaming gold in the sun stood,  what we later learned was, the Peace Pagoda (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peace_Pagoda). Gotta go see that, there must be great photo opportunities there.

Crossing the river (Thames again) via Albert Bridge we found ourselves in Battersea Park, and what a gem of a place. Fountains, aviaries (first Public Park we’ve come across with them) and the beautiful gleaming Pagoda. It was a lovely place to sit and eat our lunch, made by The Man’s fair hands, hands that accidentally knocked over and broke the thermos that held the hot water for our coffee. (Glad it wasn’t me). Never mind.

Through he trees we spotted the chimneys of the now abandoned Battersea power Station, meaning that the train station was close. A short walk past more, statuary commemorating war dead, and one focusing on Gallipoli and we found the station. With our usual impeccable timing we had a very short wait for the one back to Crystal Palace. Can’t wait to get those pics downloaded onto the electronic gadget.

.