The London Cricket Trust is springing back to life this spring. Our mission is to put cricket back into London’s Parks. I am one of the trustees and we have been going about that business for more than three years now.
For reasons I don’t really need to explain, pretty much all of the London Cricket Trust (LCT) activity we had planned for 2020 had to be postponed.
That doesn’t mean that we have been inactive; far from it. A few dozen new pitches went in during 2020 and a few dozen more will go in during 2021; mostly the early part of the year so they can be used this coming summer.
A few weeks ago, out of the blue, we were contacted by Harjot Sidhu, aka London Writing Guy, who wanted an interview for his sports blog. Naturally I said yes.
That picture is making me feel hungry. Anyway, I’m sure you get the point.
Still, we managed to hit it off through the interweb/blogosphere and the result I hope is a useful addition to Harjot’s blog. It is certainly a timely piece about the LCT.
Timely, because the London Cricket Trust website is to be formally launched in just over a week’s time (you may sneak in and have an advanced peak through the links on this piece – I won’t tell anyone if you don’t).
We also have plans for site launches in May and July, which we hope to be able to confirm and announce soon. One of those is due to be at one of the West London sites between my place and Harjot’s, so hopefully we’ll get a chance, belatedly, to meet in person then.
…and let’s not even talk about Dr Green chasing me around the room and eventually jabbing me in the buttock under the dining room table in the mid 1960s.
Incredibly efficient, they are, down at CP House in Ealing. Smiling and friendly too.
Three different people asked me if I had shown any Covid-like symptoms in the last 28 days and I am pretty sure I was consistent with my answer; no.
The nurse whose job it was to jab me seemed unfazed by my nervousness and put me at my ease, saying that a great many people respond that way to the thought of jabs.
I know how irrational it is and as always feel like a bit of an idiot afterwards, as usual barely feeling a thing.
Janie was most put out that one of the stewards offered me a chocolate on departure (see purple square) as those were not on offer 10 days earlier when Janie had her jab.
I didn’t want my chocolate so I let Janie have mine, but it was the principle of the thing and woe betide them if there are no chocolates available when we go along for Janie’s second jab.
We don’t get out much any more – our jab outings have been the closest thing to social gatherings we’ve been to for months.
With thanks to Kay Scorah for permission to publish her love letter as a guest piece here on Ogblog:
February 2021
Before we go any further, there’s something I need to tell you.
I’ve never been in love.
Yeah, of course, I’ve been in lust. And I’ve been in-fatuated, in-appropriate, in-secure, in-toxicated.
All those other “ins” made me think I was in love. But I wasn’t.
I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to work this out, but lately love has taught me that I have never been in love.
You see, the love I feel is overwhelming, and year by year it gets more so.
The narcissi, the daffodils, the crocuses are just opening up in Vicky Park. I looked at them the other day and I began to cry.
I love them.
Then there’s those 3 little kids that race their scooters down my street every day after school. There they are now as I write, yelling, screaming and laughing.. my heart is ready to burst with love for their voices.
The café owner up at Dartmouth Park yesterday, she just couldn’t stop talking about the trip she took to South America when she was 21. The sparkle in her eyes when she remembered the fear and the beauty of it all; I can’t get it out of my mind’s eye.
I love it.
The opening bars of “I Heard it Through the Grapevine”; I have a physical love reaction to them. Can’t help but move.
And that’s before I even get started on the love I feel for my son. Looking at a picture of him when he was small or seeing him walk towards me across the park, even writing about him now...
So, the idea of being in love with someone, that I’m supposed to love them more than anyone or anything. Well, that’s too much for me. It’s frightening.
If I were to fall in love with someone, would that mean that my love for them would be bigger than all the love I already have? If so, then we’d both be overwhelmed. We wouldn’t be able to handle it.
On the other hand, if falling in love with one person meant that I had to take my love away from the flowers, the children, the music, my son - I would be so sad, and so dependent on them to give me everything that the rest of the world had provided until then, it just wouldn’t be fair. They could only disappoint me.
My love is such that if I fell in love, in the way I think it’s supposed to be, neither of us could possibly survive the intensity.
So, when your smiling but serious face pops up on the zoom screen, and your soothing voice washes in through my headphones, I love you like a crocus, like a kid on a scooter, like Tamla Motown. And that’s huge.
Victoria ParkSmiling But Serious Faces From December’s ThreadZoomMash
I chose to write and recite an impressionistic memory story, in the form of a love letter, about a night at Keele; 6 March 1981 to be precise.
The ThreadMash brief was simply to write a love letter. The resulting writings from the group were varied to say the least. Here is mine.
Dear Nina
It’s been a while since we met. Forty years, to be precise.
It’s time I wrote to you. Letter writing was my thing back then…but I didn’t write to you…then.
A lot has happened since that night, in March 1981, when Anna encouraged you to spend the night with me.
That was weird.
I wonder what Anna was playing at? Just being playful, probably. The way she’d always be sluttishly playful in the refectory whenever she ate…or more accurately…whenever Anna fellated…and then ate…a banana.
Anna might have set us up for effect, of course. Anyone who roller-skates around the campus all the time, the way Anna used to…is prone to doing weird things for effect.
I don’t think she ever fancied me, Anna. I know she liked me, but I don’t think she fancied me. Actually that evening, while the three of us were sitting in the Union, talking about Bobbie Sands and Troops Out…I thought Anna fancied you, Nina. Perhaps she did. I was a terrible judge of signals back then. Probably still am.
Anyway, we can’t revert to Anna and ask her what was going on. Anna died in in 2012. I don’t suppose you knew that. I didn’t learn that news until a few years after the event. I didn’t keep in touch with Anna. But some of my friends did…or at least reconnected with her before the end. Lung cancer, it was.
In truth, I was a little confused that night. Confused about love.
I had been carrying a torch for Mandy from Manchester for months. One passionate December night. Agreement to progress. Several love letters…from me to Mandy. Nothing in return. I didn’t understand.
I understand more now. I know more now. Letters are not always the medium they are cracked up to be. There’s ample opportunity for delay, for mislay, for tapping, for tampering…
…anyway, some three months after that night in Manchester, still I was, emotionally speaking, bearing that torch, for Mandy.
But the flame was flickering, fizzling by then, so the torch I was still bearing, utterly in vain, for Mandy, was not sufficiently hot for me to resist you. The flame was just warm enough to keep me confused.
As with Anna, I can’t revert to Mandy for her side of the story. She died in 2020, having been ill for some time. Cancer, I believe. I had reconnected with and am still in touch with Mandy’s brother.
Who were you, Nina? Who are you?
At one point, in the early hours, you toddled out of my pokey, student room, down the corridor, to the loo.
You had just a small bag with you. You left the zipper open, with your Irish passport on the top.
I must admit, while you were out of the room, I had a quick nosey at the passport.
The photo didn’t look like you at all…wait a moment, yes it did. It’s just that you had a shock of platinum blond hair in person, whereas the passport photo was a dark-haired version of you.
But the name…I couldn’t begin to discern it.
The forename was one of those bizarre Irish names; I can’t even hazard a guess at what it was. Perhaps it was L-A-O-I-S-E [Laoise], pronounced Lee-sha; or C-A-O-I-L-F-H-I-O-N-N [Caoilfhionn], pronounced Kay-lin. Anyway my young, ignorant eyes merely discerned an unpronounceable, supremely Irish name, the forename being nothing like Nina, the surname seeming like nothing earthly.
When you left, a few hours later, you sweetly but firmly made clear that you were just passing through and that we wouldn’t be keeping in touch or seeing each other again. Just a parting kiss.
No letters. No words. Until now.
Who were you, Nina? Were you simply, as advertised, a visiting political ally of Anna’s; through the student SWP & Troops Out alliance? Or were you Sinn Fein, Nina? Were you IRA, Nina?
And who are you now, Nina?
How are you now, Nina? Are you still alive? I do hope so.
Anna’s gone. Mandy’s gone. But you?
I hope you are alive and well and thriving.
Wherever you are.
Whoever you are.
Whatever you are called.
Moving swiftly on to the night of 4 March 2021, Rohan Candappa curated and introduced the event. We had all sent our letters to another ThreadMasher, drawn at random. One or two people (David and Adrian) had chosen to write fictional love letters to the actual person whose name they had drawn, while the rest of us did not do that.
As it happens, I was first up, which possibly makes me “top billing” or possibly “the warm-up act”…or possibly just “first up”.
Geraldine went next, with a moving paean to spring.
Jill’s love letter was to her husband, telling the tale of their near separation by circumstances.
David’s was to Terry, who he fictionalised as his own former lover Teresa whom he was now stalking, having rediscovered them in the form of Terry.
Jan wrote a letter of devotion to the theatre, which certainly resonated with me, both when I received it through the post and when I heard Jan perform the piece.
Rohan feigned profound hurt at the idea that his wife of 25+ years chose to write her letter of devotion to the theatre rather than to him. During the ensuing interval, Rohan could been be seen trying to sneak out of the Candappa house with a suitcase and a hat to lay elsewhere. Fortunately, he and Jan were reconciled in time for the start of the second half.
Terry’s letter (which Rohan read well in Terry’s work-induced absence) was a testimonial to abstinence and its close relative, addiction.
Flo’s letter appeared to be a confessional love letter about a rollicking love affair, until “the big reveal” that the object of her passion is the London Fields Lido.
Julie’s love letter was very creepy, starting off sounding like a declaration of love but soon turning out to be the ramblings of a stalker to their stalkee.
Ian T’s letter was a eulogy to his former tribe, London cyclists, which evoked Ian’s memories of his regular two-wheeled commute.
Kay’s covered several things she loves, including Victoria Park, Marvin Gaye’s I Heard It Through The Grapevine and her family, concluding deftly that she would struggle to compromise any of those loves for romantic love.
Rohan declared his love for “the wide world”, which I’m sure sparked the desire to travel again in many of us.
Adrian concluded the evening with a bravura piece, which I can only describe as an hilarious homoerotic slapstick [did you see what I did there?] fantasy in which he and David were central characters. Most if not all of us were in stitches. Adrian’s performance was a great climax [did you see what else I did there?] to the evening. A real tonic as we start to emerge from this strange and difficult winter.
As always, it’s not just the stories, it is also the company of this wonderful group of people that makes the evening so special. Viva ThreadMash.
