J'aime le pain

Don’t tell Biroco but the French Market was back at the weekend. And this time it was bigger with added soap and knock off designer hats which were neither trés chic nor very French. Nary a beret in sight. Poor BB is starting her teething and so was not in tip top form but we took her for some fresh air. I forgot the big grown up camera so have resorted to using my mobile pone which only has 17 pixels and save things as bitmap files. I ask you.

Anyway, it was much the same as last time, except busier, and all the youth that had come over from the other side of the bus garage had obviously frightened all the Queens Park ignorati away. My mother would have called them, the youth, Common. Although Sunday is overpriced organic farmers market on Salusbury Road so they, the ignorati, would have all been there; crammed in between the cranberry and rosemary foccacia and the herd of four by four child killing machines. Best place for them.

The market is outside the Library Centre in Willesden Green. They are trying to get more of these events on, the last one was the African Market and Something, which I would have like to have gone to but I was entertaining that day and thus not allowed out.

Aren’t ordinary everyday items fascinating when in a foreign language? Moutard. Marvellous. And some other things to make cassoulet with. Cracking.

You could smell the cheese a mile off. Not a literal mile, a nasal mile. We had some brie and some smoked raclette which is as stinky as I am prepared to get in the cheese department.

And there was hardly any bread left but the mound of biscuits eased the pain. I have accidentally been very funny and clever there. Pain. It’s rude to point out your own haphazard genius, isn’t it? Pain though. Or lack of pain. It’s a good job I’ve got a blog or that would have been wasted. Wasted.

And I thought there was fruit but it was soap. Thankfully I don’t often do fruit so I was spared the embarrassment of taking a huge bit from a lavender and mimosa scented apple. I was a close run thing though. I have been known to fall upon delicious market stalls with an open mouth and a hopeful heart.

This is clearly soap. I do soap daily.

All this was once fields you know

My regular reader will know that I grew up in the countryside. The village in which I grew upwards in height but not maturity, or Brixworth as it is known to many, has the oldest Saxon church in England, perhaps even Britain. Romans lived there as well, or they might have rode through Brixworth on the way to Guilsborough or Great Creaton and threw some bathroom tiles out the chariot window as then went. I don’t think it’s possible to know. It has a bookshop and a pottery, a pond (which is in someone’s back garden) and three proper country pubs. As well as a primary school, some shops, a village hall and a little library. Or it did. I haven’t been there for many years. The last time I was there Brixworth had acquired a sprinkling of mini roundabouts and some baffling traffic calming road furniture, particularly on the way to Spratton.

Although it was quite small it never felt like a village. Not a proper English countryside village. I went on holiday to some of those in Dorset and Brixworth wasn’t really on a par. Only two thatched roofs for a start.

I’m sure my fractured sense of community wasn’t helped by my going to school in a different village and then on the edge of town, unlike the rest of the street who all went to the village school and then the local comprehensive en masse. No wonder they threw things at me.

Once we had a street party with fireworks and hot dogs. I’m frightened of fireworks and also I have a thing about the ends of sausages. So that event didn’t really do much to integrate me into village society. And I liked reading. That never went down well. I should have preferred poking dead things with sticks and shouting at the Gypsies.

I am merely that area’s second most famous daughter as Princess Diana grew up near Brixworth and she is a little bit more well known than me. I have been on many a school trip to Althrop House (we locals pronounce it ‘All Thorpe’ by the way), where there is a garden gnome, in the study, under a bell jar. He must not like it under there because every so often he makes a run for it and the staff find him in strange locations. How does he lift up the glass with his little fingers? How does he move his little pottery legs? How does he get off the chest of drawers and open the heavy doors? It’s Magic, they told us. One time I went and the gnome had gone. They hadn’t found him yet and claimed to be deeply worried for his welfare.

They have built all over my village, of course. Looking through my own personal satellite I see that the village has expanded all the way to the controversial bypass. The road perpendicular to my cul-de-sac used to mark one edge of village but now they’ve built almost to the Goat’s Milk House. So called because they sold goat’s milk when I was little. They had a goat, you see. It ate things that were indigestible then vomited on an almost daily basis.

There was also a donkey which sold tomatoes. The tomatoes were guarded by ferocious dogs. One of my nieces thought that donkeys laid tomatoes like chickens laid eggs. To this day I regret that someone put her right.

I’m going to take tD and BB on a pilgrimage there so that I have witnesses when I stand in the middle of a housing estate and shout; ‘I remember when all this was fields.’ Because I do.

You may visit what my village, Brixworth, has become if you like: by going here. It’s almost like being there, believe me. And if you visit virtually at this time of year you’ll be spared the smell of burning stubble. Oh. I forgot. There aren’t any fields any more. The green arrow is pointing to the house opposite and up one from my house. Up as in away from the cul of the cul-de-sac.

If do go visit and you zoom out? That black crippled dragon shape is Pitsford Reservoir (now with added Country Park). Not an ominous Gate To Pandemonium or anything. Although now I come to think of it is is entirely possible.

Lunchtime Randomness

High excitement in NW2 this lunchtime. First I spotted a massive puddle which will force me to walk home a Different Way. Although not clear from this picture it spreads the whole way across the road. Imagine.

Man on a Bike, pictured below in fetching yellow, almost rode through the flood but then though better of it. It took him a little while to make his mind up, despite seeing three buses, a black cab and four small hatchbacks almost lost beneath the waves. His name is not Noah, clearly, the big chicken.

And then I spotted a mannequin unicycling across a large picture of Ruby Wax advertising some stupid television programme. I don’t think a reality TV show’s celebrity circus is going to be up to much. Surely it’ll just be a hoard of clowns and no acrobats. Unless it was a Jim Rose circus, then it would make perfect sense. I would have liked to take a better photograph of the mannequin just for you, regular reader, but that would have meant crossing two lanes of motorway bound traffic and dicing with death on the central reservation. As much as I love you we are not at the point in our relationship where that kind of near death experience is acceptable. Yet.

Another observations: the ‘toys’ inside Kinder Eggs are not what they once were. You will have to trust me on this as I have no photographic evidence; I had been forced to return the ‘digital camera’ to the web team by then.

Crab Apples

I went to a new café on Saturday for lunch. There seem to be a number of new little cafes and delicatessens popping up in Kensal Rise at the moment. This is probably because, in the manner of an odorous backed up toilet Queen Park is over spilling into NW10. The most hilarious example of this is the deli/café next to Kensal Rise station which is an ultra moderne glass structure not unlike a very grand bus shelter. It’s full of the very expensive tat that people who think they can cook fill their kitchens with to hide the fact that they don’t know the difference between button and chestnut mushrooms never mind which end of the mushroom brush to apply to them.

Not at all like this monstrosity of middle class disparation (like aspiration but totally without value or meaning being all about money and status rather than anything important) is The Brilliant Kids Café and Art Centre. We fit right in because we have a brilliant kid and is certainly a welcome addition the short list of places you can easily take a baby younger than 6 months old. Also, independent of BB, I am so weary of the gastro pub. I don’t think it has been open for very long but it is cracking, I hope it lasts and doesn’t become one of those good places that is open for five minutes and then closes.

One half of Brilliant Kids is the café where an impossibly posh, yet very hearty, woman cooks in an open kitchen. She whipped tD up some Hollandaise sauce for her Eggs Florentine which tD reported as the best sauce she had ever had (even better than my Mediterranean vegetable pasta sauce apparently, damn it all). I had Shepherd’s Pie and steamed broccoli which was magnificent. It was a huge portion, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to tuck it all away, but when I polished it off it was so lovely I could have eaten it all over again. But this is terribly uncouth, I understand, so I contented myself with just the one portion. It is also very reasonably priced with my homemade, organic and delicious shepherds pie coming in at £6.50.

The Gods of Impending Birthday sorted the weather out so we could sit outside. The garden is a little oasis of peace and tranquillity. Once you have got the buggy beside your table. Up to that point it is an oasis of why in the name of god is this garden covered in posh grey gravel that the wheels won’t work on.

We sat underneath a crab apple tree, an upward glance looking much like this:


Next door is the other half of Brilliant Kids – the Art Centre. They do all kinds of workshops for kids; from music and movement, storytelling to knitting. There is a little club afternoon with a DJ called The Crib, where they can learn street dance, and The Popcorn Club on a Saturday morning where the little angels can watch classic children’s films. They also do children’s parties which I imagine are marvellous but hideously expensive.

And you can leave your heap of car parts outside to lower the tone without paying a penny. Joyous. Did I mention the crab apples?

Better than diggin' a ditch

Sad Little Clancy was in such dire need of a wash it was impossible to discern her delicate bronze colour beneath the thick coat of the grime. We found ourselves in such a terrible state of dishevelment that none of the other cars in the street would park near her in case any dirt blew onto them. Poor Sad Little Clancy resembled a little Dickensian street urchin; slightly consumptive and in need of a good scrub.

I took Sad Little Clancy to get some tender loving care at a Hand Wash Establishment. I was tipped off by a friend who put the frighteners on me about the horrors of the modern, violent automatic car wash. Near my old gym, on Cricklewood Lane, is a little garage with a big forecourt. It is teaming with men wielding powerful jet hoses, giant sponges and chamois leathers. There is some debate as to whether they are Russian, Kosovan or Albanian which goes to show how ignorant we are about our East European brethren in NW2.

Well, parked in the queue behind a Mercedes and in front of a Porsche (obviously over from hideous Queens Park) I did wonder whether Sad Little Clancy, as a lowly G reg Nissan Micra, would get any attention. Then when one of those women with long blonde hair and permatans, that men seems to find so attractive, stepped provocatively out of her Mercedes I thought we were there for the duration.

But no. Sad Little Clancy was seized upon like a packet of fags at a health spa. There were six burly Balkanesque types spraying and sponging, washing and waxing and before Sad Little Clancy or I knew where we were she was shiny and bright as a new penny outside and clean and fresh smelling inside.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the man as I gave him £7 which I considered an absolute bargain. I looked over to Blondie’s Mercedes where one despondent little chap was half heartedly dragging a limp sponge across the bonnet of her luxury vehicle.
‘Honestly,’ said the man rolling his eye. ‘Car not even need cleaning. Not like your car. Your car filthy filthy dirty.’

Across the forecourt four of his colleagues were admiring Sad Little Clancy’s rear end with such lip licking delight I felt terrible when I drove her back home and deprived them of her rusty beaten up charms.

Friday round up

Introduction
Friday’s post is becoming a bit of a summary covering many of the recent misfortunes to have befallen me, and the triumphs to have caught me unawares. So, although I am in danger of instituting a tradition, I shall crack on with the summary of where I am at or thereabouts for you.

Reading
I have finished the Bullet Trick. Hoorah. I am fully intending to write a measured and thoughtful review to make up for my previous petulance but I have shoved it on the bookshelf and each attempt to pick it up again results in an enormous wave of sorrow crashing down upon me, dashing me against the rocks of righteous indignation and feverish disappointment.

Televisual confusion
I was messing about with my camera last night and so didn’t plonk myself in front of the television until quarter to ten. I popped on BBC 1, even though I am Cross With The BBC At The Moment, and was most confused to find myself watching a docudrama where Tony Blair was extolling his own virtues as a God in a rather angsty fashion. Then, imagine my amazement, he confessed to having killed people and done all kinds of terrible things. Remarkable I thought. Then he, or perhaps it was Gordon or Claire, stuck a knife up through his chin and it made a noise exactly like when you crack Ice Magic with a spoon. At least I think that what happened with the knife and the chin. I have finely honed reflexes for that kind of thing so was already well under the sofa with my fingers over my ears and my thumbs in my eyes singing Yellow Submarine very loudly to avoid any TV gore induced trauma. Anyway, it transpired that it was not actually a sequel to The Deal but the same actor playing Nero, of the Roman Empire. I did wonder about the togas but thought that may be down to some strange Mandleson/ Campbell/ Blair Greco-Roman wrestling tournament. I think Martin Sheen is his name. He’s not related to Gloria Estefan either.

Football
We have discovered that the team that lost the final of the womens’ five-a-side football tournament had reached the final in the three previous years and so now feel less bad about the sound trouncing we received. Although I can’t even begin to talk about the winners yet. Bitches.

Annoying crazy people
The Mad Man Who Lives Up The Road has a new personality to add to the veritable post office queue he has already accumulated. I shall call her Fanny. She is very irritating with an incredibly loud high pitched voice and grave concerns about her job security. She fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack. Perhaps Fanny would perform a little better at work if she didn’t spent most of her time walking up and down my street screeching. I preferred Clive the Librarian. He used to rearrange the shelves in the library and hide the Ruth Rendell’s in the back of the cookery section. I liked him. The library staff liked him less though he meant they had to do some Work. Heaven forfend.

Outrage
I inadvertently left Sad Little Clancy’s door unlocked for three nights and no one stole her, slept in her, pissed in her or threw rubbish in her. I am outraged. The Subaru up the road went like a hot cake. I think I will buy Sad Little Clancy a spoiler and a neon racing stripe.

Most importantly
Bambino Bamboo is four months old today. Happy sortofbirthday [exclamation mark] She’s doing lots of interesting things and being adorable but this is the round up post so there’ll be no more of that.

And there we are. Vaarwel, gentle reader.

We are(n't) the Champions

We played football last night, me and sixteen comrades. Or the five-a-side aberration which passes for football in some ill-educated quarters. It was a biggish tournament, all proper with FA trained referees and everything, for charity. Sadly we, being the teams of the unsaid charity, were the only teams not to be in a five-a-side league, play together regularly or have shin pads so you can imagine how it went. I don’t even have any socks long enough to hold up shin pads. Luckily we did all have matching t-shirts which we filched from the Events Team Matching T-shirts Cupboard, so we didn’t look totally like amateurs. Much like amateurs.

We did look totally like amateurs. Which is okay, you know.

The Boys Team lost all their fours matches, but did manage to score twice and we, the Girls Team, lost all our four matches (in the name of equality you understand), and only scored once when our best player converted a penalty.

There was a team of small whippety woman who all had matching shorts as well as proper polyester blend tops with the team name on the front and numbers on the back. We feared them because of the matching shorts. I think they probably won overall. Although by the time the final whistle was blown on that match I was sulking in the back of the car somewhere in Vauxhall. The tournament was in Norbury which is very south of the river and therefore this morning I feel a little virus-y.

When I was a little bit younger I used to be rather good at the old football. The boys used to let me play and everything. Then I played at university and we were quite good. But not five-a-side. Proper grown up football. Last night I remembered why I avoided it.

There’s no opportunity to show off your silky skills in five-a-side as the minute the ball touches your foot all four outfield members of the opposition bear down upon you in the manner of starving wildebeest seizing upon a patch of pampas grass. You can’t hit the ball above head height so no crowd pleasing bending. No dribbling to speak of, no Ronaldinho elastics, no Ronaldo chops, no Rai flicks, no Cruyff turns. No showing off. No fun. I only got one step over in, which came to nought shortly after as three starving wildebeest nipped the ball away and hurtled away with it to bring to score to eight nil. Five-a-side doesn’t really suit my leisurely, it has been said elegant playing style. Also, I don’t like falling over on Astroturf so that’s a good deal of my Portuguese influenced game gone before I’ve put right instep to ball.

Also, there was too much sand on the pitch and they made us play with the wrong balls. Bah.

On the positive side I didn’t get stretchered off as had been predicted and other than a little tightness in my left hamstring I’m totally unscathed. It was, in fact, the boys’ goalkeeper who spent seven hours in A & E (I preferred it when it was called Casualty) getting his fractured wrist set in plaster for six to eight weeks. Who would have thought? I was well up for a couple of weeks in traction too, having sorted out reading material and everything.

On reflect this post should actually read: we played football, I’m not as good as I used to be, I feel bad for letting my team mates down and I hate, hate, hate The Losing. I’m in misery.

You get the gist though, I’m sure.

Nice doggie

I have never been a woman to get chatted up by strangers (of any gender) in bars. This is something of a tragedy as since a young age I have been accumulating a wealth of scathing put downs and acidic comebacks for just such occasions. So imagine my joy when earlier, whilst enjoying a quiet afternoon pint of Guinness and spending a meaningful hour with a pile of vellum and my favourite quill, an opportunity to use Put-down #12,387 presented himself.

He sidled up to me like an slimy gecko and draped himself, in what I can only imagined was supposed to be a seductive manner, across the chair.
‘You know, I could fulfil your every sexual fantasy,’ he said, issuing forth drunken spittle rich with chardonnay fumes and kettle chip crumbs.
‘How odd,’ I said. ‘You look absolutely nothing like a Great Dane to me.’

The fruitless struggle for a response killed off 134 of his remaining 137 brain cells and, with only his gross motor skills still fully operational, he slithered back over to the bar; a broken man.

Stupid view, stupid crane

I used to live on the sixth floor of a 1930’s block of flats in Cricklewood with views across Gladstone Park to Wembley and beyond. It was a nice flat until it got infested by bedbugs then it was evil. I’m saving the bed bugs story for another time when the huge team of therapists and witch doctors in charge of my recovery say I’m beginning to get over the horrific trauma of the experience. Sometime in 2189, they reckon.

When we moved into said flat The Fat Marmoset told us that we would have excellent views of the new Wembley Stadium. Sure enough the stadium slowly grew up and up above the treetops and we had a great view. I waited with rapt anticipation for the arch to appear. Then one day I noticed a long crane. It was a very long crane indeed. The longest crane I had ever seen.

‘Oh, hoorah,’ I said to everyone. ‘Soon they will put up the arch and we will have a marvellous view and be the envy of everyone. Hoorah. Hoorah.’

Then one evening I was on the 266 bus and looking down a road from the top deck I noticed a new addition to the skyline over Wembley.

They had put up the arch.

Apparently it had been up for ages.

We had, in fact, an excellent view of the side of the arch. Being exactly perpendicular to it we saw only a tall crane-like structure reaching above north west London.

And this is the kind of thing that happens to me all the time. If only we lived at the top of the hill in Roundwood Park – we’d then have this view:

But then we would have to live an a tent I expect, and the Froosh does not do the camping. No way.

Wandering a way to work

There were so many distractions on the way to work this morning. It is a miracle (and also a tragedy) that I managed to get here before dusk.

I remembered that on my route to work I walked past Dennis Nielsen’s house. You know, the one where he strangled his lovers in their sleep and buried them in the garden. Anyway, I meandered along the avenue trying to identify the right house. You would be amazed how many candidates there are. Its possible that some actual live serial killing is going on in some of them as I type. They are going to build some new houses on the tiny tiny patch of waste land at the back near the lock up garages so they’ll have to dig it all up again so the new guard may be discovered sooner than they think. This is one of my big fears – to live in a house and find out, months later, that it was once littered with the corpses of unfortunate murder victims, many of whom suffered hideous torture. I fear that more than the serial killer I think. Dennis Nielsen was a civil servant. Which makes sense really.

I have never, in my whole life, seen so my dogs sniffing each other's arses before. In my whole life. I think today must be national Sniff a Dogs Arse Day in the canine calendar. I was pleased to see that our four legged friends are not subject to the same bigotry and prejudices as we are. There were small dogs and big dogs, black dogs and spotty dogs, shaggy dogs and wiry dogs all sniffing each other with gay (and straight) abandon. I did feel sorry for three dogs whose owner would not let them play with the other dogs. He was one of those Queens Park types that had wandered over to our postcode by mistake – perhaps had a heavy night on the old champers – and he had two of those dogs that look like they have dreadlocks and no eyes and one Irish Wolfhound who looked thoroughly depressed, as any good colonialist whipping dog should. They weren’t to fraternise with the poor people’s dogs for fear they became diseased. Or had fun.

I walked across the playing field/abandoned patch of grass and happened upon a woodpecker. Although the pesky bird insisted on flying off every time I got near it, I persevered and positively identified it as a green woodpecker (picus viridi). Why it was in the middle of a stretch of grass and not moshing half way up a nice tree I’ll never know. Mostly because every time I asked it, it flew away in either terror or disgust.

I inadvertently gathered a large amount of gravel in my turn ups and was forced to stop and clear my jeans of little stones and twigs twice. Then I had trouble folding them back up again so they were even and also so my ankle area didn’t look like a fan of Bronski Beat. Or Bros.

There were no aeroplanes in the sky whatsoever. This is more disorientating than it sounds because the skies of north west London are usually teeming with aircraft, and not just police helicopters. This is because, if you don't know, the police have foiled a terrorist plot and now the horse has bolted they are trying to nail the stable door shut with a bag of marshmallows and a lego pirate figure.

I was cold. You think this would make me quicker. But no. I savour being cold, after being too hot for so long it was a blessed relief. Although now I am finally at work and the air conditioning is on as though it were 103 degrees CELSUSIS outside. I am in fear of hypothermia.

Can you imagine? It's a wonder I'm not still out there somewhere marvelling at it all like some village simpleton.

Robin Watch (3)

Yesterday I received this email:

Where’s Robin?

Good question.

Robin has spent most of the hot weather walking around with a pair of saggy shorts hanging perilously below his bare beer belly. He has also been sporting a bit of black string round his ankle which is either a fashion statement or a sign that he belongs to some religious sect I’ve never heard of and don’t care about. As he is very fair he has still to tan, preferring instead a delicate shade of pale cerise.

More interestingly though, he has been engaging in some guerrilla gardening. In the vague vicinity of my flat there is a small car park, which is one of those you find in residential areas where The Youth hang out in the evening kicked rubbish around, and foxes hang out at night kicking rubbish around. This small car park is only remarkable in that it has the most tumbliest down wall of any car park anywhere. I don’t know whether there is a particular (male) driver who keeps bumping into the wall but everyday another part of it is laying across the pavement in a state of disrepair and despair. Then two old Irish blokes come along and argue loudly whilst they fix it. On reflection I think maybe it is the old Irish blokes who knock it do to keep themselves in stout money and also to provide a forum for healthy debate about QPR.

Anyway, inside the car park wall there is a flower bed. It’s much improved recently because Robin has planted sunflowers all along it. They are growing like triffids which is reasonably scary but I’m trying not to worry too much as I can’t believe that even if sunflower did grow to seven foot, uproot themselves and start traipsing around Willesden Green they wouldn’t be too malevolent anyway. So, in a couple of weeks, possibly days, we’ll have nice sunflowers peeping over the top of the wall, or through the hole in the wall, and that will improve the quality of everyone’s lives no end (please note I can’t make that sound anything other than sarcastic, but it’s not meant to be). Robin got his friend Buckethead (they insist this is his name but I'm sure it’s Clifford) from Canada to help by carrying the watering can.

Robin has been guerrilla gardening for a while apparently. He planted daffodils around the bottoms of all the trees along the street, which was very nice. And he, and some friends, made a small community garden a while ago, but the evil fascist council dug it up and caused a small local rebellion.

So, Robin has been very busy. Thank you for emailing, Marvin458. Are you a Martian? I hope so.

Market, mais oui.

A (very) little bit of France came to Willesden Green this weekend and parked itself outside the Library Centre, right next to the wall the drunks like to sit on. My, they were in their element - crepes and diamond white all round. I took some photos for those of you unlucky enough to live in places other then Willesden Green. Poor you.

French Market outside library centre, exhibit A. See, told you so.

Onions and garlic. The garlic was not on strings but in nice bunches, so I was foiled in my attempt to hang garlic around my neck and pedal my bicylcle happily up to the bus garage and back. Oh well, at least it saved me from stealing a bicycle.

Flesh.

Sausages. Including ostrich. My friend bought some venison ones so I made her walk five paces behind me. She muttered quite a bit about that I can tell you.

Bread or pain as they say. We were on much safer territory with the baked produce. Especially the biscuits which we all agreed were delicious.

That ends the photo montage - bring back the elephant.

It would be lovely if we could have more of this in Willesden Green. Evil Queens Park, lousy with Orlandos and Jocastas, has a farmers market every Sunday. We need a market. And not one of those like the one outside Argos on Kilburn High Road. I would start a local campaign but last time I tried anything like that the squirrels wrote obscenities on my placards.

I am full of cheese today, and shallots also. I smell a treat. Apparently. People can be so cruel, can’t they?

Sultan's Elephant : Part 1

As I walked from Westminster tube I did wonder how I was going to find the Elephant because the map and itinerary (I never realised elephants were so organised whilst travelling) were a bit vague. And then I turned into Horse Guards Road and there was the distant sound of an incredibly loud live band playing that specific brand of French pop music. I knew I was in the right place. And there were to crowds too, they were a bit of a give away.

I was brave and went on my own. I decided that I would go to the finale as I couldn’t go for long and wanted to make sure that I spent that time well. We are, at Froosh Towers, awaiting the transformation of bump to baby so we don’t like to stray too far from the nest for too long. It turned out to be a great decision.

Just as I arrived at the parade, which was full of people the Little Girl and the Elephant were making their way round the corner from the Mall. I managed to wriggle my way quite near the front as they came past.

It was awesome. It made me feel a bit tearful, actually. There were lots of small children on people’s shoulders (it was the must-have accessory) and I thought I wish I’d seen this when I was a kid and then I realised that it didn’t matter that I wasn’t a kid because it was working the same old magic. It’s nice sometimes to realise that life hasn’t got you trapped in its icy grip quite as tightly as you thought.

Its the Royal Court's fifieth anniversary this year and there are lots of events and galas celebrating fifty years of one of the great british theatres. The Sultan's Elephant goes to show that we, in this country, know nothing about theatre. Timely bit of Arts Council funding there.

Anyway, here are some photos.

And then Elephant squirted water out of its trunk over the crowd and I was so amazed that I forgot to duck like the rest of the crowd and got a bit wet.

See the tiny, tiny people on top of the elephant - that's how big the elephant was. The sultan is the guy in the red hat, I think.

Here's the Elephant, here's his steeple (trunk) look inside and here are the people. That's how it works! I get it. Oh, no actually I don't. Its still amazing.

Sultan's Elephant : Part 2

For some reason, my being a muppet I expect, blogger won't let me do this in one continuous post. So, here it the next exciting instalment of Froosh and the Elephant's city break:

She was the hugest Little Girl ever.

The Elephant and the Little (huge) Girl congregated in the parade ground near the rocket. I think the Elephant was a bit sad because it was nearly all over. As we all were. On the balcony, near the windows, there were two dancers, which goes to show how enormous the Elephant was. The music was great too. It was so loud that it was making the ground vibrate with the bass.

The tiny tiny men lowered the Little (huge) Girl in the rocket after they had put her helmet and goggles on. Safety first.

Clunk click every trip

And then the Elephant blew water into the rocket to fuel the Little (huge) Girl on her journey home. Then all this smoke and orange light filled the parade and when they lifted the lid off the rocket – she had gone. We all gasped because it was amazing. Where did she go? I don’t know. That’s the magic of theatre, people.

I crawled through the legs of people thronged ten, even twelve, deep to bring you these pictures of the elephant in repose. Because as every Roy Castle fan knows - dedication's what it takes.

Bye bye Elephant - come back soon. And bring friends, let's make a really huge party of it. You can stay in my garden, the squirrels said its okay.

The Sultan’s Elephant

Lots of people (when I say ‘lots of’ I mean ‘one or two') seem to find there way here to Froosh Towers by googling ‘sultan’s elephant’. So, in the interest of those thousands (when I say ‘thousands’ I mean ‘unfortunate') visitors, here are some more details:

Thursday 4th May
Prologue: a mysterious arrival (ooh, I wonder what that will be? An elephant I reckon. Or an otter in a costume perhaps)

Friday 5th May
The spectacle begins / Tour
2pm – 3pm, 5pm – 8pm

Saturday 6th May
Sightseeing / A sultan’s welcome
9.30am – 1pm, 3pm – 6pm

Sunday 7th May
Sunday in the city / Finale
11am – 1pm, 3pm – 6pm

The spectacle free theatre extravaganza begins proper on Friday, 5th May. It’ll be in the posh bits of the London where there’s no chance of the elephant getting tagged or finding itself up on a couple of bricks with its feet missing. There’ll be none of that at the Horse Guards Parade in St James’s Park, St James’s, Piccadilly, Haymarket and Trafalgar Square, you know.

You can send in your photos to yourlondon@bbc.co.uk and your mobile photos to 07921 648303. Because they do like that sort of thing at the BBC. They'll be wanting your podcasts as well, once they've mastered the technology. I wonder how many pictures of genitalia they get sent. Don’t send any pictures of anything to me, especially squirrels. I’ve just bought my own camera so will be providing my own photographs as soon as I have deciphered the manual.

Offical site here with maps at the beginning of May

So that I can be a useful source of information, I have signed up for the updates but have only received one updating me as to my updated status re receiving updates. No word on the whereabouts of the elephant.