The Wallace

The first appointment after the holiday was a visit to the cheese shop in Shorts Gardens to top up on Poacher (reference 1). On the day chosen it was cool and overcast first thing, so a good day to be out in the noon day sun (along with mad dogs and Englishmen).

Another good thing in that my shiny new, new format, card from HSBC worked in the machine at Epsom Railway Station. Which rather made up for no trolleys to be seen in town. But I did notice that Costa Coffee at the station has some kind of a tie in with M&S as it was selling M&S food, presumably sandwiches and suchlike. 

Three train spotters at the town end of the platform at Clapham Junction, all male, one young. While past the town end there was that rare item, a goods train, seemingly carrying ballast for the railway, so not a real customer from the real world at all.

Got myself to Shorts Gardens and bought the usual kilo of cheese. Plus, on this occasion, some oatmeal biscuits, something I did not recall having tried. They turned out to be rather good, if a little dry, perhaps better suited to soft cheese rather than the hard cheese I usually take. BH thought they were quite tricky to cook, to get the texture right.

It was by now quite warm so it took a little while to make my mind up to head off to the Wallace Collection, which I had not visited for some time, perhaps as long as the five years since posting reference 2. Passed a posh car with what I took to be a new-to-me diplomatic number plates, that is to say in the format 'AAA N AAA', where 'A' is letter and 'N' is number. All is explained at reference 3.

Lots of good stuff in the collection, only slightly marred by lots of arty conversations. But the first thing that really struck me was the curiously three dimensional effect of the Greek key decorative band on the wooden floor, perhaps enhanced by the slightly varying shades of the constituent parts of each key. The red chair was heritage, and therefore not for customers, but there was a reasonable supply of chairs and benches that were, although, on the whole, not facing anything I particularly wanted to look at.

Not altogether sure why we have a serious looking sword bottom left, but it may serve to remind us that Catherine, on her way to being a saint, shattered the wheel on which she was to be martyred with a touch and had to be decapitated instead.

Not altogether clear why the famous laughing cavalier painting was so called. A fine portrait, but a bit of a stretch to call it laughing. Maybe the dandies of the United Provinces did not go in for proper laughing, that being regarded as undignified, common, the sort of thing that Jan Steen's peasants might do.

Quite a lot of people of colour walking the galleries, which prompted the thought that there were very few people of colour on the walls. But I did find one: 'A young archer' by Goveart Flinck, of the first half of seventeenth century. Seemingly quite a difficult picture to reproduce on the screen, with the one above being taken from the Wallace Collection web site.

The colour in my own snap seems closer to what I remember, but the snap as a whole is rather distorted. Maybe the picture has been cleaned since they took the website photograph.

Then somewhere nearer the exit I came across a couple of portrait busts, one of which is snapped above. I failed to find their tickets.

Some areas were roped off, there were some special exhibitions down below and I generally got the impression of a place which was struggling to keep its head above water. A bit like the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, which no longer seems to get the generous, and probably rather careless, funding from endowments which I remember from my childhood. Before things like value for money and performance indicators were invented and the University could run to a dozen or more professors of divinity without batting an eyelid.

A consolation prize in lieu of the still missing No.36.

Pulled my last Bullingdon of the day and headed off down Park Lane. Passing a couple of very slightly plump, but still pretty, young ladies at Marble Arch, both sporting an impressive amount of superstructure. To the point where one wondered whether a passing policeman would invite them to cover up a bit.

Passed by a very noisy Ferrari with a personalised number plate. '4YOU' or something like that. Presumably a young man with money who asked the garage to turn the noise up to make sure people noticed and gave him a bit of respect.

Got around Hyde Park Corner without incident.

The base of the tall and rather ugly Portland House, the 40th floor of which was my place of work for a few months, back in the first decade of the new century. The scene was mainly open plan, but as a middle manager, I rated one of the glass hutches, maybe 3m by 1.5m. No desk or table, rather a sort of worktop built into a wall.

Picked up some cherries from a stall outside Victoria Station, a kilo for a fiver. They looked a little tired, but they tasted fine. BH said that something similar from Sainsbury's would have been £11. Which was odd: such stalls are usually quite dear. Perhaps he needed to shift them.

Presumably nothing to do with the cheese people with approximately the same address, an address from which we used, fifty years ago now, to buy rather good brown rice sold from sacks. When the place still looked like the warehouse I imagine it once was. I also have fond memories of using the Wetherspoons above right, in the days when I worked out of Allington Street, now, I think, lost under a spot of redevelopment.

A serviceable rather than good ham and cheese baguette from the 'Délice de France' outlet, off snap to the right. The bread seemed very flat, the sort of hot country bread I remember from Spanish (Tenerife) and Italian (Florence) grocers. I remember these baguettes being quite a lot better when Délice first opened in Waterloo Station, probably getting on for thirty years ago now.

Took a glass of wine in the Wetherspoons at Clapham Junction, paying not that much more than it would have cost me from Majestic. Certainly a great deal less than the markup of three that you expect on wine from public houses and restaurants. With a fine view, diagonally across the junction to the rather grand premises of Francis & Sons, date 1889. Across the road from the once even grander Arding & Hobbs.

A little poking, with Google rather than Bing, turns up the snap above, from reference 5. The Clapham Junction branch of 'a chain of four substantial stores offering groceries, provisions, confectionery, wines and spirits, stationery, books and more'. Not the sort of product mix you get now. Presently being converted into bijou apartments by the people at reference 6.

Planned to take another glass at the Half Way House, but that was closed for refurbishment, at least the second since I have known the place, perhaps twenty years. All the costs being recovered from us, the punters. I remember when it used to be an old-style, sleepy Young's boozer. Brown wood and red leatherette. With just a few old boozers.

On my way to the Wandle on the other side of the railway bridge, I was stopped by some people who said that they were from Inside Success, a knife crime charity into rehabilitating knifers. All black. Oddly enough, I would have put a note in a bucket, but I declined the electrical version which was on offer instead. Pleasant young lady happy enough to be photographed, but sadly the light was too bright for my telephone. While the young man backing her up was polite, but slightly scary. My telephone subsequently suggested that they were thieves, thieves who had been working a number of south London stations.

The Wandle was a comfortable enough place. A family of six near me, including two children, were tucking into their meal, which in the case of the children included their laptops (or whatever) propped in front of them. I can see how one might get into such habits, but it scarcely goes to promote the art of conversation.

Included in the offering there were giant toasted BLTs, about the size of one of those burgers held together with a pole. I dare say it would eat well enough, but it scarcely goes to promote civilised table manners. I also declined the Scotch egg and the sausage roll, visible right under plastic in the snap above. Partly because they were a bit big, partly because I was not convinced about food hygiene.

Another angle was the chicken wing eating competition, with the last winner clocking up 70 of the things at 50p a pop. Perhaps the winner didn't have to pay, only provided that he did not throw up.

Of greater interest was a young girl, perhaps four years old, who had just discovered shadows, particularly those of herself and of her friends and relations. Which must be quite a tricky thing for the young brain to sort out.

One of the once well known chain of jewellery shops sent to the bottom by a crack by their CEO at some business hug-in about how he made a crust by selling earrings for less than a prawn sandwich would cost you at M&S.

Back on the platform, I managed four single aeroplanes but was a long way off a double. Not helped by not remembering where the right place to stand was. Nor by the trees and shrubs having put on a bit of growth since I was playing aeroplane game on a regular basis.

While back at Court Recreation Ground, I was amused by the spectacle of what appeared to be an elderly druggie trying to have a love-in with a young dealer on his bicycle. The trials and tribulations in the life of a drug dealer.

References

Reference 1: https://www.nealsyarddairy.co.uk/.

Reference 2: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2017/05/viols.html.

Reference 3: https://www.ukregplates.co.uk/blog/diplomatic-number-plates-explained. The source of the snap above.

Reference 4: https://delicedefrance.co.uk/.

Reference 5: https://www.brixtonbuzz.com/.

Reference 6: https://www.guyfarrow.work/francis-house.