Category: Balham

Bubbling over

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It is thought to be unlucky having decorations still up after Twelfth Night. 

But, with all the paperchains; miniature mangers and Christmas tree fairies back in the loft/garage/recycling bin, all potential curses can vanish and normal service can be restored; although possibly not mealtimes.

As a kid growing up in the “Gateway to the South” I questioned if it was deemed to be tempting fate by still serving some form of cold meat, so frequently, up to and well after January 5th – and also, whether my mother had been sponsored by the creators of bubble & squeak?

I assumed she had been given Mrs Beeton’s “A million and one things to do with cold meat” for Christmas, as this seemed to be a daily serving (in various guises) at mealtimes before I returned to school.  I often wondered if my school books smelled of bubble & squeak due to its constant preparation throughout my holidays?

I had this irrational fear, usually during double chemistry, that the teacher might ask accusingly if anyone had brought sprouts or cabbage into the school?  While I knew bringing Player’s Number 6 in wasn’t permitted, had a sudden rule been introduced where no pupil could bring in anything which had been fried and several weeks old?

So, when someone says “bubble & squeak is not just for Christmas”  – they’re not lying.

Dear Diary…

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It’s that time of year when you think about New Year’s resolutions.

It’s not unlike Lent, except the resolutions rarely last for 40-days (or nights).

Is this the year I give up chocolate (and make Bournville village a ghost town) and try and get that bikini body ready for the summer of 2024? 

Should I start adding semolina to my diet (having lived without it since an unfortunate episode during a lunch in my Balham primary school in the early ‘60s; this is unlikely – plus, I promised my then probation officer the incident would never happen again).

I’ve wondered about writing a diary?  The last time I wrote one was in the summer of ’76 and wrote the word “hot” for so many weeks I became bored.  I assume it was never continually hot for Samuel Pepys?

Last year, in the UK, the most popular New Year’s resolution was to exercise more. Should I get my Bullworker down from the loft?  Should I ask Charles Atlas for his promised set of muscles – and a duster for the Bullworker?

Or, I could combine several of the above and write in my new 2024 diary: “Have applied to Opportunity Knocks.”  I mean that most insincerely.

Mini bannister

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Until my auntie Vera took me on a trolley bus from Wimbledon to Belmont (which seemed so far away from Balham, I could have been on Neptune), my second favourite mode of transport was bannisters.  (My first was the train, as I enjoyed climbing into the rope luggage rack.  I think I had been a monkey in a previous life).

In my Balham flats the cleaning ladies had done such a fine job with their tins of Pledge on the bannisters that, going down them, was like the bobsleigh at the winter Olympics.

Perhaps it’s a boy thing, but going down the flight of stairs from my fourth-floor flat, I’d slide down the set of bannisters rather than testing my multiplication skills by taking eight or nine steps at a time or take the lift.  

Oddly, I never did this on the stairs at Balham Tube station.  I think the metal studs fixed regularly on my potential downward “course” were off-putting.  “Vasectomy” was one of the first Latin words I learned.

A consequence of this constant sliding meant one side of my trousers became quite worn.  When questioned by my mother about this one-sided wear and tear, I said that one of my thighs was larger than the other and therefore rubbed.  Explaining why I’d drawn Olympic rings on her best tea tray was less convincing.  You win some, you luge some 😊

Antlers & Decking

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It’s that time of year when you open your Christmas cards with apprehension.

Will they contain exploding glitter? Will it open to Away in a manger being played on a Stylophone (too soon)? Or will it contain a round-robin letter?  Personally, I’d prefer to have shards of glitter imbedded into my face rather than receive a letter from a frightful family I’d met on holiday in 1968.

Cards are more imaginative these days.  The actual card is certainly less flimsy. 

In the early ‘60s, deposited through my Balham flat letterbox, would be an envelope.  Inside was a card featuring a robin, covered in snow, chewing a sprig of holly; the card also felt like it could disintegrate at any moment.

I’ve friends in Germany and have received cards which, when opened, played oompah music to the tune of Jingle Bells. 

I felt like I was in a Bavarian beer house, especially as there was scratch ‘n’ sniff Glühwein on the envelope.

I’m lucky that I wear glasses as some cards open out with such force, it could have my eye out – and no one wants to be in A&E at Christmas asking for a pretend antler to be removed from both pupils.

And now I have to write to all my “friends” to tell them about how Melissa and Persephone are now doing Grade 4 castanets and the pet Labradoodle is nearly fluent in Esperanto. 

99 scary balloons

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My paternal grandmother owned several Staffordshire figurines.

When I was quite young, the journey from Balham to Maida Vale would terrify me as I found the ornaments scary.

One was an old crone (probably about my age now) who had several balloons.  I envisaged that, aside from selling balloons, she would wait besides the Guillotine, cackling, smoking a small clay pipe and swearing in French.

There were also plates on the walls too.  This confused me – did my north London relatives stand up and eat – and eat sideways?

The plates mostly depicted hunting scenes – I assume my nan went out, after I’d left, to look for stags running wild up and down Baker Street?

None of my south London relatives had ornaments or plates defying gravity.  We had no hunting on Wandsworth Common so, if we had have had plates, they’d have shown a Black Maria; Princess Anne opening the new Balham Sainsbury’s or local lad, Mike Sarne, inviting EastEnders stars outside.

If I didn’t have a pathological fear of birds, I’d have loved three ducks hovering over my fireplace – readying themselves to dump something on balloon lady below.  Now, that would have made her swear!

Chalky Purple

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Is chalk used in schools anymore?

When I went to my south London schools, it was always very evident.

I used it on my first day – as a drawing implement where I depicted my mum looking like a giant potato with no arms – and on one of my last days, when I had a piece imbedded into my skull, thanks to a particularly irate music teacher. 

Having had a mis-spent youth, my O-level results were reflected by the amount of chalk inside my waistcoat and behind my ears. 

During my O-level year there was so much chalk on my hands, anyone would have thought I’d taken up weightlifting. 

Chalk was much in use in my school playground.  You knew who was best at maths as the hopscotch grids went in the correct numerical order.

One of our class’s dads was a toy salesman; with a stolen set of Crayola multi-coloured chalk, we had yellow penalty areas, turquoise lines outlining the Double Dutch rope-swinging area and purple stumps.

We were the ‘60s equivalent of Kerry Packer!

Let them eat doughnuts

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Every morning, on my walk to my Tooting secondary school, I’d pass a baker’s.  The smell coming from the shop was so awful it deterred me becoming a baker.  I assume it must have been the yeast?  Probably why I never enjoyed our family holidays on the hop farm.

In the early ‘60s, a shop, which you could have found on the Champs-Elysées,was brought to Balham High Road in the shape of La Patisserie.   The pastries and bread were lovely and you’d almost expect Jean-Paul Sartre to be sitting outside; although, this could have been dangerous should a 155 bus suddenly veer off the road. 

I spent a lot of time in there as my mum was friends with the owners.  Lots of French Fancies, very few Gallic philosophers.

Being a baker is one of those occupations where you have to get up early.  I couldn’t have coped with that as a youngster.  However, these days, in increasing age, I wake up stupidly early.  So early, I’m thinking about getting “Debbie does doughnuts” out of the library and starting my own bakery.

I’d certainly continue with the French theme: I’d call the shop Les beignets, c’est nous; wear a beret; a Thierry Henry shirt and mock people when they try and speak French.