The Novel That Started It All

I finished "Bleeding London," the novel, yesterday. It was a curious book, and even more curious given my long involvement with the RPS photo project that took its name. It started as sort of a dark noir novel with three main characters: an ineffectual business owner, a gangsterish thug and nymphomaniac shop assistant.

These three shared a common involvement with maps and the streetscapes of London, with walking miles through the city and recording their lives -- by different standards of measure -- on maps.

One of the main characters, Stuart London, decides to walk all the city streets after essentially having been made redundant in his own business -- a walking tour company run largely, now, by his more capable wife. He sets out with an A-Z, the bible of London street maps, and marks the streets as he completes them.

Ironically, he specifically avoids photography during these walks:

"He considered taking a camera with him to photograph the things that caught his eye, to create a visual record and an aide-memoire, but he decided against it. He feared that the presence of a camera would turn his walking into a photographic expedition, into a quest for the picturesque. Besides, taking photographs would make him conspicuous, and there were all sorts of places where a man with a camera would be unwelcome."

At the end of the book, Stuart is left with a blackened A-Z and a diary that recounts his experiences as a walker. But his wife, upon discovering and reading the diary, decides he couldn't possibly have walked all those streets. She points out that if he'd walked his goal of 10 miles a day, five days a week, he would have covered eight and a half thousand miles and walked for three and a half years -- and he would have had a much, much bigger diary:

"Let me tell you what I think happened. I think that in the beginning you genuinely wanted to walk down every street in London. It sounds like you. I'm sure you intended to do it. I'm sure you planned to. But I suspect that before long it got very boring. It was all quite pleasant walking through Hampstead and Richmond and Kensington. And it was just fine walking through Highgate and Blackheath. Wandsworth and Stoke Newington had their problems. Lewisham and Leytonstone you probably didn't like at all. And you knew there was going to be worse still: Peckham and Tottenham and Canning Town and God knows where else. I'm sure you weren't a snob about it, probably you really did visit Brixton and Shoreditch and Wanstead. I'm sure you weren't too delicate to walk through a bit of urban blight. But I imagine that before long you looked at all those remaining mean streets that led you through depressing council estates, and through boring, boring suburbs, and perhaps even into some dangerous no-go areas, and you thought to yourself, I don't belong here. This isn't my manor. This isn't my London. And you said to yourself, "Forget it." And frankly I don't blame you. Nobody would."

Stuart protests, but in the end, I was left wondering whether he really did walk all those streets. Or was the wife correct, and was all that walking  -- not to mention the occasionally almost supernatural interaction between the main characters -- a product of Stuart's imagination? When I talked to author Geoff Nicholson a couple of months ago, he said he was not his character. But I was left with a sneaking suspicion that he was indeed Stuart's alter-ego, writing an imaginary walking diary that became a novel.

As a map-lover, I appreciated the repeated references to maps, and what they represent. Map people are dreamers. In my case, an enthusiasm for maps isn't about the paper and the lines and the craftsmanship -- it's about the places. The wondering. What would that street, that city, that country look like? What kind of a place would have a name like Tooting, or High Worple, or Ismailia Road or Red Path? I could read maps for hours and just wonder about them, and that wondering is part of what fueled my participation in Bleeding London -- it gave me a desire to turn the next corner, and the next, and the next.

I'd say odds are good that Nicholson is a map-lover, too.

(Photo: A new, slightly creepy mural outside the West Hampstead Fire Station.)

Love and Mercy

Well, this weekend has turned out much sunnier than I expected. We had sun much of the day yesterday, and I just went out in the back garden with Olga and it's pretty clear this morning. A pleasant surprise!

I spent yesterday mostly at home, catching up on domestic business like laundry and housework. I also finished mounting the new prints for my Royal Photographic Society licentiate assessment, which is next month, and I Skyped with my mom to get the latest news from home. Apparently we've finally had a little bit of activity on the house sale, though still no firm offers.

I took Olga to Fortune Green and the cemetery, where we had a long walk.

And finally, last night, we rented "Love and Mercy," the recent movie about Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. It was a good film, and told me a lot of things I didn't know about Wilson. Although "Pet Sounds" is one of my favorite albums, I haven't been much of a student of the Beach Boys' music. By the time I was a kid, Wilson had already suffered his breakdown and withdrawn from the band, and the rest of the Beach Boys were shaggy haired, bearded guys (remember the cover of "Endless Summer"?) singing their old hits. The movie was an interesting window onto their most creative period.

(Photo: The cemetery, yesterday.)

Buckingham Palace, with Wine

Dave and I went last night to the annual Trustee's Reception for the school where we work. It was held in a large hall beneath the Globe Theater, on the South Bank of the Thames, and consisted of all of us mingling with the same coworkers we'd just spent the day with at school. Well, with spouses, trustees and former employees thrown in. It was actually quite fun, and there was wine, which certainly smoothed the socializing. (I Googled up an appropriate Shakespeare quote, from Othello, since we were at the Globe: "Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used.")

Then we went out to dinner with the Music Department near Waterloo, and there was more wine, in addition to beetroot salad and scallops and chocolate souffle, and by the end of the evening I was quite happy to climb into a cab for the trip home. It was the most scenic cab drive I've ever had in London -- through St. James Park along the Mall and right past Buckingham Palace, where the windows were mostly dark except for a tiny one on an upper floor. "Look!" Dave said. "The Queen is in the loo!"

We circled the immense monument to Queen Victoria in front of the palace, and talked about the fact that Elizabeth has now surpassed her as the longest-serving monarch. Honestly, though, I think Victoria deserves bonus points for living so long in an era before antibiotics.

(Not that any germ would dare infect royalty.)

I was thrilled to discover yesterday that my French class doesn't begin until next weekend. So I have one more final Saturday free of commitment! It's supposed to be cloudy this weekend so it probably won't be great for photography, but at least I'll be able to get out with the dog.

(Photo: The statue of St. Volodymyr, a medieval ruler of the Ukraine, in Holland Park.)

My Strengths, and Neighborly Relations

I had to take a "strengths survey" at work, a half-hour quiz that was supposed to define my strong suits for me -- and for my bosses. It consisted of a spectrum with one statement at one end and one at the other, and you had to choose which statement most applied to you and to what degree. You did this over and over, dozens of times, with 20 seconds to respond each time. If you spent too long thinking about it, the question vanished and another took its place -- the quizzers wanted instinctive, unconsidered responses.

At the end, you were left with five defining strengths, out of 34 possibilities. Mine were all in the Relationship and Strategic Thinking categories. Specifically they were "input" -- and I'm not quite sure what that means -- as well as "harmony," "empathy," "intellection" and "adaptability."

Which, surprisingly, sounds about right. I'd give myself pretty solid scores on those, too, with the possible exception of "input."

I didn't score anywhere in the Executing and Influencing categories. Apparently I sit around thinking and feeling things, but I don't really do much. (Also fairly accurate.)

Then we had to plot our responses on an Excel spreadsheet stored in Google Docs, and that turned out to be a nightmare. My computer wouldn't allow me to access the spreadsheet without downloading a new app, which required a new user account, blah blah blah. So I did it on a coworker's computer, but I accidentally entered the results incorrectly -- I checked the wrong square because the screen was too small to see the guides at the top of the spreadsheet at the same time I was filling it out -- and I could not fix it to save my life.

It's a good thing "accuracy" wasn't one of my strengths. I'd never hear the end of it.

Anyway, I'm not sure what these results are going to be used for. but it was an interesting experience.

Last night after I got home from work, I was helping Dave cut the back lawn when our neighbor -- the one with the ladder who avoids touching the garbage cans -- called to us from her balcony, saying her young daughter wanted to play with Olga. We said sure, and we brought the dog into her back garden and threw the Kong a few times. The girl actually didn't seem all that enthusiastic -- especially when it came to touching a spitty dog toy -- but at least Olga behaved and we got to talk to the neighbor a little more. She made us tea, and gave us some bay leaves and mint from her garden, as well as a bag of Indian snacks that we said we liked. (She and her family are from India.)

So I guess I need to stop talking smack about this neighbor, because she was nice to us. Which was her objective, I'm sure. God knows what other roofing materials are going to wind up next to our house.

(Photo: A patio in Bloomsbury, in mid-June.)

Four Random Photos

Not much going on around here to write about, so I thought I'd give you these four random photos. This restaurant (above) is in Kilburn, not far from where we live.

Yesterday a teacher was looking through my most recent London photo book, which is displayed on the library circulation desk. He said he thought the pictures are too cluttered. (I'm not sure he realized they were my pictures.) I find all the little details fascinating, though, you know? I mean, urban streets are not neat and clean.

For example! I found this intriguing pile of trash around the corner from our flat. At least it's classy, expensive trash.

Self-portrait with doorknob. Or half a self-portrait, though I'm so tiny you can barely see me.

And here's Olga, anticipating her morning walk, lying near my walking shoes. She was unusually bouncy this morning -- began licking my face at about 5:30 a.m. Sometimes she's just had enough sleep and she's ready to roll!

Mon Française est Très Mauvaise

Am I ever going to speak French? Really?

I got pretty discouraged yesterday when I tried to practice at work because I kept getting things wrong -- things I should know by now, like conjugations of the verb avoir, to have. That's pretty basic stuff.

Then again, I was on Duolingo at my desk, and feeling sort of self-conscious about the fact that I was practicing French and not doing anything library-related, but there just wasn't much to do at that moment. Maybe my self-consciousness got in the way of my French, and said Arrête!

My next round of French classes begins this Saturday, and I'm embarrassed to even show up because I feel like I'm really no better than I was at the beginning of summer. I guess I do know more, but my brain just doesn't process the information fast enough for me to listen and speak very well. There's a mer of difference between book knowledge and practical, applied use of a language. (One of the French teachers at school insisted I speak "beautifully," which is hilarious. I can barely utter a sentence.) I just need to keep plugging away and not feel embarrassed to practice with the teachers.

I mostly just feel annoyed with myself for not trying harder.

In other news, the other day, a huge metal ladder appeared in our side yard, beside the house. We had no idea where it came from. I asked our upstairs neighbor because he'd been doing some work on a window frame, but he said it's not his. I began to think someone dumped it in our yard, leaving us with the responsibility of disposing of it. I wondered: Could I sell it for scrap?

But yesterday evening I asked our next-door neighbor and she said she thinks it belongs to some builders who are working on her roof. (This is the same neighbor with whom we have occasional tension over maintenance of the communal garbage cans.) I think it's a bit strange that they would put this ladder on our side of the fence without saying anything to us, but I told her it was no problem and she could leave it there as long as necessary. As long as I know it belongs to someone.

On a brighter note, Olga found a deflated soccer ball on our walk yesterday morning, lying in a parking lot at a nearby council estate. She was thrilled, and brought it home, and we've been playing with it. So at least for the time being she has two possessions -- ball and Kong -- an embarrassment of riches!

(Photo: Colorful chairs in Plaistow, East London, in June.)

A Cart of Books

I spent yesterday creating a book display and preparing a cart of books for 9th Grade study hall. It was hard to figure out which books would be appropriate for 9th graders -- not older teenagers but also no longer children. I wound up drawing on my own reading from those years -- "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," "The Illustrated Man," "A Night to Remember." I added a recent biography of the Romanovs, having read an older one, Robert Massie's fabulous "Nicholas and Alexandra," at that age. And I added a few books that I read when I was younger than 9th Grade but that might still work for some kids from that grade level -- "Gone With the Wind" and "Johnny Tremain."

I added some modern YA authors, like John Green, and I drew from lists of YA favorites to add some books that I haven't read at all, mainly fantasy by the likes of Cassandra Clare. I guess the idea is, kids can check out books from this cart rather than going all the way back to the library. We'll see how that goes. (I used to get yelled at for reading rather than studying, but I guess anything goes to get kids off their phones these days!)

I myself have finally begun Geoff Nicholson's novel "Bleeding London," which as you know inspired our recent Royal Photographic Society project and exhibit. I'm glad to finally read it after all this time.

(Photo: Wildlife near St. Paul's Cathedral, Aug. 30.)