Beautiful Apparition

Something you will only ever see in England. The reassuring sight of a big delivery of Marston’s Pedigree. Seen here outside a new bar on Queen’s Road, Sansomes, named after the drapery store that used to be there. The only place left where one could still purchase a String Vest.

Easy to let the mind wander for the everyday tasks and imagine the waters filtering across the gypsum of Derbyshire, south to Burton-on-Trent where noble men brew, and I mean BREW, Pedi. Oak barrels and brass pipes. Centuries of history. Unchanged methods, all resulting in the perfect pint, and I’ve supped well this evening as you may guess. Cheers and sorry for the absence.

Red Nose Day.

A wine tasting, organised by The Wine Society was, conveniently, in The City Rooms, here in Leicester this week. My son Will and I strolled down dodging various heavy showers to sample 16 wines from around the World. Rubbing shoulders with so much tweed and silver hair was novel and made even me feel quite young! Kicking off with some refreshing sparkling whites, we moved on to heavier whites, light reds and then the Clarets. A good learning experience! Favourite was wine number 7, a full bodied white Burgundy at £225 a case. At the end of the tasting the girl serving it poured the last of the bottle into our glasses as we confirmed it really, really was our favourite and we stumbled off to get something to eat.

Mrs Baggit.

We had, last Sunday, The Leicester Caribbean Festival, here in Victoria Park. I usually stroll across and am generally in favour of the event. It is truly multi cultural and brings a sense of excitement into the city, with some elaborate floats on the backs of lorries and stalls selling Jerk Chicken and Goat Curry, all washed down with gallons of Red Stripe. There’s a lot of loud reggae played and a stage with a live act. Everybody has a good time and the law turn a blind eye to those smells that waft through the air, taking one back to college days. The whole thing’s over as the sun goes down and everybody goes home. What I can’t understand, is why they can’t take their rubbish home with them. A brisk walk across the park the following morning revealed an army of private contractors picking up a sea of litter, mostly called Igor and Perestroikavitch. The Caribbean community was not well represented. But, by lunchtime you wouldn’t know anything had ever happened.

Not Queens Rd.

I'm just back from a week in Jersey and know that a few of you out there enjoy a good example of the architecture. Jersey Airport proclaims to have been built in 1937 and as most of it is still there under the hideous addition on top, it is not difficult to imagine the De-Haviland's taxiing in and disgorging their wealthily clientele. In the north of the Island (Jersey is only 44 sq. miles in total) there is this delightful school at St Johns, originally built in 1901, but extended, in the same style, in 1929. If only the architects of the Airport extension had been as considerate those who extended the school.

On a bit of a tangent, and according to my uncle, who is the holder of such information, my maternal Grandmother flew back from Cairo in about 1934-36 in a Handley Page Hannibal or Horsa.   The seats were Lloyd loom basket chairs (for reduced weight)  arranged like a lounge, not in rows as they are now. One of her fellow passengers was Geoffrey De Haviland of aircraft fame.

Monkey Business

Always amusing to see a man of a certain age dressed in fancy dress in public. One month it’s dear old Max Moseley, the next Friends of the Toxic Waste on Queens Rd. They were protesting about Bio Fuels and thought the countryside should be used to produce food with prices constantly rising. Having topped up my diesel tank with 40 litres of Sunflower oil, that I had photographed recently, I was thrilled to travel about 60 miles for nothing. Bring on the Bio Fuels I say.

The Looney Bench.

This, Ladies and Gents, is The Looney Bench of Queens Rd. That transitional place where we end up, somewhere between sanity and another world. There is always somebody there, either waiting, listening, or offering a point of view on nothing much in particular. Sometimes a poet, other times a bag woman. A can of Special Brew is never far away. Nobody knows what they talk about, but it’s always busy. Blockbusters is right behind with the latest, rather appropriate, offering displayed on the telephone kiosk. Maybe you have to go through some right of passage to sit there? having lived here 27 years I have never dared sit there, but there’s time........

The cost of Vanity.

Having so little and being so vain, it is always a challenge to get my hair cut. I have tried them all around here. I started going to Yan’s years ago, when the money was rolling in, but to save a bob or two shifted my loyalty to Mohammed at 'Gents & Boys'on Clarendon Park Rd. When asked, ‘What number would you like?’ I came over like Patrick McGoohan - I am not a number. However, Moh and I bonded, but I was never truly happy with the cut and after a few weeks began to look like Tintin, with a spikey bit sticking up in the middle. He thought he was doing me a favour covering my baldness with a faux Bobby Charlton. At £7 a throw it was good value though. Determined to make the most of the bit that’s left though, I returned to Yan’s yesterday. A very pretty girl washed and conditioned my hair, then Holly cut it. Well worth thirty quid.