I went to the Peckhamplex cinema in Peckham on saturday. I’ve been  going there quite a lot recently: It’s one of London’s leading independent cinemas, in the heart of one of it’s most  vibrant, fascinating suburbs. I really like Peckham, with it’s intoxicating mixture of cultures, high street thriving with colour and music and chatter from across the globe. You could ask why I go all that  way (two quite long bus rides) just to go to the cinema, especially when there are at least three cinemas much closer. There is something about this small cinema, screening films which mainstream cinema chains like Odeon don’t, which sets it apart: something about it’s small screening-rooms of less than a hundred seats, full of people  there out of a genuine interest in film, which makes the longer journey worth it.

Given that I watched The Irishman on Saturday, you could also ask – and I can already hear my parents doing so – why I would go all that way to watch a film I can watch at home on Netflix. But the experience is simply not the same: watching a film at the cinema makes it an event – something  you go specifically  to do. Watching a film on your computer, at the same desk where you  work, check the news  and browse Facebook, turns it into something different. Watching a film  becomes something less special and more throw-away: something to be done five or ten minutes at a time, before pausing it and doing other things. It strips film of it’s aura and turns it into  something you just watch to pass the time, like watching sort clips on Youtube. I’d  rather still award film the dignity it deserves.

This new mode of viewing interests me, though, especially in the way it contrasts with the type of cinephilia writers like Bazin and  Keathley describe. It’s completely new, brought about by new technology, so I don’t think much has been written  about it yet; but  I think it’s worth going far deeper. I’ve started to make a few notes on the subject, but   I can see this project potentially becoming something thesis length.

I’ve decided to stay home tonight. Part of me really wants to go up to Westminster and take my frustrations out on the p’tahks celebrating there, but what good would that achieve? I’d probably get abused, even more angry, and/or arrested. Better just stay home, chill out, and crack open a few beers.

I truly doubt that I have ever felt  as angry as I currently do – it’s even effecting my sleep. After watching Laura Kuenssberg’s recap on the beeb last night of how we reached this point, it is clear to me Brexit is  a crime. I am incandescent with rage. Because of lies and deceit, we are now about to be dragged out of the greatest, most noble union of nations. Whenever I think about it, my body becomes hard to control and my limbs shake in fury; for a few moments my rage becomes white hot and I want to seek out and destroy the bastards behind this calamity, even though I know that would ultimately achieve nothing.. To think that so many utter, utter morons still support this abomination makes it even worse. I’m so furious it scares me, and I  don’t know what to do about it.

After yesterday’s heaviness, something lighter is probably in order. If you ever get chance to walk through Eltham Park North, do so. I was just there, and the view was incredible. You can see right across London, even up to Wembley. I now can’t wait for summer when the view will probably be even better. I now really want to take Mum, Dad and perhaps Lyn up there too. I think  they would be amazed at the prettiness of the park and how far you can see from it.

I watched the holocaust memorial ceremony on BBC2 last night. I felt it my duty, if just to mark the seventy-fifth anniversary of the end of the most abominable crime ever committed. The industrialised murder of six million people should surely never be forgotten: that’s the only way to prevent it from ever happening again. Yet, as I watched boris Johnson give his speech, I could not banish our current situation from my mind: how could this man have the audacity to feign disgust at what the Nazis did when on Friday he will drag this country out of one of the very organisations set up in part to ensure such catastrophes never happen again?

Of course, most people will recoil that likening Brexit to the holocaust is utterly wrong. What the nazis did is indeed far worse. Yet both have the same simplistic worldview at their core: a type of arrogant nationalism which declares one country or people superior to all others. The European Union was set up to facilitate cooperation between countries; to help governments and people work together as equals. That is the only way to grow beyond the petty national rivalries of the past. By leaving the EU, the UK reverts to that nationalism: by suddenly declaring that it doesn’t need to cooperate with our European friends, it becomes no better than the Nazis declaring theirselves superior to everyone else.

I am not saying that I think everyone fooled into voting Leave is a fascist, or that we will soon see concentration camps being built. I fear, however, that the type of deregulated, ultra-capitalist society Brexit will bring will see the strong freed to dominate the weak, rich freed to persecute the poor. Human and consumer rights will start to be worn away so that soon any notion of social equality will be a hazy, far off dream. The Outists say they want freedom, but they want it only for theirselves: freedom to persecute and manipulate; freedom to lord it over everyone not born into a wealthy, white family. Outside the ECHR, protection of minority rights will be thrown to the wind; I doubt people like me will soon have the privileges we now enjoy as the taxes which fund the social services we need to live independently are reduced. Not an overt form of persecution perhaps, but persecution nonetheless.

Culturally, the 2016 referendum has already opened the door to rising levels of intolerance, xenophobia and hate crime. It has reinforced feelings of separateness from and superiority to our neighbours, allowing some people to air their bigotry and prejudices more freely. We might not see brownshirts on the streets, but the Outist ‘victory’ has meant the return of types of behaviours and attitudes we should have outgrown long ago. They may not call Brexit fascism, they might deny they want to persecute anyone, yet at the core both are born of the same abhorrent isolationism and arrogance. It is only through international cooperation that we can avoid repeating the mistakes of the past, which is why Johnson’s words last night were so sickeningly hollow.

Although I have only just heard about it, and of course have yet to see it, I really think I’ll try to get S.A.M screened at this years Charlton and Woolwich Free Film Festival. From what I’ve read, it’s a short, independent film about a loving relationship between two young people with learning difficulties. It was filmed in leeds and the  actors cast have LDs, so it sounds quite cutting edge in  terms of both social and disability representation. All too often, such relationships are hidden  away, but it really looks like the guys whho made this  film set out to tell often overlooked truths. What I want to do now is find a way to watch it,  before hopefully proposing it for this years film festival.

I just got back from the cinema again, where John and I saw Marriage Story. I don’t have much to say about it, apart from that I would be surprised if I have ever seen a duller, more boring film. Over three hours of protracted, increasingly bitter fretting over whether a couple will get divorced, the status of their young son and whether they live in New York or LA. Very little in terms of plot development or resolution. And then Kianu Reeves breaks into a song, completely at random, as if the film suddenly became a musical. It was  about an hour too long and so laboured and dull that I left the cinema wondering why  it had ever been made; I honestly think I could pull a better film out of my arse.

Just to stick with the Star Trek theme, judging by this, Trump is obviously a fan too. He has been accused of nicking the Starfleet emblem for his new Space Force. While people like George Takei have accused him of breaching copyright, I think this could tell us one of two things: either Trump is a huge Star Trek fan and intends this as a tribute  to the series, or, more likely, he’s even more deluded than we  thought and sees himself as head of a huge galactic Federation.

The biggest question on my mind today, after having been anticipating it for so long, is how am I going to watch Star Trek Picard? After having bought a Netflix subscription specifically to watch Discovery, only to find it was utter drivel, I’m reluctant to do the  same for Amazon Prime. The thing is, that is the very reason Amazon commissioned the Picard series in the first place: to get people hooked to their streaming service. As  passionate as I am to see Jean-Luc Picard captaining  a  starship again, I’m loathe to fall for such a trick, especially if it turns out to be as disappointing as Discovery was. (And from what I’ve been heaaring on the web, there’s a  good chance that could be the case). My dilemma thus remains, how am I going to watch  Picard?

The sad news today is that Terry Jones has died, age 77. As a Monty Python fan, I am saddened by this news,  but at least he had a good innings. Seeing Python perform live in 2014 will  always be one of the highlights of my life; at least those guys got to perform together one last time before they began to fade away. Go here for the details.

If ever there was any doubt over whether the people campaigning for brexit are mind-numbingly, staggeringly stupid, what you’ll read here will put an end to it. ”A Brexit Party MEP has raised concerns that the UK will no longer have a voice in Europe on her last day sitting in the EU parliament.” June Mummery MEP tweeted  “The big question now is, who will be here to hold these people to account while they still control Britain’s waters, but the UK has no representation?”  Err, that was the whole point of  what you campaigned for, you moronic cow! The only reason we are losing representation in the European parliament is because idiots like you campaigned for it.

Tweets like this really make you wonder how such obviously moronic people ever got into a position where they could represent the UK on any level. Once you stop laughing, it’s actually quite worrying.

I think I’ve  described here before how,  after over nine years of going to the Coop in Charlton, I had become quite well known there: every time I went in, a member of staff would come up to me, greet me by name, and  help me get my shopping. Well, I was just in my local Tesco here in Eltham picking up a few pieces, and after only two or three months living here, I’m amused to note that the same thing has started to happen: while they don’t know my name yet, staff there now recognise me, come up to me and help me shop. It’s enough to make me feel rather special.

This is just a quick entry to say that today marks pretty much exactly ten years since I moved to London; ten years, to the day, since I moved in with Lyn. Of course it has been quite a decade, and although  I no longer live with Lyn, I still love  being a Londoner. I still remember writing a  blog entry to say I had moved: at the same time, so much has happened since I wrote that entry, yet   it also seems to have flown. It rather makes me wonder  where I’ll be in ten year’s time,  whether I’ll  still be blogging (probably) and whether I’ll still be an urbanite.

Today I just want to mark the sad death of Christopher Tolkien. His father’s works have always been among my favourites, and I have fond memories of getting Dad to read parts off The History of Middle-Earth to me in my teens. It was always interesting to see how his father’s writing evolved and developed over time. The news was confirmed on Thursday by the Tolkien Society, which described him as “Middle-earth’s first scholar”. He was 95.

This is slightly lazy blogging perhaps, but if you want to watch quite a thorough, interesting video essay on MASH, as well as to see just how detailed and articulate media criticism on Youtube is becoming, I think this is worth checking out. In it, Ladynightthebrave takes a very detailed look at the classic American TV show, examining the cultural impact it had, it’s famed balance of comedy and tragedy, as well as a few of it’s flaws. As she says, MASH remains a classic of american comedy which still resonates powerfully. It had a lot to  say, speaking out on subjects in ways that modern shows seem to avoid. With characters like Hawkeye, Klinger and Radar, MASH had a power and  cultural weight which would be difficult to find in any comedy program today; it made comments which are still highly resonant. Perhaps that’s why people are still talking about it.

I just got back after a bit of a busy morning: I  had a  couple of things to do in Woolwich, where I also bumped into Matt B.  I hadn’t  seen him in a couple of months, so it was great  to reestablish contact and set a few plans  in motion. However, going along Woolwich high street, I saw something which puzzled me,  and is playing on my mind. There are usually a few beggars and buskers along there, but  today I saw a guy who obviously had  CP.  He used a crutch, and held a  cap in his hand for people to put change into. I guess he was in his thirties, an immigrant, and wore a pained, helpless expression on his face.

Something about this man got to me. If he was disabled like me, then  why wasn’t he getting all the support I get? Why was social services not helping him as much as they help me? What brought this man to the point where he has to beg on Woolwich high Street? I thought briefly about  trying to help, but how? What could I have done, apart from going back to social services to tell them about it?

Yet I suppose there is another possibility. It looked like the guy had cerebral  palsy, but if he did it was mild.  Despite the cane he seemed stable on his feet, had enough balance to hold his  cap steady, and his speech seemed clear. Part of me has to wonder whether he was  really disabled, or whether he was imitating having cerebral Palsy for people to pity him. If he did have cp, why would  social services not step in and support him? I certainly hope the uk isn’t a country which would allow people with disabilities to beg in the streets. Yet if he was faking it, that raises the question of whether people think having a disability is so pitiful that it can be used to trick passers by into giving you money. I must say I find that thought even more repugnant.

I don’t know what to think. Should I, being a disabled man myself, have tried  to give him help or guidance? Perhaps he didn’t know about the support structures in this  country. And what if he was just   trying to look disabled for pity? Should I have felt insulted? In the end I did nothing, left him be, and went on my way; yet something about this fleeting incident bugs me.

Not that I have ever heard of her  before, but American pop star Billie Eilish has apparently been selected to compose and sing the theme for No Time To Die. I’m still quite a fan of Bond Themes: alongside the gunbarrel and the pre-credit sequence, the  theme is one of the defining features of the franchise.There have been some great themes for the recent films, particularly Adele’s Skyfall theme, which surely must be up there with Shirley Bassey’s and Carly Simon’s contributions. I’m thus fairly optimistic,  although, of course, we’ll have to wait for the film to see if it’s  any good.

It is difficult to say whether Jojo Rabbit is hilarious or utterly horrifying. I went to see it yesterday, and from the very beginning it was clear that I was watching a very unique, interesting film. It is very funny, but the events it depicts are among the most serious and disturbing. Set in Germany in about 1945, it’s about a boy whose mother shelters a jewish girl from the Nazi thugs all around. In his innocence, the boy has made Hitler into an imaginary friend. He believes what he has been told about Hitler being a nice, kind, fatherly figure. The audience can see this imaginary friend, and it is quite a comic, jolly figure, getting into all kinds of scrapes with the boy. When the boy meets the jewish girl, they develop a friendship: he finds her friendly and kind, obviously contradicting everything he’s been told by the Nazis.

To be honest, something about this film doesn’t feel right to me. It is cheerful and funny, yet the events it depicts, often going on in the background or implied, are truly horrifying. We see people murdered, beaten and executed. On one level this is not a subject to laugh about; yet because we witness events from a young child’s perspective, everything seems jolly and fun, with most of the characters and action being almost pythonesque. It’s as if the film has two distinct, separate layers: on the surface it is a children’s film, a comedy about a little boy growing up, surrounded by very stupid people who allow him to do all kinds of silly things. Just below that surface layer, though, is a horror film, clearly depicting some of the most appalling acts ever committed.

The problem is, which is the correct layer? What is Jojo Rabbit trying to be, comedy or horror? Does this juxtaposition of layers add to or subtract from the overall effect of the film? Does the comedy complement the horror, or make light of things innately unfunny? Should the film be criticised for this contradiction, or was it deliberately employed by the directorTaika Waititi? Should this film be praised for it’s boldness and bravery, or be appalled? What was Waititi trying to tell us?? Such questions are at the heart of this film, and to be honest I don’t know what to think. From the look of it, many other critics are divided about this film too; but perhaps that was the whole point. At the same time I am intrigued and disquieted by it.

It’s fast turning into a very cool weekend. John is with me, and yesterday we went up to the BFI Imax to see  1917. I wasn’t expecting anything particularly special, but it completely blew me away. More of an artwork than a standard piece of post-classical cinema, what Sam Mendes has done is completely reinvent the language of film. There are no discernible cuts throughout the film, so the narrative appears to  unfold in one long take. The effect was spellbinding, and I certainly need to now read and write a lot more about it: this is a film which deserves much more serious attention than a Sunday morning blog entry.

If that wasn’t enough, yesterday had another surprise in store. John took me to a place called The Place,  a contemporary  dance academy.  There, dancers put on a show of  three pieces of  quite wonderful creative movement, each very different to the other.  In one, a woman moved pre-prepared objects in  front of a camera to create a  type of live film, which  was then projected onto the back of the stage. The second was a duet where two people interwove their bodies in  a quite spellbinding way. The third was the most powerful and hard-hitting, exploring life for gay men. They each lasted about half  an hour. It rather reminded me of the stuff  I used to see back at university – very contemporary and avant guard.

I came home feeling that it had been a fascinating, enjoyable day;  but the weekend isn’t over yet. Today we’re off to watch Jojo Rabbit in Peckham. I’m really looking forward to it: expect an entry on it tomorrow. I really like rich, art-filled weekends like these.

I know I shouldn’t just post rants about Donald Trump, but how far up his  own arse  does he have to be to think he was cheated out  of a Nobel Peace  Prize? He apparently complained on Twitter and in a speech that he had been unjustly denied the prize for brokering peace in Ethiopia. This is another instance of Trump thinking he’s a far greater statesman than he actually is, as if he deserved the prize just for being himself. The guy clearly has a  very poor understanding of how the world really  works or how he’s actually perceived; and you can almost smell his jealousy of Obama in the air.

I might have once written on here that I was a bit of  a royalist after seeing the Queen meet 007, but I just have to say I don’t give two hoots what a beardy ginger guy does with his wife (not that  one, anyway). Besides, there are far more worrying things going on, such a potentially cataclysmic war  brewing  in the Middle East, and the  coming gutting of our human and consumer rights due to Brexit. Unless – now here’s a thought – someone wants our attention diverted away from those two stupidities: ”Hey look everyone, see what  the royal family is up to! Never mind that you’re about to lose  your human rights, or that the deranged idiot America currently calls it’s president is about to start World War Three. Look what Harry and Meghan are up  to…”

I just watched the orange idiot America is  still laughably calling it’s president make a statement on Iran. To be honest I was slightly surprised: when I turned my computer on to read that Iran had fired missiles at American bases in  Iraq this morning, my gut reaction was that the States would have declared war  by this evening. I’m sure Trump would have wanted to, but was probably held back by congress. It’s fortunate nobody was hurt or killed, or things may have  been different. Either way, in his statement it  was obvious he was just reading words he barely understood off an autocue; trying to appear the tough guy while not giving a shit whose life he jeopardises. The nuclear deal made progress in relations between Iran and the rest of the world; but because it was Obama  who got  the credit for it, trump tossed it away. He tries to sound knowledgable by calling the treaty flawed, but I doubt Trump understood a word of it. All he cared about was  depriving his predecessor of his legacy,  shallow  child that he is. And so here we are: this autocue-reading numpty steering the world towards it’s most dangerous crisis in years, barely understanding what he’s doing and only caring about whether he looks good. Why  oh why can’t the rest of the world do anything to stop this stupidity?

It may be from November, but I just came across this Guardian article flagged up on Facebook. The tories want to revive their  Festival Of Brexit idea,  and having won the election, no doubt they’ll definitely go ahead with it. They  want it to be in 2022, to coincide with the queen’s platinum jubilee (assuming she’s still around) and a few other anniversaries; and to echo the great  Exhibition of 1851.

I think this is a story I’ll be keeping an eye on. Of course, it’s utterly, utterly stupid: as the article points out, what’s the point of a festival to celebrate something which half the electorate are completely opposed to? It will alienate half the community. As many comments pointed out on facebook, for us Remainers it presents a focus for our protest and something we should try to stop. The same goes for the party Farage is apparently planning in parliament square.

Of course, such large public events interest me – remember how excited  I got about the 2012 Olympics? I must admit part of me is curious to see what they do. Nonetheless, given this festival will cost hundreds of millions of pounds to celebrate something I’m vehemently opposed to, I think we should work  hard to make sure this festival of stupidity never happens; or if it does, that it goes as catastrophically as possible.

Not far from where I now live is  Kidbrooke Village. I came across it a few weeks before christmas, and since then I’ve been going there quite frequently.  It’s a trendy, recently redeveloped area which I reach along freshly-built paths. There are several blocks of flats (some still being built) set around architecturally-designed squares and pretty little parks. There’s even a cool little pub, The Depot, which I’d like to take Charlie to one day. It is the epitome of modern London, and was   obviously designed with city executives in mind. Yet I can’t  help thinking how much it contrasted with Congleton: you find such redevelopments all over the city these days, with their ubiquitous sleek urban architecture. Up north, though, towns seem to be being allowed to rot: new housing estates are  being built,  but there is no new infrastructure – no new  shops, community centres or parks – to go with them. So much  money is being spent on redeveloping London and it’s suburbs, while it seems the rest of the country is just being allowed to waste away. It’s an imbalance which seems quite perverse.

The world now urgently needs to get a grip on America. The idiot in the White House obviously wants to play the tough guy, and distract people from the fact he’s being impeached, so he starts world war three. With absolutely no understanding of the consequences of his actions, Trump has ordered the assassination of an important foreign dignitary. The buffoon didn’t know what he was doing: he’s a failed businessman obsessed with his own image who’d be begging on the streets of New York had it not been for his father. Yet in an act of utter, utter stupidity, he was allowed into the most powerful office in the world. And now, putting his own shortsighted interests first, he has been allowed to throw a stick of dynamite onto a situation many far more intelligent people had been working years to balance. Surely we need to put pressure on America to grow up and get a proper leader who understands geopolitics, before Trump does something even more reckless and stupid. Were this any other country acting so brazenly, the international community would be jumping on them like a tonne of bricks. Why, then, should the US be allowed to get away with it?

Oh,  what a way to begin a new decade.

In light of the sad death of Niel Inness recently, although it is now already three years old, I think it’s worth directing everyone here. Surely we all now have something to say in light of recent  events.

I am all for a general strike, like the one in france. If everybody stopped working and brought down the Tories, I say, bring it on. Such action may be extreme, but I honestly believe we are past the point where we need to take it. The problem is, if everyone stops working, who  would come and cook dinner for me?

Today,  of course, sees the dawn of a new decade. Part of me thinks I should write an entry summing up the last one, but I don’t think I could. Where on earth would I begin? It was, by turns, both incredible and devastating. When I think about all the amazing things I did over the last ten years, about moving to London, living with  Lyn, and then breaking up, it blows my mind. I have grown so much as a person. At the same time, I can’t help thinking that the world is now in a much darker place than it was in 2010. The first half of the decade was fine, but in 2016 it obviously took a turn for the worse, and I can’t help feeling very pessimistic about where things will now end up.

Nonetheless, that shouldn’t stop us celebrating  the new year: a new decade brings with it new opportunities. The 1920s were famous for their fun and exuberance, at least among a certain group of young American expats, so much so that they were called the Roaring Twenties. We are once again in the twenties; let’s make them roar.

I know I shouldn’t make too light of drinking, but this just seemed too apt  for me not to nick

(not that I now see myself as an old woman…)

As a tribute to the great Neil Inness, the so-called seventh member of Monty Python who passed away yesterday, and who wrote so many brilliantly witty songs, I’d just like to direct everyone here.

Dad just left to return to my Grandmother’s place in Harlesden after dropping me off here in Eltham. Suffice to say, the journey back too the capital was far easier than the train trip up to cheshire.  I’ve had a  lovely few days with my parents, and have two new franchises to get into: the Orville, Seth  MacFarlane’s comedic tribute to Star Trek, and Gavin And Stacey,  both of which my parents and I binge watched over christmas. Having got back to my computer, however, I can see from my Facebook feed that all the problems which were there before christmas haven’t gone away; in fact they’re worse than ever. The queen’s speech obviously did nothing to soothe the social divisions  opened up by Brexit; what concerns me is that, the way things are going, public discourse will hit an all time low in the new year. Of course we  should never stop resisting Brexit as vigorously as possible, yet with so much rage and hate about, you have to wonder where all  this is going.

Fao Iain Duncan-Smith

I just had a haircut. To be honest I needed it, as it had been months since my last trim. The weird thing was, though, it was like stepping back in time: dad and I just had another walk down into congleton and we were passing John’s barbers, the same barber shop my brothers and I always went to when we were growing up. Dad suggested going in, and I said yes. It looked different, so I at first assumed it had changed owners, but no: going in, it was just as it always had been. The uncanny thing was, though, I was recognised by the same guy who used to cut my hair. For a moment it was like the last ten years had never happened: Lyn, London, all the incredible things I’ve seen and done over the last decade. I wanted to tell his about my new metropolitan life, but there was no time so I just let it be. But it seemed strange to step back briefly into a life I thought I’d left behind long ago.

Only a complete moron could have missed the irony in the queen’s speech this afternoon. As many had predicted, the theme this year was reconciliation between old enemies, but one of the examples she used was the reconciliation of European nations after the Second World War. That’s literally claiming to promote peace between two groups, one of whom wants to destroy the very institution designed to ensure peace. I’m sorry to say that, for all the queen’s nice platitudes, those of us who oppose Brexit cannot be reconciled to it by a few nice words.

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m afraid to say I have a cold. I haven’t had one in months, even years, but I’m currently all snotted up. I must say, though, I don’t feel that bad for it: my nose may be running, but I have all the warmth and comfort of the house I grew up in. This will be my first Christmas here in nine or ten, and although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss lyn, something about being here feels right. Mums downstairs in the kitchen, just as she always used to be; dad’s doing various things around the house. Apart from my brothers not being here, it’s rather like the Christmases of my childhood. After a year of so much change, cold or no cold, this is probably exactly what I needed.

When I moved in with Lyn, I started using her plastic tubing for straws. She had been using hard plastic pipes to drink through for years, but until then I had used conventional disposable drinking straws. After that, of course, I was converted and have been using washable reusable straws ever since. They were durable and reusable so I could carry them with me in case I wanted a drink while I was out and about, but much kinder on the mouth than the metal straws apparently now given to people who have Parkinson’s.

Well, yesterday marked a bit of a straw related milestone. When I came up to visit my parents I forgot to pack my straws, so I simply asked mum to order a roll online. They arrived yesterday, so I suppose I am now fully converted. Just another small way life with Lyn has changed me forever.

Dad and I took a walk down Into congleton town centre this morning. As I said yesterday, I couldn’t bring my powerchair up, so Dad pushed me in my manual. I don’t think I had been into congleton town centre for over ten years, since moving to London, and I must say it was quite a trip down memory lane. At one and the same time,  it was pretty much as I remembered it from my childhood, yet also very different.  The street layout is much the same, of course, but the place is slowly losing its life. For example I remember the town market being a bustling, vibrant place, especially on a Saturday morning, yet today it seemed half empty. I couldn’t resist mentally comparing it to what I’m now used to down in London: you can hardly move for people in, say, woolwich or Stratford markets at that time on a Saturday.

Sometimes there is only one remedy for getting more and more frustrated with the way things are going in the world, and that’s to pay a visit to the house you grew up in. I’m up visiting my parents for a few days. I came up by train yesterday, but suffice to say it was quite an arduous trip. Let’s put it this way: that’s the last time I rely on TFL staff to push me, in my manual chair, between tube and train.  Mind you I’m now quite relieved I did it yesterday as, judging by the new, the trip would have been even more difficult today. At least I’m here now, although I think I have to avoid watching the news on the big family tv. I’ve only been here half a day and I think my parents are already starting to worry about how furious I get whenever I see anything about Brexit.