Janie and I don’t remember enough about this evening.
I had played bridge at Andrea’s place with the gang (probably Daniel and Maz back then) the night before.
Janie had taken patients on the Saturday morning, as she did in those days.
I know it was the first time I met Anthea. I know we went out to Bethnal Green – down Anthea’s way. I wrote down Anthea’s address for the purpose.
We went to an ethnic restaurant quite near to Anthea’s place in Bethnal Green.
Janie and I both think there were other people there that evening; not just we three, but for the life of us we cannot figure it out. Anthea just might.
We ended up back at Janie’s place that night; that much Janie and I both certainly remember.
We’re not sure how long I stayed, but I do have an electronic record of lyrics written onthe Sunday time stamped bbetween 17:00 and 18:00. So I’ll guess I stayed for some brunch.
So the invitation to Kim’s the following Friday must have come hot on the heels of a positive report from Janie on the Street of Crocodiles date…
…or at least not a negative report.
Intriguingly, there is also a note in Janie’s diary that she had a new bed delivered on Tuesday 1 September. Janie claims that the timing of the bed purchase must be pure coincidence. I am tempted to believe her and I am sure that all you sweet Ogblog readers are similarly convinced by the “must be” argument.
Anyway, for Friday 4 September, the suggestion was that we gather for some early evening tennis in the Square and then eat5 at Kim & Micky’s place afterwards.
I think the pre-refurbishment look of the courts in 1992 can just be seen on the second court at the back of this picture.
Anyway, we were returning to the scene of the 8 August crime (as it were), with Kim, Micky and their dogs Charlie and Jumper in tow. In truth, even though I was no doubt sober on arrival, tennis peppered with dogs wanting to chase the balls all the time is not exactly great tennis.
But it was great company, of course. In any case, the wine would soon start to take effect making the tennis seem less important and the idea of sloping back to Kim & Micky’s place for more wine plus food increasingly appealing…
…so that’s what we did.
Janie recalls we did this more than once, but the evenings were drawing in and soon tennis was off the agenda for Friday evenings even though gathering after work on a Friday was something we did quite regularly (i.e. once every few weeks) in this early months/years.
Sunday 20 September shows Kim & Micky tennis in Janie’s diary, whereas it says “Bridge?” in mine. I don’t think the bridge happened. Janie had been to the Questors Theatre with her mum the night before. More on the Questors anon. Anyway, I do think we spent that Sunday afternoon with Kim & Micky, plus Charlie and Jumper making tennis havoc.
Ossobuco – picture by Stu Spivack via Wikipedia Commons
Since I published my “25th anniversary of meeting Janie” piece last week, I have had, literally, several people ask me how Janie and I ever got it together after she refused to give me her telephone number the first time we met.
The answer, of course, is “ossobuco”.
It happened like this.
After Janie’s refusal to give me her telephone number, I simply assumed that she wasn’t interested at all and I got on with my next week. My next week looked like this.
My guess is that I was actually out every evening that week apart from the Monday – I probably had impromptu drinks/food with work colleagues Thursday and Friday evening.
Saturday evening I can see was a dinner with Caroline at the Pavilion in Poland Street. This will have been her birthday bash on the eve of that landmark day. (Happy birthday, Caroline, if by chance you read this piece on the day I post it).
I have had an exchange of messages with Caroline to establish what happened – I’m sure there were quite a few of us there at The Pavilion that evening. She replies:
I have to say that with the help of your diary your memory is much better than mine. The restaurant is in fact exactly the same now as then. It was a local from when I was working at the Burton group. Vasco and Piero ran it all those years ago. The food was always excellent. The decor was very pink! It’s amazing how quickly 25 years go.
I’m not sure what I ate at the Pavilion but I am sure that it was an Italian dish but not ossobuco.
The other thing I remember clearly, although the diary is silent on this matter, is that I went out for an impromptu lunch on the Sunday with Annalisa. We went to Lee Fook on Westbourne Grove, a Chinese restaurant near my flat which was very much one of my favourites at the time. The excellent chef there was named Ringo, I remember that wonderful fact too.
If that review ever bites the dust on the ES site, I’ve saved the Wayback machine the trouble on this one by scraping it here.
In short, by mid-afternoon I had eaten my fill that weekend and ambled home after lunch.
The telephone was ringing off the hook as I walked through the door.
I should point out, at this juncture, that, in those days, I had no answering machine for my phone. No cellphone either. Just the one, old-fashioned telephone.
“At bloody last”, said a female voice.
“Hello”, I said, “who’s calling?”
“It’s Janie, we met at Kim’s party last week.”
“Oh, hello”, I said, intrigued.
“You are impossible to get hold of”, said Janie, “I have tried to call you loads of times. Your answering machine isn’t switched on.”
“I don’t have an answering machine”, I said, while thinking to myself that if she had given me her telephone number in the first place she might have spared herself these difficulties.
“I have been out rather a lot this week”, I continued, “in fact, if I sound a little out of breath, it’s because I have just been out to lunch and heard the phone ringing as I came up the stairs.”
“Oh, that’s a bummer,” said Janie, “I was going to invite you over for ossobuco with Kim and Micky this evening, but if you have already eaten you obviously don’t want…”
“…no, hold on a moment”, I persevered, “I love ossobuco and I’d very much like to join you, Kim and Micky for dinner. But if I don’t eat a vast quantity of food, you’ll know the reason why. Is that a deal?”
“OK”, said Janie.
“You’ll have to give me your address and telephone number now”, I said, trying hard not to sound triumphal about it.
Given that the only way to resolve the matter was now for Janie to phone me, they came up with this “chaperoned Sunday evening meal at Janie’s place” idea. The only problem with that grand scheme was that Janie had tried and failed many times to phone me; basically because I wasn’t at home much and only took telephone messages through work in those days.
But all’s well that ends well.
The evening was a great success. I didn’t have room for seconds but I did discover that Janie can cook a mean ossobuco. Even to this day, we think of slow cooked shin of veal (not always done ossobuco style but all variants qualify in our book) as “our dish”.
Just feast your eyes on it again. Yum.
Osso Bucco – picture by Stu Spivack via Wikipedia Commons
All the diary entry says is “Kim & Michel 1:30”. A daytime, summer party. But that summer party was no ordinary passing event for me…nor for Janie.
On that day, at that party, Janie and I first met.
Writing this piece 25 years (to the day) after the event, my recollection of the day is a bit patchy.
I hadn’t seen Kim and Micky for some time; since my back injury, two year’s before, I had been a bit less sociable and had not been so good at keeping in touch with people. I remember being pleasantly surprised when Kim called, out of the blue, to invite me to that party.
There were quite a lot of people at the party – a few dozen I would guess. I chatted at some length with a pair of lively, friendly “girls”; Anthea – a photographer friend who had been at school with Kim, as had the other young woman, Jane, who was Kim’s chiropodist friend.
I vaguely recalled Kim having spoken with me in the past about these good friends; in particular Jane. I also recalled Rene Knight (who worked for Kim’s family for many years) telling me a funny story about Jane.
When Kim first started dating Micky, Rene mentioned to Jane that Micky was from Belgium and also that Kim’s new hot-shot boyfriend drove a Mercedes. Jane had asked whether the Mercedes was petrol or diesel. Rene wondered why Jane wanted to know. Jane told Rene that a Belgian diesel Mercedes must be a cab and that, if the Mercedes was diesel, Micky was clearly not the hot-shot he held himself out to be. Rene passed on this pearl of wisdom to Kim, who confirmed that the car was indeed propelled through the use of diesel fuel. By all accounts, Kim challenged Micky with this “fact” about his occupation the next time she saw him, but, despite Janie’s error of judgment on that matter, Kim & Micky progressed with their relationship and the two of them persevered with Janie’s friendship.
In some ways it is odd that Janie’s and my path hadn’t crossed before, through Kim & Micky, but in the late 1980s, when I would see Kim & Micky socially a few times a year, it tended to be dinner or lunch parties and I guess they saw Janie and me as part of different circles. In any case, we were both otherwise attached most of the time during those years.
Anyway, Janie and I ended up as part of a smaller group that was still around into the early evening, at which point Kim suggested that we all go across the square and play tennis.
I had just started playing tennis again post injury, although quite tentatively still. Goodness only knows how useless I was after quite a few drinks at the party. But most of us had been drinking quite heavily, so I don’t suppose the quality of the tennis was very high.
I’m struggling to remember who was still around for that impromptu tennis. Janie, Kim and Micky of course; I think also Gary & Clifford. Perhaps Anthea also, but I have a feeling that she ducked out before the tennis. Others might remember.
I do recall thinking that Janie was pretty good at tennis. It probably helped that she was the only sober person among us. It also helped that she had grown up in a house with a tennis court and sisters to play with, but I didn’t know that fact at the time.
Janie had mentioned several times that she had driven to the party in her car and therefore wasn’t drinking. After the tennis, I asked her if she could drop me at a tube station. She said that she would, but that she wasn’t prepared to go out of her way and that the only tube station she’d be passing was Hanger Lane. That was ideal for me, as Hanger Lane and Notting Hill Gate are on the same line.
Janie and I chatted some more on the fifteen minute car journey.
She said that she liked poetry.
When she stopped the car to drop me off, I asked Janie for her telephone number.
Janie said no.
In order to get out of the car with my dignity intact, I took from my wallet one of those sticky labels with my name, address and telephone number on it. I stuck the label on her steering wheel, saying, “in that case, you can have my address and telephone number”.
Janie thanked me and said that she would write me a poem.
In remembering Chris Stanton, who died 9 March 2020, I refer to his masterful private performance of John Random’s superb 0898 song.
For those who don’t know what I’m talking about (and also for those who do), I’m pretty sure that John won’t mind me upping his lyric sheet for 0898 – click here.
And for those who are not sure what the tune might sound like, the following vid plays the best known version of the song, “Busy Line”, performed by Rose Murphy, upon which 0898 is based.
Please take my word for it that 0898 was traditionally delivered about 50% faster than Busy Line.
I flew from Washington DC to Boston. I recall thinking that internal flights were, in many ways, an easier option than railway journeys on that East Coast in those days. You pretty much just turned up and took the next plane, whereas the trains had been rarer beasts that required some logistical planning.
I did some touring on my own around the port and stuff that first day in Boston:
It was wicked cold in Boston. I had almost forgotten about the arctic weather I had experienced in New York (Washington DC was still warm) until I got to Boston, where it seemed, if possible, even colder. Perhaps I should have stayed away from the waterfront and the scenic views from the top of tall buildings to feel less cold.
I remember going into a music shop to buy Bobbie Scully the latest Billy Joel record – We Didn’t Start the Fire – Bobbie was a big fan of Billy Joel and the record was being played everywhere all the time while I was in the States.
The really memorable thing about buying that record for Bobbie was the reaction of a college boy type who was also in the shop, who said to me in that slightly pompous New England accent (which might be mistaken for mimicking the British accent but I think he was a genuine New Englander)…
…you don’t want to be buying that record. It’s complete crap.
No suggestion that this was an expression of his opinion about the record. It’s complete crap. Fact. Period.
It’s a gift for a friend who is especially keen on Billy Joel…
…I said…
…Oh yeh?…
…he said, in a disbelieving voice.
In truth I don’t hold that song in very high regard – not one of Joel’s best in my view, but that song always reminds me of this holiday…
…and also of Graham Robertson’s wonderful Newsrevue parody, “One Didn’t Start the Fire”, three year’s later, about the Windsor Castle fire.
An Interlude Upstate In Massachusetts
I had contacted Emma Weiss who had suggested that I join her and Betsy Brady for the evening and a stop-over in Marblehead…or was it Lynn?…
…I have a feeling that they lived in the former town and/but the municiple railway took me to the latter town. I remain irritated with myself that I didn’t keep a proper travel log for this holiday – the only extensive trip i have ever made without keeping one. I’m also irritated that I didn’t take my camera with me on this upstate Massachusetts leg of my trip.
Anyway, I do remember Emma coming to meet me from the train. I also remember Emma and Betsy giving me a brief driving tour around that part of the Massachusetts coast.
I particularly remember them showing me Salem – we had some tongue-in-cheek discussions about whether we might all be strung up in that town on account of ethnic origins and/or interesting lifestyles. We decided to dine outside Salem.
Boston was wicked cold at that time, but these towns up the Massachusetts coast were wicked colder still.
I remember having a jolly meal with Emma and Betsy, after which, having just got warm, they said it was time for us to visit a local bar…in fact I think they even use the term “pub” up there in New England.
I also recall how very cold it was at night, especially when someone opened the door to the pub. In fact, whenever someone opened said door the drinkers would ring out a chorus of:
CLOSE THE DOOR! CLOSE THAT F***ING DOOR!
Just as we were getting to the point that I thought we had warmed up and I was starting to feel nice and cosy for a pub sesh, Emma and Betsy said,
Right, that’s it. We’d better move on to the other pub now…
…at which suggestion I wondered out loud whether we really needed to go back out in the cold.
Emma and Betsy politely but firmly explained that they live in a small town and that they couldn’t possibly diss the folks in the other local pub by showing off their visitor from England in one pub but not the other.
Word of your existence will have reached the other pub some time ago now, so they’ll be wondering where we are.
Off we went to the second bar, which seemed quite similar in terms of its cosiness, unpretentiousness and friendly clientele.
Emma and Betsy might recall the names of the bars; I can add links and stuff if those hostelries are still there, which they probably still are…with many of the same locals still shouting, “close that f***ing door” on cold nights.
It was a great fun evening. Emma and Betsy were splendid hosts; it was very kind of them to provide that much hospitality to me. I have also enjoyed meeting them both since – e.g. at Michael Mainelli’s wedding, but it has been a good while since I last saw either of them.
Back To Boston, Brunch With Pady & Midge
The climax of my American road trip was an opportunity to see Pady Jalali in her new home environment of the USA. Pady is of Iranian origin but had acquired a quintessentially English accent while at school and then at Keele with us.
But just a few years in the USA had put paid to Pady’s English accent; by the autumn of 1989 she had acquired (and still has) a quintessentially New England accent.
At that time, Pady was teaching math…
…in the USA they only study a singular mathematic, whereas in the UK we study mathematics, or maths…
…at Umass in Amhurst.
Pady suggested meeting in Boston for brunch, along with her sister Midge.
The thing I especially remember about that brunch (apart from having a delightful afternoon with Pady and Midge) was the demeanour of the other diners.
Pady, Midge and I were engaged in conversation as one might expect when friends gather in a diner for a middle of the day meal.
But pretty much every other table seemed to comprise couples or small groups eating in complete silence. Some seemed to be taking some interest in eavesdropping on our conversation. Others seemed simply to be grazing, vacantly.
In those days, of course, non-conversational diners did not have hand-held gadgetry as an alternative focus for their attention. But in any case, this unengaged style of eating out was alien to me (as it had been to Pady and Midge before they migrated to the USA), although it did seem to cross the Atlantic and become part of the UK culture as well by the end of that century.
Of course we were not to be deterred from our purpose; having a good catch up and making a jolly occasion of it.
The photographic evidence suggests that beer, fags and food were all involved (I had long since given up smoking by then, but I was still enjoying beer and food).
It was really lovely to see Pady again – it had been some four years since she left England. Midge was also very good company that day.
It was a super way to end my two week visit to the States.
I’m not sure exactly when I flew back, but I have a feeling it was the Sunday night red eye and I have a feeling I went straight in to work on the Monday. I wouldn’t dream of doing that now.
Pictures from the Washington DC & Massachusetts legs of my trip (including those above but with quite a few more besides) can be seen by clicking the Flickr link below:
When I woke up on Thanksgiving morning, there was a thick coat of snow over New York. At the time, I had no idea how rare an event this was – I only found out 30 years later, while writing up this event, that 1989 was the first “proper” white Thanksgiving (i.e. more than just a flurry of snow) for over 50 years and that it hasn’t happened since.
So I didn’t think, “freak weather”, I merely thought, “photo opportunity before I head off to Westchester County”. So I went for a long walk around Central Park and beyond. Lots of pictures, just a few are shown below to illustrate:
I had been warned that the East Coast can be chilly at that time of year, so I would have taken warm clothes, but I’m sure I didn’t anticipate snow so my walk for sure would have been shod in quite basic sneakers. But I suppose 5 inches of virgin snow on a quiet morning is not so dangerous.
On the matter of danger, I do recall that the Barst family were concerned about me taking the train from Grand Central Station up to Westchester County to join them for a traditional Thanksgiving family gathering. At that time, they considered Grand Central to be a dangerous place, populated by hoodlums, hustlers, halfway housers and the like. They warned me to walk with purpose and only ask directions of a uniformed offical.
Bravely, I stopped to take this picture near Grand Central Station
In truth, it felt little different from Notting Hill to me, but I suppose, back then, Notting Hill was also considered a bit edgy. The mean streets of Notting Hill…the mean streets of Manhatten…
Anyway, the journey was incident and travel problem free, despite the unseasonal weather…
…hard to imagine an absence of travel disruption in similar “overnight snow before a public holiday” circumstances in the UK.
When I got to Frank and Maurie’s place, I was welcomed into the warmth of a traditional family Thanksgiving.
Patriarch Norman (left) – with daughter “hostess with the mostess” Maurie (right)Fran (left) plus Hal (right)Hal (left), Bob (centre) and Jen (right). The knees (front left) are unidentified.“Mummy” Cynthia with SuziHal and Joanie, who lived near me in London for a while during my early time in ClanricardeFamily and cake taking centre stage at this point in the proceedings
I especially remember Norman’s fascination with my accent – he took me around to speak with everyone (which was a good way to meet the whole clan) and kept asking me to speak just so that people could hear my…
…incredible English accent. Did you hear that? Listen to that accent! Say that again, Ian…please say that again…
I also remember Norman’s fascination with Frank and Maurie’s house, because it was a 19th century dwelling.
Just think, Ian, your Queen Victoria was on the throne when this house was built…
…to which Joanie said, with feeling…
Oh, Daddy, that’s not going to impress Ian – he lives in a Victorian house too – everybody in London does…
…well, not quite everyone, Joanie. But you did…and so do I!
It was a wonderful experience for me to join a proper family Thanksgiving during my short stay in the USA that time. A happy accident of timing combined with a generious invitation.
It was a very warm and cosy family gathering, just as I had imagined family gatherings at Thanksgiving to be.
I remember telling Grandma Jenny (Norman’s cousin) all about it when I got home; she wanted me to spare her no small detail about that aspect of my trip. By that time she was pretty much blind, so I couldn’t really show her the photos, although I did talk her through them all, in meticulous detail.
Ever since, of course, I have been dreaming of a white Thanksgving, just like the one and only Thanksgiving I used to know…
…little knowing, until just now, that such weather in that part of the world at that time of year is so very, very rare indeed.
Amazing evening – although the programme seems to be lost. Jilly had left two tickets for me at short notice. I gave away the spare ticket at the door, to Rita Frank. I drove her back to Marge’s place in Hackney via everywhere due to mega fog – I had just passed my driving test & didn’t even know where the fog lights were. Rita busied herself dancing in her seat to my hippy tape. Friendship founded.
All I can recall of the concert is that the centrepiece was a Sibelius symphony. I think Sibelius 5 but it might be 2. I’m struggling to find more details, although more details must be available somewhere if I search hard enough…
…update! I have subscribed to a newspaper clipping service and found this:
…so, as I said, Sibelius 6. Plus some Prokofiev and some Debussy.
Jilly was working at the Barbican at that time and would occasionally hand down tickets to me. Usually with a little more notice than on this occasion. I told Jilly that I’d struggle to find a date for a Sunday evening concert at such short notice but that I’d like to see that concert (whatever it was). Her view was that it was better to place one of the tickets than neither.
When I got to the Barbican and collected my tickets, there was a queue for returns; mostly couples and small groups. I announced that I had one spare ticket and was happy to give it away.
Two middle-aged women started bickering with each other, the first trying to refuse and the second telling the first that she really should take the ticket.
Seems that I’m your date…
…said the American woman, who I learnt was named Rita Frank and lived in New York. Her friend, Marge lived in Hackney and was (I think) an academic. Marge, being a generous soul, was happy that the expedition had at least ended up with her visitor/guest getting to see the concert. Marge went home.
Rita was charming company for an evening at the concert hall. She clearly was not very familiar with London, though, so I sensed she was a little daunted by the thought of travelling back to Hackney alone.
I had my car with me, having fairly recently (that summer) passed my driving test. I offered to take Rita back to Marge’s house, handing Rita my car copy of the L0ndon A-Z map book (remember those? No sensible Londoner drove without one.)
As we emerged from the Barbican Centre, I saw that a heavy fog had descended. Really heavy fog.
“Oh, London Fog”, said Rita, “I’ve heard all about these…”
Of course, I’d heard about them too, but by 1989 they were extremely rare, such that I don’t recall ever having seen quite so much fog in London before…or since.
“Oh wow”, said Rita, grabbing one of my cassettes from a pile, “The Happy Tape…that sounds great. Can we listen to The Happy Tape?”
“Actually, it’s called The Hippy Tape”, I said.
“Even better”, said Rita.
The Hippy Tape was a superb mix tape – or in the modern parlance and in its current incarnation – is a superb playlist. It comprises these beauties:
Turn Turn Turn, The Byrds Bluebird, Buffalo Springfield Nashville Cats, Lovin’ Spoonful Rock’n’Roll Woman, Buffalo Springfield Purple Haze, Jimi Hendrix Experience Let Us In, Speedy Keen Ballad of Easy Rider, The Byrds Keep On Truckin’, Donovan White Room, Cream For What It’s Worth, Buffalo Springfield I Feel Free, Cream May You Never, John Martyn Somebody To Love, Grace Slick Meet Me On the Corner, Lindisfarne Moonshadow, Cat Stevens Alabama, Neil Young The Needle and the Damage Done, Neil Young White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane Magical Connection, John B Sebastian The First Cut is the Deepest, P P Arnold Crazy Love, Van Morrison
I most certainly hadn’t driven in fog before. I knew that there was such a thing as fog lights, but I had no idea what they were or how to operate them on my spanking new, first ever, car. (A red Renault 19, seeing as you asked).
My inadequacies in the fog lights department were exceeded by Rita’s inadequacies in the map reading department…
…in any case Rita seemed more interested in grooving to The Hippy Tape, which is great driving music in conditions where you can see and know where you are going…
…but not so great when you are trying to navigate neighbourhoods you don’t know as a recently qualified driver in dense fog.
My “sense of direction inadequacies” are a matter of legend. The sat nav could have been invented just for me, but in 1989, in the absence of knowing where you are going and in the absence of a helpful map reader and in the presence of dense fog…
…we simply drove around and around the mean streets of the East End for ages, until a mixture of borderline adequacy and luck got us to Marge’s house in one piece. A near miracle, frankly.
Marge turned out to be charming company too. Also a fairly practical sort (compared with me and Rita), who was able to fortify me with coffee and give me some sensible, simple directions to get back to somewhere I vaguely knew and from whence I could take a straight road in the direction of West London.
Meanwhile, it transpired that Rita was not just a New Yorker, but lived on the Upper West Side, very close to the apartment I was, coincidentally, being lent for a week, just over a week hence. Rita was most insistent that I get in touch when I got to New York. Her daughter, Mara, would be off college that week (Thanksgiving week) and would be delighted to act as my informal guide to New York.
At the time, I thought Rita was simply being super polite and that I would probably just “touch base” with her when I got to New York…
…besides, I imagined that 20-year-old Mara might have other ideas about the joys (or otherwise) of showing a random Londoner around New York…
Anthea Does Street Style Photography March 19, 2015 · Flare – Canada’s Fashion Magazine · Flare.com
