An Urban Country Diary

Reading Glasses

2010-01-27T09:03:04Z

Went to the optician the other day, after losing yet another pair of glasses in a messing-about-with-the-kids incident.
"Your eyesight is maturing" said the optician?"
"What, you mean I appreciate art and ballet a bit more now and fancy Fay Weldon?"
"Er, no, you need reading glasses."
"Hmm. So I'm not short sighted any more?"
"You're still short sighted. You'll still need distance lenses as well".

In other words, there is only a depth of field of about three inches in which my vision is clear.

I am shagged.

Clissold Park/Narnia Crossover

2010-01-20T11:09:05Z

Last week, as I tramped happily around in the snow, it occurred to me that inThe Lion The Witch And The Wardrobe, CS Lewis created Narnia as a methaphor for Clissold Park in Stoke Newington. The gap in the fence on Church Street is the magical entrance to this world, certainly after pub closing time at any rate. Aslan the Lion represents the old bowling green. It's got old lamp posts, deer, an old house. Did CS Lewis spend a lot of time in Stoke Newington and are any of his other books about the area? A Horse and His Boy could be about the Lea Valley Riding School. Prince Caspian surely refers to that gastropub on Kynaston Road. The Last Battle might be a sly comment about the anti-bendy bus movement on Church Street.

Maybe this theory needs a bit more work.

Bottle Pen

2009-06-23T18:45:12Z

The stationer breathed a sigh of relief today when I went in and brought four colour cartridges for my printer.

"Ha - you thought I was just going to ask for one envelope," I said. He smiled weakly, then quickly and with total stationeresque skill shifted his eyes to a display of pens on the counter. They're recycled. "Made from bottles" said the stationer. I'd just been in the library on Blackstock Road, reading an article in New Scientist about how the distant future for the earth is the extinction of all life, so buying a recycled pen, while a futile gesture, seemed like the right thing to do. Then the stationer's son (Stationer Jnr) came up to me.

"How are you?" he said.

"Poorer after coming into this shop," I said. The stationer looked hurt.

"I don't mean poorer spiritually. Just financially."

The stationer smiled.

C4 brown envelope

2009-06-19T15:17:46Z

The stationer is now officially worried. That's two visits in a row in which I've bought just a solitary envelope. I'd agreed to sell a print of one of my Writers' Workshop cartoons - the one about Franz Kafka's tips for self-promotion - but it has taken me three and a half years to get around to sending it off. There was a massive queue at the Post Office on Seven Sisters Road so I worked out that it would be quicker to get the tube into town, drop off the envelope with the illustration to the buyer, then go for lunch at a nice Italian cafe. I timed it at two hours all in, pretty much the same time as I would have been waiting at the Post Office to buy my stamp.

The person who wanted the print has promised to send me a biography of Franz Kafka, written by her husband. I like the idea of biographies becoming a new kind of currency.

Jiffy Bag

2009-06-01T15:43:49Z

At my local stationers I bought a size 1 Jiffy bag. The Jiffy bag is made from heavy duty brown paper and has a high quality sealing system. I'm trying hard to cut down on stationery items at the moment and managed to stop myself buying some more pens. The stationer looked at me with sad eyes.

"Are you not going to buy an ink cartridge for your printer?"

"No thanks, I'm going easy on the printing at the moment," I said, trying not to look him in the eye.

He sighed. "Oh," then did a sad thing with his eyes - made them big and a bit watery like a lonely puppy - and at that moment I nearly caved in. He then stepped aside so I could see all the great stuff he had behind the counter - pens, CDs, staplers, caligraphy sets, calculators, filing systems. I got very excited but managed to take the receipt and escape from the shop with just my Jiffy bag.

Maybe I have started to beat my addiction.

Stuff

2009-05-28T23:14:30Z

Versatile concept that can refer to anything, from a 1970s football bubblegum card with a picture of Leeds United's Peter Lorimer on the front, to emotional issues or programming languages.

Computer

2009-05-27T09:34:46Z

Plastic box with a screen, that buzzes at night. Has wires inside. You can type stuff into it. Sometimes it goes dead and you want to smash it to pieces.

Pentax Optio S4 digital camera

2009-05-26T20:25:04Z

Tiny sliver of camera hardware that's smaller than a fag packet. It's lovely, but the controls are hard to operate if you've got farmer's finger (like my wife and I).

Urban Tractor Scene

2009-05-20T13:50:27Z

Sitting at a bus stop on Stoke Newington Church Street I heard a sound both familiar yet strange. In the midst of the normal sounds of the city - police sirens, buses, cars, motorbikes, car alarms, roadworks - came a low rumbling engine rasp. Then, chugging slowly from Green Lanes, along came a weather beaten John Deer tractor, pulling some kind of plough/rake contraption. It carried on towards Albion Road then disappeared into the centre of Stoke Newington.

Is this now the fashionable drive of choice for the smart Stokeyites?

Quink (black)

2009-05-08T16:45:19Z

"Do you sell Quink?" I said to my local stationer. "Do we sell Quink? Of course we sell Quink. That's a strange question." "Well, it's the digital age. I wasn't sure that people still used Quink." He snorts with derision and sells me the Quink, while also slipping in some crafty cross-selling and getting me to buy two expensive black ink cartridges for my inkjet printer. I used to do loads of stuff in Quink, until I bought myself a Wacom art pad in 1997. There was a girl I worked with when I first came to London who drew wild landscapes in Quink. I fancied her, of course, but she had an on-off relationship with a Scottish rugby player so I didn't get involved. He didn't play for Scotland or anything, he was just Scottish and played rugby. We lost touch around 1989 but I kept her memory alive by starting to draw my own pictures in Quink. My pictures weren't wild, mostly just sketches of fat people at Walthamstow market or caricatures of my flatmates. The stationer also cross-sold me some nice writing paper. I'm going to stop emailing my friends and write them proper letters instead. Masterpieces of the genre such as: "Howdy. Fancy a pint Thursday? T."