Postcards from another time

I bought some postcards recently from a charity shop on Marylebone High Street. They are dated from 1966 to 1977 and three of the four are to different addresses in Worthing. I wonder how they found their way to central London in the 21^st century?

The oldest postcard shows the orange Space Needle in Seattle, where Mary Collier went to visit family (Post date: Sep 17 1966). She tells Mrs M Pitt of Harrow that “Nicholas is a very attractive little boy and Susan chatters non-stop.”

Mr Adamson writes to (his?) Dr Grieg from San Francisco, (Post date: Oct - 1977, day no longer eligible) “very interesting but very tiring. One is constantly bombarded with noise and flashing lights, freeways and highways,” and goes on to say, “I could be, very shortly, a near candidate for a Psychiatrist.” It does sound very different from Worthing, 1977, Mr Adamson. It also sounds as if you’re using the postcard, traditionally used to send written holiday snapshots, to get a referral to a Psychiatrist.

Amy, writing to Miss L Lewis of 16 Shelley Road, Worthing, about her trip to Southsea (Post date: Aug 24 1972) does not sound at all happy with her holiday. Apart from "proper weather" she claims they, “don’t care for what we saw."  O dear. “Didn’t see anything of the town centre but the –(word unreadable, although I wanted to read it as "other tourists") are very scruffy.” Although surely a plus, “saw Chichester Cathedral as we approached the train.”

The final postcard shows a girl on her own looking across a lake. It gives a hint of loneliness, but the card (post date: July 10 1969) from Weymouth is the most positive. “Had a lovely holiday and enjoy Weymouth… have enjoyed a paddle in the sea yesterday, it was good.” It is signed “kind wishes from us both” and leaves off with “no shopping needed”.

So if you’re thinking of going on holiday in the past, between 1966 – 1978, it sounds like Weymouth, July 1969 is your best bet. And go with company. I never know what to write when I send postcards so next time I go on holiday I may steal lines from these old postcards. 

Postcard from Ramsgate

Friday night, we take the fast train from St Pancras and an hour and a half later we’re on the promenade amongst the faded seaside glamour of Ramsgate. Georgian houses facing the sea, a grand Victorian lift that may or may not take you to the beach, a chip shop that urges you to use the bins provided. Not bins provided by the chip shop but the ones on the opposite side of the road, supplied by the council.

We’re here to see Jeffrey Lewis at Ramsgate Music Hall, a fabulous little venue that at full capacity holds 120 people. Upstairs is a cosy bar with a glass display of old tape recorders, and big sofas from which you can also view the gig on a screen if you so wish. We watch downstairs; Jeffrey Lewis is stunning this evening, the sound amazing and the cider upstairs a treat.

Despite the rundown feel of the place - the fight that happens in broad daylight up a side street in town, and the problem that we don’t have any of the tattoos required to fit in with the general ambience, everyone we speak to is friendly to us. We must be radiating that holiday vibe. The guy who runs the venue is surprised at how far we’ve come and chats to us about the venue and the bands. I persuade him to try and book the Vaselines. The next day, at the Ice Cream parlour, the guy serving us decides we should get flakes for free because “we deserve it”, having deservedly ordered ice cream and tried for free the fabulous blood orange sorbet.

Later we’re wandering past a junk shop under the arches by the harbour when we spy a blue folding bike outside, with a £45 price tag. We offer to buy it immediately but the guy doesn’t take cards. He tells me where the cashpoint is and tells me to travel there on the bicycle I’m yet to buy. We’re not in London anymore.

On the train we take up four seats, two for us and two for the new bike. The ticket inspector turns up and has no issue with our use of seats. Infact, I think he positively likes it. Later we see him at St Pancras station getting some tea before he heads back, and he waves and says hello. Then he invites us to the Broadstairs Charles Dickens festival in August.

See you soon Ramsgate.  

Water flowing underground

I’ve found a perfect spot in the house to relax; a duvet has been thrown in one corner of the spare room, below the window, and it’s here I sat the other afternoon, with the sun coming through the window warming my head. I dug out a batch of old letters, the bulk of which were sent between 1992 and 1995; the golden age of letter writing. O letter writing. a forgotten but perfect art. These days letters come in the form of officially typed addresses, with reference numbers, in plastic windowed envelopes. The thud on the mat is never met with anticipation, just a resigned feeling of which wolf has come through the door this time?

I’ve hardly looked at these old letters for at least ten years and I’d forgotten I’d been sent some of them. There they were, individual handwriting, different personalities who immediately became familiar after a couple of sentences. All these brilliant people I used to know. I was taken back to a world of cheap musty rooms I could almost smell again. The world of exchanging mix tapes, charity shop clothes, nights sitting around three bar fires drinking Bulgarian red wine,  drinking into the next day because it didn’t really matter if you got up or not, days wandering, talk of festivals, dreams and schemes shouted enthusiastically into the night. This forgotten world. Where did everybody go? Where did the boy they wrote to go?

An anecdote from 1992. One bored evening Barney reveals he has bought a bag of dresses from a jumble sale for 50 pence, protesting he only bought them because they were so cheap. Next someone has the bright idea of us wearing the dresses and knocking on people’s doors in the house with a camera to capture their reactions. The reactions fall into two camps.  One side say, with a resigned tone: “Oh it’s you lot.” The other side say: “Have you got any more dresses, Barney?” Before long there are eight of us taking to the streets, strumming guitars and chanting our way around. Not the best move on the streets of Toxteth. We get to the end of Lodge Lane before changing our mind and retreating home. We sit around the landing, before Marcus comes back home from his shift at the pub. He takes one look at us and says, “ you lot must be really bored,” before disappearing quickly into his room.

I’ll leave you with a few words, written to me in January 1995 from my friend Miss Nutt (I’m sure she won’t mind): “I know I said I’d write over a week ago but my brain has been in a pickle jar since then and that Brucey boy went an’ lost the lid”. 

Yes folks this was the 90s.

Postcard from a Montmartre Bus Stop

Hello. Here I am in 2013 leaning against a bus stop post in Montmartre, outside a grand building with green shutters, just up the road from the Sacre Coeur. We went to the Sacre Coeur on the day we arrived, sheltering from the rain. The nuns were singing and we lit a candle for Sonny. Up the road the other way, although we don't know this yet as we're still at the bus stop, is a beautiful street with food shops all huddled together; the butchers, the greengrocers, the cheese shop with the man outside promoting truffle cheese.

Tracy says she'll take a photo so I lean against the bus stop and decide to write something down but I don't know what. As I stand here, the bus arrives full of passengers and I think, I hope he isn't stopping for me, what with me just being here for a picture, which can't be taken right now because there's a bus in the way and should I get on and go one stop to just be polite? At this time I haven't written anything apart from 'ah, Paris' and 'O Montmartre', so it isn't going that well, but the bus stops, the doors open and a woman and her little girl, dressed in a brown cord coat, step off onto the cobbled street and as they do so the girl waves at the bus driver. And right at this moment everything feels right with the world. Then she and her Mum make their way down the hill, across the crossing and out of sight. And the bus glides around the corner and the street is quiet again.

And so that's what I write down.

The postman always knocks at ten past seven

Buying music is becoming harder to do, the music shops are disappearing. It's about a two hour round trip to my favourite record shop and it may also be my nearest. I like downloads but not as the only option. If I download something I feel I missed out on an integral part of the process. It's like where is it, why can't I touch it? Increasingly I find myself ordering records and I do like the fact you usually get a download version or a CD version with it as well. The last one I ordered was the BMX Bandits in Space LP. Take a listen. 

The thing is when the postman delivers LPs he turns up at 7.10 am, always the exact same time. I had to put a sign on the door for him to knock loudly because he was a bit timid. Not any more. He nearly knocked the door down this time. It seems to only be records he delivers at ten past seven though. One evening I came home from work to find a huge box outside our house taking up most of the pavement. It was a plant we'd received as a gift. The postman had put a card through our door at mid-day to tell us he'd left the parcel in the porch. We don't have a porch. 

I forgot the joy of vinyl for a long time. Too many cheap record players, too many records played late on drunken nights with people knocking into the stereo. I took records back all the time. On its release I bought Pulp's 'His & Hers' on record but it jumped. I took it back to Penny Lane Music in Liverpool where I'd bought it, and told the guy. He asked which track and then put that track on his record player. It played perfectly. I sheepishly asked to change it for the tape. 

When I was fifteen I loved going to record shops in Brighton and thankfully a lot of those same record shops are still running. In some of them you still get served by the same person. In Portsmouth they have a pie and vinyl shop which sounds amazing. And they have Hovercrafts. Must get there soon. 

The clocks go back

Hello, I thought I should get back in touch, it's been a long while. I'm enjoying the extra hour we get from the clocks going back at this time of year. You can't beat lying in bed till half past nine, then putting the clock back to find you're getting up at a nice respectable time for a Sunday. The church bells on the hill were ringing when I got up, it's impossible to get up before them. If you succeed you may as well become a bell ringer. 

I decided I wanted a doing kind of day and went for a run this morning. I bought this new PE kit in July and frankly it's not been out the drawer much since. It was cold out and I thought I'd be the only one out. On the meadow the dog walkers were out and about as usual. I run past a guy putting a bag of footballs in his car boot. Continuing to the park, it's pretty busy with dog walkers here too.

It's been a weekend of good food, I made rye bread Friday night with carrot and coriander soup and then waited for Tracy to come through the door after a works party. I could have gone out too but these cold nights are making me want to head for home. Today we make bruschetta and victoria sponge. I've also found the juicer my Mum bought me one Christmas and have been serving up fruit and veg smoothies. At first I tried to make one in the food blender, feeding through carrot and rhubarb. It didn't produce one drop of juice though, just very finely chopped veg. 

Work is looming, we need more time off work, maybe I could put the clocks back another hour, or a day. 

Japan

Japan is a beautiful and friendly country, a truly amazing experience that is very difficult to put into words.