Just Finished: London Belongs To Me by Norman Collins

When I was a wee lad, sitting in the back of the car on drives through London, I'd gaze out of the window at the massive houses and think that the people that lived in them would have had to be really rich. How else could you live in a house with three floors and a basement? What I didn't realise, is that they weren't built for one family, and that each floor would more often than not have its own separate tenants. It's a house like this that forms the backdrop to most of Norman Collins' London Belongs To Me; a book that revolves around the trials and tribulations of the residents of Number 10 Dulcimer Street, Kennington.

I decided I was going to read this book after reading the Book of Dave in December/January. Because I'm waddling around London like, every day, I think it's sometimes easy to forget what an interesting place it actually is. It's easy to take it for granted. I find when I'm reading books set in London, I get a bit of a spark back, I appreciate it again. That's why I chose this one to read; it's described on the back cover as "the Capital's great vernacular novel", and I can't think of a better description. The word 'romp' is also used in this description, and 'romp' is a word that I love. Romp. Just rolls of the tongue...

Anyway, it's Christmas Eve 1939 when we're introduced to the loveable Josser family and their neighbours. The threat of war rumbles threateningly in the background, but the novel concentrates on the domestic, everyday battles fought by a group of very ordinary people. Along with the Jossers, there's the landlady (the respectable and stern Mrs Vizzard), doting Mrs Boon and her ambitious son Percy, the hypochondriac Mr Puddy, washed-up actress Connie and false-medium Mr Squales. Their stories interwine in soap opera fashion, the narrative leaping from one to the other, delving into one account before breaking off and reacquainting you with another.

I read afterwards that Collins was something of a big deal at the BBC when it first started, and for a time was in charge of the more popular, lighthearted programmes on BBC radio. You can see this in his writing - it's written so that you never have enough time to get bored. But this doesn't mean you don't get to know the people you're reading about - the book has over 700 pages so you still spend plenty of time with each character, just in lots of small doses.

As I mentioned, the stories don't unfold in high society - it's a warts and all account of a few months in the lives of a few Londoners as they struggle to against their worlds turning upside down. The protagonists are all ordinary, working class folk trying to make ends meet. There's no heroics - just the grim determination of a group of Londoners in the build-up to and disruption of war. For a lot of the book, particularly at the beginning, not very much happens at all, but you're swept along nonetheless. It was also comforting, in a weird sort of way, that in the past things weren't quite as different (nor as good) as the Daily Mail might like to make out. Women were already becoming more independent, the elderly feared the young, fraudulent insurance claims were made, students didn't study and everyone enjoyed a drink. It was set in a time that was at once reassuringly familiar and refreshingly different. In his introduction, Collins writes, "Real Londoners - some in love, some in debt, some committing murders, some adultery, some trying to get on in the world, some looking forward to a pension, some getting drunk, some losing their jobs, some dying, and some holding up the new baby." And lately there's been at least one reading his book on the Metropolitan Line, bloody loving every page.

It's so easy to read, I couldn't put it down. I laughed out loud at times, and sometimes it's incredibly touching and poignant yet never too heavy. I honestly can't recommend it enough. It made me proud of where I live, where I work - it made me see London in a new light - a huge expanse of city providing the backdrop to millions of separate stories every day. It captures the excitement and the tedium, the hustle and the bustle of life in the city - or, as Collins puts it "all the sheen and slime, the murk and magic."

Next Up: The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe.

On A Series of (Un)Events

It's been such a weird week. Not in a bad, or particularly interesting way - it just hasn't felt normal. Perhaps I have a psychic gift and there's some trouble brewing. Let's hope not. I don't think I have a family history of superhuman skills, but after this I think it could be a distinct possibility.

It all started on Monday morning when I saw four parrots in the tree by my bus stop (picture above - they're there, honest, you just can't see them). They weren't the big red macaws with killer beaks though, I think they were parakeets. Still, it's unusual to one used to sparrows and the greasiest of all birds, the starling. [I think starlings look like they've been drenched in petrol - you know when petrol on the road reflects different colours in the light?] Anyway...I looked up these parrots and apparently they're quite common. So common in fact, that they might be culled! Culled! Poor blighters.


On Monday afternoon I had a meeting with a lady who works for a wildlife charity. She said, interestingly, that the charity is often criticised for devoting itself to animals in areas of the world where whole families go without food. Her response to this, which is also interesting, was that they often help animals indirectly, through improving the living standards of the people around them. For example, to help combat the abuse of horses and donkeys in east Africa, the charity has built a school, a medical centre and working facilities for the villages around the sanctuary, all in the hope of improving the lives of the animals they care for. Very admirable stuff I must say. I came away however, feeling slightly shallow and a bit jealous of her job. She must go home feeling like she's actually helping, making a difference. I won't moan though, my job might not be the most life-changing role a person could play, but it suits me just fine. It was a mere blip, a moment of 'maybe I should do something really meaningful' before I lapsed back into reality.


Yesterday also passed in a blur - not a drunken haze but a cloudy, flouncy blur of nothingness. Thanks to my manager, a founding member of the Fellowship of the Moan, I had Dean Martin's "How Do You Like Your Eggs In the Morning" stuck in my head all day long. And this wasn't all that was troubling me. Earlier in the month, in a fit of I'm-so-busy-woe-is-me that I swiftly recovered from, I told everyone I couldn't go to my boss' birthday do. I can go now, but it's all booked. So now I just look all miserable and antisocial. Alas, it's another lesson I must learn - I have made my bed, and now I must lie in it. At home yesterday night, I found myself sucked into a BBC documentary following all sorts of people as they plough their way through London traffic - this ranged from ambulance crews to a stripper who had to perform in a limo. The most infuriating was an estate agent who claimed all the driving was making him ill so he had to keep going home early. I've always thought that if my job was making me ill (and I doubt it actually was), I'd do something else.


And that brings me to today. Another odd little day. My commute was spent in a paranoid panic. I never get like that but there were police EVERYWHERE this morning. So many I thought I was either being followed or something big was on the way. So I spent the majority of my journey looking over my shoulder and turning my IPod on and off. This was nothing to do with the police - this is because every now and then my IPod decides to go on standby every five minutes or so. This happens maybe once a month. The battery was charged, the keys were locked, so why does it keep turning off? Can anyone help me with this, please? It's infuriating. How am I supposed to time my walk to the music if it keeps going quiet?


I appreciate this post has probably been as dull as dishwater, but thanks for giving me the opportunity to vent my confusion, paranoia and frustration. Tis much appreciated.


tbr

On Professionalism vs. Office Banter

[This is a derelict building I walk past every day on my way to work. I really like it, and think the graffitti adds to it rather than detracts from it. I would like to make this my house.]

Today at work I achieved a goal. I entered into office banter with people from five different countries. I found a kindred spirit in Norway, Portugal, Holland, Spain and...Basingstoke. I say banter - but this is a broad term. Basically, so many of the emails I send and receive sound like they have been written by machines so every now and then I like to throw a little nicety in to see if I am actually emailing a robot, or whether there's a real live person at the other end. As such, my special definition of banter is basically anything that deviates from the standard, boring, no frills emails we churn out to eachother.

Now, I was really quite chuffed with this influx of people nibbling at my conversational bait - some of my colleagues, however, weren't. I do understand the need for professionalism, honestly I do. I would never dream of subjecting colleagues to the four-letter rants my friends are familiar with (although I have been tempted). I wouldn't drink at work (unless everyone else was). In fact, I'm a pretty professional person. But at the same time I can't talk to people day in day out without trying to get to know them. I think it makes for a better working relationship if anything, and said so when I was told that I should be more interested in my job rather than what S in Holland did last night and who she was rooting for in the Winter Olympics. Oops. Perhaps they are right - my job isn't a social networking opportunity. However I still don't see why the odd banterful email should be frowned upon, especially when my Sent Items folder is full to bursting with boring, robot-speak emails.

So sod them I say. I will continue to ask what people do at the weekend, or how they celebrated Chinese New Year. I won't give up trying to find out what exactly R in Norway does with the wild boar on his farm. I will relish every weather update I get from Lisbon, and join in with Spain's post-siesta jests. I will do my job, but I don't see why I should be miserable while doing it. I'm taking the banter, and spreading it worldwide.