“Half of Hackney talks to itself.”

I’m waiting for a bus at the stop outside our local Lidl. This is the considered opinion of the lady next to me in the bus shelter. We’ve both been watching the antics of a man and a woman, also waiting for a bus, but passing the time by looking for something only they can see. All the while, they are both and separately talking to whoever it is that’s responsible for nothing at all.

I’m forced to agree; “It takes all sorts,” I reply hoping not to cause offence and spark an outburst of my own.

“It’s the drugs,” she says.

Fortunately, the 388 bus arrives before I am able to talk myself into a real corner.

The halfway house I mentioned in my last post must have some kind of resident churn, because I hadn’t seen these two before. I also hadn’t encountered the couple who were having a full-on marital outside yesterday afternoon. I think the male partner must have Tourette’s Syndrome – it’s possibly the same guy who sits across the road in the morning sun and has intense conversations with someone known only to himself.

His Tourette’s is very focussed, encouraging him to say little more than fuck, accompanied by an occasional word that isn’t. What with hearing only half of it and all, it’s a hard conversation to follow;

“You fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking wanker, fuck you, fucking West Ham, fucking, fucking fucking, fuck you. Yeah, fuck you too”.

And so on.

Meanwhile, the marital dispute downstairs has entered the name calling stage, the narrative seemingly borrowed from our friend across the road. The in-between words have changed though – always a reasonable clue.

If it wasn’t so distressingly close and loud, I’d be able to look on it as a kind of alcohol-fuelled, late afternoon cabaret.

So, waiting for a bus can be a pleasant interlude, watching the traffic go by. Or a harrowing experience, especially if it is tipping down with rain and you need to share the shelter with a small mob of drunk, gesticulating, sweary buggers. Many have more than a faint whiff of eau de pee about them and will at the merest glance in their direction, or the slightest sign of interest in their problems, try to start a conversation with you.

I especially didn’t want to strike up a chat with the man standing outside the flats yesterday, with his trousers at half mast. I really, really didn’t want to see what he was up to either. I just know I shall at some point give thanks that he wasn’t queueing to get on the bus, too.

Summer is oozing by. Recently, the mercury hit 39C in London. This week it’s not very warm and has been raining on and off for the last few days. Either way, the flat gets the full force of whatever late afternoon sun there is and while that will be most welcome in the winter, right now, it’s a serious PITA.

And of course, it’s holiday time here.

They got the shapely bodies according to just about every food, travel, holiday and social media it’s possible to find. All are extolling us to eat slim, be healthy, lose weight and in the main, squeeze ourselves into clothes made for (and by) six year old Laotians.

I get it, but unless you plan to live on air, rainwater and traffic fumes, it’s nigh on impossible to find something to eat that doesn’t have bread making up at least ninety percent of its content.

As you know, I walk a lot and while strolling the streets it’s not unusual around midday for me to want to feed the beast. So, the hunt is on.

Hamburgers are everywhere. On buns. That’s bread and I know it’s possible to order without, but wandering Whitechapel, or Soho leaving a trail of cooked meat, tomato, onion, pickle and/or mayonnaise down one’s clothes and on to the pavement is hardly desirable.

A wrap? Take the bread away and see above times ten.

Doner kebab/schwarma? See above too, but even worse.

Bao buns?

Hot dog?

DIm sum? 



And there’s the rub. No matter what you try, if you want to slide into that slim-fit outfit for your summer hols, you’d better be living on something with a powerful emetic in it, ‘cos you’re not going to get any help from the food sector.

It’s awful. In desperation, I usually try and choose the least bready (like a burger) and then eat only as much bun as is necessary to keep body and soul together.

Oscar Wilde said “I can resist anything except temptation.” He was a Brit, clearly talking about his lunch and I’m not surprised.

On the subject of food. Whatever you do, don’t let these little bastards into your home. Why? Well, when the jar is suddenly empty and you’re feeling vaguely guilty at your piggery, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The braai fire is at the ideal temperature and mine host (aided by me) is flipping burgers for the guests. A brace of teenagers are waiting, the host offers a burger to the young lady; “Ladies first.”

Seems OK to me.

“That’s a very sexist thing to say,” pipes-up male teenager.

My punching reflex almost catches me out at this extraordinary rudeness, but I manage to defer to our host, who calmly tells this young chap that’s how things ought to be.

Alas, not any more.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the face of London is changing. I discovered today that there is a massive hole in the ground where the Earl’s Court used to be. Home to inter alia both Motor and Boat Shows and many, many others over the years, Earl’s Court used to be an exhibition hall, a suburb and a short-term home for tens of thousands of Aussies, arriving annually in London to find fame and fortune.

Now, the redevelopment scheme will deliver trendy tree-lined malls, hundreds of homes, most likely to push the cost of even a one bedroom flat through the £1m barrier.

The old Earl’s Court was an eyesore, vaguely dangerous late at night, probably shockingly expensive to maintain, but an anchor of both pre- and post-war London. Trendy new living units don’t feel like they’re going to be fair replacement value for anyone but the investors. Still, all those people have got to live somewhere, I suppose.

The 388 bus I mentioned at the top of this post takes me to Stratford and a meeting with the Chief Mechanical Engineer of the 4709 Night Owl group, a steam locomotive (re)building project I’ve signed-up with to assist with their marketing.

Only nine Night Owls were ever built – they were developed in late Georgian times, to haul heavy food trains into London from the Midlands, the West and South West. In railway terms they were giants and though I’ve only been joined-up with the group for a short time, I am looking forward to help move this project forward and meeting their self-imposed deadline to see this monster produce its first steam sometime in 2024.

This is what one looked like in the daylight:

I mentioned the noise made by emergency vehicles and ambulances in the last post. From our lift lobby, here’s another reason:

Dickhead driving the Mini has ignored the lane lines and arrows and despite wanting to continue straight, has stopped in the RH lane which has a filter light. The filter allows traffic to turn, while the LH lane is held. Alerted to his stupidity by the sound of a million angry horn blasts from behind, DH now inches left so he can continue straight on, towards downtown Hackney. But not far enough to let the right turning traffic pass. The noise from the queue of angry motorists waiting to turn gets louder…

The photographs in this month’s post have mainly been shot from my mobile studio. Here it is:

It weighs 11kg and takes up so little space that it lives in our flat with us. Unfolded? See here.

And finally, I managed to get tickets to see the James Taylor Quartet at Ronnie Scott’s last night. It was never going to be to Di’s taste, but Julian bravely agreed to come along and keep me company, fearing several hours of meandering, hard to like jazz.

How wrong he was. The JTQ put on two hours of the best Hammond organ-led funk/jazz we’d both ever heard. The club was rammed and there were people stomping, dancing and cheering everywhere. A great night out and if you can beg, or borrow a ticket, I can’t recommend it highly enough. BTW, the picture does it no justice – photography is banned in the club and I grabbed this one shot on the way out.

Photo buddies

I’d planned to (re)post an article from DearSusan, the photo blog I contribute to, but when I opened the photographs, they were murky and not at all nice.

So, if you amble over, you can see this collection in all its glory(?)

If you’re missing the words, there’s more of those on the way, too. Soon.



July 2019 and for the first time since the mid-70s, we’re not living in South Africa. Di got to London early in May and I arrived – dragging 40+kg of luggage – a month later.


We’ve rented a flat in Hackney, an area I wouldn’t have even dreamed of visiting in the ‘70s without an armed escort. Today, the place is populated by hirsute hipsters and slight, studious, often serious looking women, many pushing some kind of wheeled uber padded device containing their (no doubt) soon-to-also-be-hirsute and precious offspring(s). Oh yes, there are lots of snowflakes too, but Mrs P has warned me against even mentioning them. So there you have it.


It’s supposed to be summer and still chilly in the mornings. Meantime, my South African cell phone continues to bing and bong with WhatsApps from the Rooi Els village group and block watch. It’s enough to make me homesick.


The fact that everything here works as expected is a bit of a shock. The postal system delivers overnight – unlike Mark Barnes’ Post Office back home. Yesterday, I got a very polite e-mail, detailing a speeding offence. In the text it said; “As you may be aware, the South African Post Office is currently experiencing a massive backlog in delivering post. We have been made to believe that 80 million pieces of mail are currently being delayed”.


That’s been going on since this time last year and there’s still no resolution?




London’s buses, long the butt of everyone’s frustration, now work really well, with annunciators at most stops advising how long the next bus will take to arrive and generally doing just that and within seconds of the estimated time. From the several stops adjacent to where we are living, it is seemingly possible to reach almost anywhere of importance in and around the city and many other places besides. It’s really difficult to say this isn’t pole position.


Prior to arrival, we both applied for a Freedom Pass, issued by the local council. It permits free travel on bus, trains and pretty much any form of public transport across the entire city. They were delivered by post – yet another surprise for us colonials. In South Africa something of this value would have merited a courier delivery.


We’ve registered with a medical practice, just a couple of minutes walk around the corner. There’s no one doctor to tend to one’s ills, as personalised care no longer exists in the state system. One can be certain that non-serious medical issues (colds, flu etc.) will be triaged by the system, to be dealt with by an almost doctor, paramedic or the carrier of one end of your stretcher. Still, it makes sense when budgetary and manpower resources are as precious as they are here.


Signing-up triggers all manner of ancillary activities, including a poo-by-post bowel cancer screening. Unthinkable? Nope. A plastic phial containing a matchstick thin probe is provided, with which you are to apply/smear one’s bodger before popping it back into the container and thence the post box. The brightly illustrated instructions are a bit light on how to catch said bodger and how to apply enough, sufficient to test, but little enough to not overcome the lab staff. I wanted to stick a merry Post-It on mine; “Give it five when you open it,” but Mrs P advised me against such levity. Getting their own back and a false declaration of bowel cancer might be the least of their responses.




Downsides? None that I would raise as a major issue. The local council has a hostel/halfway house a couple of doors along from our own block. It’s home to many of life’s less fortunate, who inhabit the nearby pavements and bus shelters around the clock. They drink almost continuously, opting for either either lager, or cider. As the day wears on, there’s often quite a ruckus going on as things in their world(s) don’t quite work out as expected. Noisy, drunk or both, they do all seem to be perfectly harmless – a relief after the hassling one expects on South Africa’s streets under similar circumstances.


The Dolphin (pub) across the street has a night club which functions on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. Late night, it’s surprisingly quiet, but by chucking-out time – sometime after 03:00 – can get very noisy, especially if fisticuffs are involved. Last Sunday morning, there was an altercation at about 03:45 and by the time I’d prised my eyelids open, there was a body on the pavement and several blokes piling into a VW that had stopped in the middle of the street. As the downed reveller revived, casting about for the last of his beer and pizza, the Plod arrived, blues and twos howling and with them an ambulance. A return to sleep was now impossible, so I watched fascinated as the loser in the punch-up lurched back to life and staggered off to the still open chicken shop, doubtless wanting chicken wings and chips to wash down everything else.


Amazing stuff, alcohol.




Ambulances. That’s an issue. Our sixth floor flat is on a very busy road junction, midway between several nearby hospitals. The ambulances that carry patients to and fro invariably find the traffic lights controlling the junction at red, or blocked with turning traffic and resort to their sirens to warn and move traffic out of their way. The first one usually seems to wail its way past around 04:30. After that rarely an hour goes by until well after midnight that at least one doesn’t make its noisy contribution to the day. Late afternoon and early evenings are the worst with anything up to a dozen raucous patient carriers wah-wahing past every hour. The double glazed windows reduce the noise a lot, but who wants windows closed in a steamy London’s mid-summer?


Hard on the heels of my arrival, I fulfilled an ambition to become involved in the railway preservation movement and signed up with a group busy re-creating a giant steam freight locomotive, last seen in the early ‘60s. My physiology is as you’d expect at my age, ruled out grovelling around in inspection pits, wielding spanners and welding torches. So, I’ve volunteered to assist in marketing, media relations and fundraising. Doubtless, there’ll be more about this as the project moves forward.


Also occupying me, a three day sojourn in Paris amongst my fellow-DearSusan bloggers. The city is wonderful and one of my favourites. I suspect this is the first of many similar trips on the horizon – certainly the talk between us suggested as much.


I also spent two days in Bristol, attending a school reunion. Imagine! It’s fifty years since we left Shene Grammar School and went our separate ways, most of us not having seen sight nor sound of each other in all that time. Within minutes, the years were gone and fuelled by a plentiful supply of alcohol, the conversations picked-up, seemingly where we’d stopped half a century ago.


There’s talk of annual reunions here too. As long as someone is prepared to mastermind and organise. Given the collective enthusiasm, I’m sure it’ll happen…



And, the Cricket World Cup grinds on. There’s nothing for a South African to be excited about, save a thorough house cleaning when the team drags itself home after the (almost) inevitable drubbing at the hands of the Aussies this coming weekend.


Final edit – we won – handily beating the Aussies. Why we couldn’t have done that earlier in the competition remains a mystery. That said, I still have no wisdom to offer as to the side’s almost complete lack of performance, but find myself wincing at the thought of the looming Rugby World Cup.


No. Our cricket (and quite probably our rugby too) seems to have fallen victim to the same malaise as the rest of the country; complete stasis. The people who are supposed to make things work are either still asleep at the wheel, drawing fat salaries for no work, or sitting on their hands, waiting for something to happen. Politically, we all thought a win at the polls for Ramaphosa would spell the start of a renewal.


I’ve been holding that particular breath for a while. Letting it out and disappointment rushing in seemed unthinkable just a few short weeks ago.




Leaving home. Coming home.

Of necessity, this is a long post – lots of words, that is. You have my apologies up front and can do a TL:DR and scroll down to the photographic content should you want.


As you will doubtless know Di and I live near Cape Town in South Africa.


The disastrous nine year presidency and leadership reign of corruption of Jacob Zuma has devastated much of South Africa’s infrastructure and economy. This article was published a couple of days ago and while there is nothing new here, details Zuma’s ascent, looting of the nation, legal difficulties and partial fall from grace in excellent detail. Take a few minutes to read and try to grasp the scope of the man’s greed and the mess the nation is grappling with to put matters to rights. Or not if some of the electoral polls are to be believed.


So, our Post Office is incapable of delivering letters and parcels within weeks rather than days. The rail system is shambolic, often dangerous, poorly managed and run and even the crack inter-city expresses are almost always hours late arriving.


Justice, police and the prisons are best left unmentioned. South African Airways and the SABC (state broadcaster) are both on the verge of bankruptcy and often heard whining that they require more government bail outs (read taxpayers’ money) or are going to be unable to pay salaries at month’s end.


The official unemployment figure is 27%, although most of us believe it might be as much as 5%-7% higher even than that.


An additional government sponsored, opposition backed land expropriation without compensation bill is before parliament, although the nation’s constitution already details specific remedies for such situations. We are assured that this will only impact state owned land, but these are politicians speaking…


Against this backdrop, ESCOM, the state electricity provider is the engine that should be driving the economy. Instead, ESCOM is currently some €30bn in debt, the network is only able to deliver around 70% of the required demand and then only sometimes. South Africa has been subjected to nationwide rolling electricity blackouts for several years, which recently, have been ramped-up; meaning two or three multi-hour outages a day. Our two new power stations – the world’s largest coal powered installations due to deliver 9600MW between them – are years late, billions over budget and largely useless because of dire levels of corruption, engineering and supervision. The electricity has been on and off more times than a bride’s nightie in recent days – and given the above, that’s hardly surprising.


The tiny Cape village we live in has suffered almost two dozen major lack-of-maintenance-related water leaks – requiring day-long periods of no water to facilitate repairs – since the beginning of December, with no end in sight.


Despite his recall a year ago by the ANC, the government is still held to ransom by the remnants of Zuma’s patronage network and current president, Cyril Ramaphosa, seems unable or incapable of even making a start on finding/arresting and jailing the culprits. This despite shipping containers full of incriminating evidence, several (highly respected) judge-led commissions of enquiry into state capture et al, yet not a single high level corrupt official has yet been arrested.


Not. One.


In desperation, the non-African sectors of the population are blamed by government for just about every ill the nation is suffering and the slide into racism, violence and civil war is becoming a constant threat, especially as our political hot heads seem ready to garner increased support in May’s upcoming general election.


Meantime, for our sanity and safety, we have rented a two bedroom flat in London and will be travelling back and forth for a while. At least until the situation is clarified a bit and settles, or much more likely, this extraordinary country that has been our home for more than 40 years, slides into a Zimbabwe-style meltdown. If that happens, we won’t be there to witness the crash and will both be long dead before it gets fixed, if ever.


text continues below…



Graffiti door – Hackney


Street art abstract




Winter sun


Glass abstract


Glass abstract


HIgh tech, low tech


Going elsewhere


Blue gates at 71


This last fortnight we’ve been a family living almost a normal life for the first time in more than a decade. Our adult children live in London, our daughter has a four month old granddaughter and now, we have a lease to move into a flat in London Fields (Hackney) in April, but as I write, we’re back in South Africa, tidying up loose ends.


The trip was originally planned to enable us to find somewhere to live, but we managed that some weeks ago between our Up Hele Aa sojourn in the Shetlands and returning to South Africa at the beginning of February. We didn’t want to forfeit these two tickets, so for the last fortnight, we’ve been spending the kids’ inheritance buying furniture at IKEA and used much of my now free time walking the streets of east London, taking photographs.


I have found some interesting things to photograph. And that makes me pleased and now I have a clue; when I leave Cape Town for London at the end of May, I’ll have somewhere to (re)start my photography. So, I’ve now got some nice ideas for my months-long stints in London and a way to bring them to fruition. I’ll share those with you soon.


Rather than publishing our new address details on a public forum, an e-mail will get our new address, phone and other contact details. Occasional blogging will continue.


Meanwhile, all the best from both of us.


more pictures below…













Old sign – Hackney




Graffiti or art? Hackney

Just one thoughtless person

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You may be aware that we’ve been besieged in the Kogelberg region, by huge veldt fires since New Years Eve. The area is a United Nations Biosphere – the biodiversity is believed to be greater than anywhere else on the planet; more than 1500 distinctly different forms of flora can be found in this narrow coastal strip, which stretches from Cape Town up South Africa’s south eastern coast towards Mossel Bay and Knysna.

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New Year’s Eve saw one reveller* light a marine distress flare, which almost spent, fell into the tinder dry fynbos nearby.

The prevailing south easterly wind at this time of year quickly turned a few flames into a conflagration, which then raced towards neighbouring Pringle Bay and across the Kogelberg, from where on day ten, it was in sight of Gordon’s Bay, having burned its way many kilometres across the mountains.

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On Friday morning, the wind swept around to a gale force north westerly, which blew the whole fire front back to where it had started, creating even more destruction. Almost 20,000ha of pristine fynbos has been lost.

The supreme efforts of the fire fighting teams and helicopter water bombers managed to control the situation with the help of some blessed rain and by Saturday morning, the worst was over. At least for the fire fighters. For the many that had lost their homes, the heartache has just started.

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I went out yesterday (Saturday) to try and capture the essence of the devastation. These photographs show just a tiny glimpse of the fire damage. More than 30 homes have been lost and at least one death is attributed to smoke inhalation. I see no reason to venture into people’s sorrow and difficulties, so my focus here has been purely on the flora.

All of these photographs have been shot with the Fuji X-H1 and either the 90mm f2, or SBH (16-55 f2.8 zoom).

On a final note, fynbos requires fire in order for its seeds to germinate and much effort is expended year-round to keep invasive species to a minimum. In addition to their ability to overrun the fynbos while using precious water, these plants, bushes and trees also burn at considerably higher temperatures than our native fynbos and in so doing, destroy the seeds which would ensure survivability of this extraordinary gift from Mother Nature.

So, will the fynbos survive? Some rain in the next couple of weeks ought to start the seed germination cycle and hopefully, soon we’ll then see some hopeful green shoots pushing their way out of the sand and ash.

  • Our reveller is currently languishing in jail and unlikely to see his home and family for some considerable time.
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