Getting Lost In Your Own Town

Last night, cycling up Shaftesbury Avenue as the street lights came on and the theatres swelled to bursting (or, at least, one imagines), I overtook a fellow cyclist. We were both pedalling furiously in the direction of the City, but as I passed him, I was startled to find that a) he was Boris Johnson, Mayor of London (the guy who attempts to hold this crazy town together, not the one who dusts off a ridiculous piece of head gear and waves a sword in front of HM The Queen at state functions), and b) he was letting off a string of expletives into the night.

Of the two facts, I'm not sure which was more arresting; the fact that I had just overtaken our Mayor (the blonde thatch exploding out from under his helmet gave him away), or the fact that he was swearing fit to make a sailor blush. I doubt Richard Curtis and Billy Mack could have done any better. I looked for headphones, expecting to see that he was on a call to some poor minion who was getting an earful for a misdemeanour, but it was apparent he was simply swearing at the world at large. "Is that Tourettes?" I couldn't resist asking. Boris looked over at me, had the good grace to look abashed, and asked if I knew where the Shaftesbury Theatre was. At this point, my ghast was truly flabbered. Isn't this the city he's been running for a handful of years? And where were aforementioned minions? Surely its someone's job to make sure this man at least knows where he's going and how to get there when he grabs his bike helmet and dashes out of the office on a windy autumn night...although I suddenly recall a play I was in in April, for which Boris had a ticket and didn't show. One wonders if there is such a person on the payroll down at London HQ after all...

Before I get smug, I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the Shaftesbury Theatre was either. Presumably 'on Shaftesbury Avenue' would be a reasonable guess, but that would be to presume too much about the logic with which London was created (none, I believe). I offered to Google it for him. (Actually, according to Google,  its that dubious building that stands across the road from the Oasis gym and pool, just beyond the Google offices, and offers up baffling musicals. The current incumbent is 'From Here To Eternity', which I daren't comment upon until I have actually seen it. I don't see that happening anytime soon; there's too much good stuff on at the National lately.) I could see the potential headlines scrolling through Boris's mind as he considered my offer..." Lost Mayor Rescued By iPhone-Toting Female" would have been a contender, as would have "Blonde Told Me Where To Go". He declined. But, in a gesture that really shouldn't have been charming, he shouted over his shoulder "So sorry about the bad language!", before blasting off into the night. I giggled my way home.

Autumn Story

In previous years, the horse chestnut tree arching over our roof wasn't on top form, and only yielded a modest sprinkling of fruit amongst the mountains of leaves. Not so this year; unexpectedly we have been treated to a bumper crop of conkers. At irregular intervals throughout the day and night, the tree detonates little bombs of shiny round mahogany nuttiness on our heads. I can't sleep with all the deafening racket, and I fear for the cat, who is happiest playing up on the roof, in the tree's direct firing line.

None of this tempers my joy at the simple fact of conkers. To pick one up, cradle the smug squat oval in your palm and admire its smooth brown skin is to be supremely satisfied. Being born a girl-child in a tropical country meant conkers were only a mythical object, invented by Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl, and I had never held one, much less swung one in a playground, until very recently. To discover that they truly existed was a marvellous revelation. I also discovered that they have been a part of Being English since the dawn of Englishness, and have a magical ability to unite people in appreciation.

As I was sweeping up the debris the tree had strewn over my driveway a few days back, a man with a head of untamed white hair stopped on his way down the cobbled mews in search of milk and the papers, and watched me for a moment. "Well, aren't you going to play conkers this year?", he demanded of me, feigning outrage. I smiled apologetically. He selected one from the pile and pocketed it, almost slyly, before ambling on down the lane.

But the greatest moment of my favourite season happened yesterday. I was woken from an afternoon nap (one of the perks of being a freelancer) by the dim buzz of an excited young voice beneath my window. I realised that I had been hearing the voice through a fog of sleep, and that it must have been there for some time. It belonged to a small boy, in his school uniform, who was standing under the tree and awaiting each plummeting conker in a barely contained frenzy of anticipation. Every time one fell he would dash over, scoop up his prize, and convey it to his mother. This paragon of patience was standing on the pavement with an open Melrose and Morgan bag; Madam, I salute you for being the kind of mother I long to be! Taking my cue from the young boy, I dashed up onto my roof and filled my pockets and hands with as many conkers as I could reach and then descended to the front door. I selected Polite English from the stock of accents (South African, North American/Canadian, Loose London and Polite English) that I use where appropriate in daily life, and went out to hand over my loot. The boy was still young enough to be overcome by a fit of shyness and fling his face into his mother's skirt, but her gratitude and the joy of her offspring made me feel like Santa's Elf and the Tooth Fairy. As they went back up the lane, I realised I have rarely been happier. And, hopefully, there was at least one champion conker in their bag.

Alone In An Hotel Room...

It's Monday night, and I'm in an hotel room, alone but for Siegfried serenading Brunhilde on my ipod. The window is open to the gentle comings and goings of evening traffic on Alton's high street and English flowers (I still can't distinguish flowers in this country, so anything not a rose or a pansy simply remains English) nod in a window box beside me.

The hotel is a local stopping house for business people; the carpet to the bar is well-worn, and the mattress springs complain of their aches. And yet, it is entirely glamorous in my eyes. I want nothing more than this; a room of my own before a car arrives early tomorrow morning to bear me off to a day's work on a film set. That the hotel isn't Claridges and the car will most likely be some form of Vauxhall product matters not even in the smallest way. The simple satisfaction of this is marvellous.

Somewhere along the wandering lane that is my acting career, I realised that I don't ache for red carpets and my name in neon. I almost certainly started out in that mood, wanting gowns and flashing cameras as much as any other girl raised on Drew Barrymore and Barbies. But now I find I simply want to do good work that somewhere, somehow, makes a difference to some stranger's world. I have no wish to meet this person, or hear from them what a difference I made. I've had that experience; as an ex-soap actress, I've been accosted by members of the viewing public, and it makes for a deeply uneasy trip to the toilets in the mall. No, I just want to go to bed each day knowing that I have a place and a purpose in this tangled web of a world.

Of course, if at some point, that web happens to involve Clarridges and a gleaming Bentley, these bedsprings will be happily left to complain under someone else.

New Brew

A little story: Last year, just before the start of proper winter, an enterprising young Londoner named Gavin opened a little coffee stall on Primrose Hill bridge. As I was often passing on my way to train clients in Primrose Hill in the freezing early mornings, stopping at Gavin became a little moment of warm caffeinated heaven. He's one of those people who gets very excited about coffee, and nothing ever tasted as good as his lattes. Except, perhaps, his hot chocolate. But then, after shivering on his pitch all through winter, and building up a regular clientele of devoted junkies, the landlady realised she was missing a trick, and doubled the rent. Gavin simply couldn't afford it and was forced out. I never knew where he had gone, but I would occasionally bump into another member of his fan club around Primrose and we would spend a moment mourning his departure. 

And then, this weekend, a man waved from a cafe at me as I cycled past, and there he was. He's finally got his very own cafe, The Fields Beneath, with sandwiches and tables, and even heating, right outside Kentish Town West station. If you're in the area, please support  him!http://www.timeout.com/london/restaurants/the-fields-beneath