With paulcampy.com up and running I’m not sure what to do with my myriad of blogging options set against my seemingly minimal blogging opportunities.
Shall I keep an rather infrequently updated London Lines (et al) or roll things into one single unthemed blog?
Answers on the back of a £50 note.
Did part of my civic duty yesterday helping to create a satisfying and decisive ‘No Overall Control’ Merton council.
Civic duty… that’s an interesting one. I note that, as with every election, some think tank or other comes up with the compulsory voting argument. Never in my lifetime can I remember a government containing so many people in favour of it though… but then we seem to be on a slippery slope as far as civil liberties are concerned.
I don’t doubt that near 100% turnout would squeeze out the factions that currently manage to do a better job of squeezing out their voters than the mainstream parties, the BNP for example. The idea of a compulsion to vote in a democracy seems to smack of the same core intellectual failure as positive discrimination. Both may be based on good intentions and yield good short term results but at their heart they’re oxymorons – trying to compensate for an underlying fault whether it be prejudice or apathy.
The other thing that struck me this year was the curious archaic polling station. Now before you’re tempted to throw up your hands in disgust at the suggestion of using the internet let me say that I probably, still, agree with you. The challenge of creating a secure system with foolproof authentication is not one our public sector could manage given its track record in large IT projects – CSA, NHS, Inland Revenue anyone? Besides it would probably be another excuse for compulsory ID cards with a smart card reader in every PC and don’t even get me started on that.
The standards and safeguards we’d expect for an internet based voting option are so high though we probably forget the much lower standards and safeguards we have for other options. Just think back to the postal ballot fraud of the last general election or that today I was only asked for my address, not my name and never challenged to prove my identity at the polling station; it wasn’t as though they exactly had a rush on either.
On my way back to more civilised civilisation I stopped off at London’s first line of defence against the future’s inevitable environmental onslaught.
Looking to a structure more famed for its fabric form than its content, and to stainless steel & glass combinations piercing the sky, the path to the apparently punctured defence was nothing less than a revelation.
Layers of hedges rose and fell in waves of harmony and syncopation, a premonition of potential overwhelming by the elements. To the right tower blocks with (finally) some magnificence and occasions about them. Simple whitewashed art deco elegance contrasting with more recent and slowly encroaching flat-pack efforts.
Closer to the edge now an inspired mix of wooden decking, sloping manicured grass and respectful open spaces. Surprisngly, and thankfully, only a few others had discovered this balance of yin & yang, undoubtedly adding to its zen-ness.
One of the wonders of the capital was now ahead, astride its apparently peaceful foe: modern architecture used in anger several times a year. I’d never noticed how much the grey snake that now burries so close by incorporates similar squished Sydney Opera House curves into its buildings.
Returning to my seemingly conscious carriage I was at peace, bar a slight hum from a precautionary electric fence and the buzz of bees bursting excitedly from the marshalled greenery.
Disembarking I note what a strange hotch potch of past and future this place is. The fortfied site built by people with ologies in the 1980s neighbours the end of the line for a once Great network from before the 1880s.
Nowadays a lone ticket machine serves the rather pathetic north circular tracked equivalent (and all things considered I’d rather be by the river at the other end).
The magnificent old ticket hall is now a museum: a beautifully preserved building with lovingly presented memorabilia – tickets, signs, crockery.
Hard to believe that anyone other than the oddest of odd explorer would actually venture here; to pass it you’d either be running to/from anonymous urine-soaked, grafitti-etched trains or sitting in that queue of cars. Impressively surreal.
Uninspired yuppie suicide blocks are now encroaching on the waterfront, visible through the rubble and barbed wire of unloved council estates: a tracksuit on every corner along with the occasional police cordon.
I’m a firm believer that in London the transport connections are key. Getting back on my ghost train I can’t help but feel that things will have noticeably and expensively changed in two year’s time. Being able to get a seat on a train that only takes 15 minutes to reach Europe’s newest financial capital and 25 minutes to reach its oldest?
It may be the end of the line but it’s not quite the end of my journey…
Strange how the road just comes to an end – from one circular to another with an apparently optimistic queue of cars.
Exploring that is for the way back though: I have a rather ancient shortcut. Lifts are of course out of order but it appears I’m alone: nothing but the drip drip and then distant shouts. These shouts are slowly given form from the feet upwards due to the inverse arc of the tunnel beneath the great river above. CCTV cameras seem irrelevant: this is not somewhere to be on a Saturday afternoon, let alone what it must be like on a Saturday night.
Coming back up for un-stale air I have indeed beaten the queuing cars but perfect timing for my return trip. This curious throwback, the only one left in London, is considered an extension to the ‘Streets‘ and managed as such even to the logo adorning the chimney.
In the bowels of this workforce the great unrefined diesel engines thunder away, painted white metal meeting polished wood. Not quite Hong Kong or New York but it does the job in a surprisingly balletic turn across the stage towards another patient queue.
Setting off in my spectral carriage we weaved in between warehouses, water and wastelands. This whole area is still in a state of shock by all the new attention after over 100 years of neglect. Strange how commerce here is now measured in square metres rather than imperial tonnage.
The sweet exception to the rule overshadows the penultimate stop. The factory is visible in granular detail while on the other side a deathly silent entrance to the city. It was a Saturday though so I suppose if the City is asleep so the entrance will be too.
The terminus is next but it won’t be so for long: construction ahead will soon turn a dotted blue line into a solid one, burrowing beneath a somewhat wider blue line. For now though I’m going to have to choose between a couple of other means to reach that destined destination…
After 100 hours of work + commutes this week I decided I was long overdue for an explore.
When I first arrived in London I spent many weekend hours exploring the exteded capital guided by size zones of be-tracked public transport and a trusty A-Z. Since successfully reaching every termus and being rattled by every metre of rail that’s pretty much stopped.
A couple of months ago though a new spur opened up and so I took my opportunity.
So fascinatingly confused is this part of London that it felt like one of those Sunday newspaper quizzes… so here goes, minus most of the literary and historical references, folks. to be continued…
Perhaps I should start carrying an umbrella. Not because of rain: we haven’t had much of that stuff in the South East over the last few months leading to hosepipe bans all over the place. No, because my tour guiding has obviously matured to the point where I can cope with multiple guests following me around and hanging off my every word.
I introduced my two German friends to the comforts of chez moi (with one exception) before we progressed to lunch in the village past the electroretailmagnets of assorted shoe shops.
Then onto a river cruise down to Greenwich: any excuse to get on the water, the second time in as many weeks. I can’t quite describe the almost unintelligable commentary: a manic cockney accent with a distinctly cynical lilt that suggested he might have been doing the job for too many years.
My friends were easier to understand: if only my German was as good as their English. Never thought I’d be discussing the finer points of modern architecture or how views on European/domestic identity varies between class boundaries in Germany and the UK.
It seems I’m not the only one taking a blogging break at the moment. With the notable exception of the Japanese contingent the rest of my blog bookmarks seem to be strangely dormant.
As for me, well, hopefully normal service will be resumed as soon as I get out of this hole. Or ‘Hastings’ as it’s also known.
