Shipping

Surrounded by Monet's pictures of water lilies, experiencing a frogseye view of his garden at Giverny, I was at a Royal Academy exhibition, courtesy of an invention of fifty years ago: containerisation.

The quirky names of roads abutting Tower Hamlets council offices conjure the area's past: Nutmeg Lane, Rosemary Drive, Saffron Avenue.  All of London's exotic culinary needs, as well as wool, rubber, timber - in total a third of the UK's imports - once passed through the East End docks.  Appropriately, the Docklands museum is housed in a sugar warehouse; treading the very boards where sugar was stored, harvested by the slaves whose human traffic made London, Bristol and Liverpool wealthy, is always unsettling.

The packaging of imports reflected their variety: bales of jute, crates of tea, casks of chutney, boxes of fruit.  As anyone who has filled a supermarket carrier knows, different shapes and sizes are awkward to pack.  Space is wasted, contents spill.  How much more efficient if everything were the same, or, failing that, could be cloaked so as to appear the same.  Thus containerisation was born.  Anything, from computers to cars, could be placed inside identical metal boxes, which can be moved between ship and lorry with ease.  They could be stacked without detriment to their contents so economies of scale spawned ever larger vessels.  Hence new facilities were needed where land was cheap and specialist cranes could replace labouring stevedores.  Container terminals were constructed at Tilbury in the 1960s; within twenty years all of London's docks closed. For a decade, dereliction and unemployment were the legacy.  Famously, taxi drivers declined fares to the least savoury destinations.

Each evening I stroll around the Isle of Dogs.  The noisy, dirty, dangerous places where men queued each morning in the hope of a day's work are now peaceful and sanitised. The real estate is valued for its tranquillity; water views command a premium.  Many docks are populated with house boats, mainly converted Dutch barges, homes to those priced out of conventional accommodation.  Some are nature reserves, one a salt marsh, another a bird sanctuary hosting kingfishers, herons and dragonflies.  A sailing club in Millwall dock is the last tenuous maritime link.  One evening, a fellow novice remarked:

'I was here in the merchant navy.  We docked over there.  All along the quayside ships were unloading. It was cacophony.'

He was pointing towards a quiet waterside path planted with ornamental saplings and illuminated by decorative lamps.  Benches surrounded a tall, red-painted metal structure, more sculpture than machinery.  The surviving remnants of the industrial past are carefully curated: fossilised cranes, silent pumping stations, smokeless chimneys, objects which are venerated for the historical authenticity they bestow.

Behind, an apartment building was under construction.  It would be inhabited by asset managers or equity traders from the watchtowers of Canary Wharf.  The apartments would be sold through an estate agent, very likely the one which had, in the hope of being commissioned to market my Docklands flat, invited me to a private view at the Royal Academy.

© David Thompson 2016

Conference

Modern trains are too quiet. I don't mourn the clicketty-clack which characterised railways before the era of welded rails, but ecclesiastical silence has the disadvantage of making other passengers' conversation too intrusive.  (When Birmingham's Symphony Hall was inaugurated, the acoustics were widely acclaimed and it was only when audiences arrived that the drawback to perfect musical rendition was revealed: not only could every note played on the platform be distinguished so too could the minutest noise made anywhere else in the hall.)  At Reading, an elderly woman inserted herself into a seat at the next table and the other occupant, bearing a remarkable resemblance to Michael Portillo, immediately engaged her in conversation at a pitch just loud enough to be unignorable.  When a young man boarded the train and sat next to them I hoped that would inhibit the conversation. Unfortunately he joined in, regaling them with his excitement over starting a university course in Plymouth.  Indicating his luggage, to the consternation of his companions, he explained that he'd brought a sleeping bag as he anticipated being too drunk to find his room that evening.

At Newton Abbott station the local community transport had been detailed to meet delegates arriving from London. There was a short wait so I took a turn around a formal park enclosed by ample Victorian villas in seaside pastels.  Well-kept uniformly green grass spoke of generous feeding and military weed control; clearly the concept of managed meadows had not reached Newton Abbott despite its proximity to Totnes. The only other arrival to take advantage of the minibus was a friendly chap called Rob to whom I chatted and gave the benefit of my views on transition matters.

Seale-Haynes had been an agricultural college and the heritage was evident: bountiful kitchen gardens promised an excellent dinner. The main building, shrouded in crimson Virginia creeper and flying a tattered Union flag looked rather more patrician than its hundred years and reminded me of my school. The fabric of the building was genteelly dilapidated but inside it had the non-nonsense efficiency which must have characterised country houses requisitioned during the war.  The tall corridors made me shiver and I imagined severe schoolmasters, gowns billowing, bearing down on me.

The grounds were on a steep hillside and the worthy flavour imbuing the different activities was reminiscent of the Centre for Alternative Technology, now sadly in creditors' administration.  Near the raised beds, a woman informed me brightly that she'd found a fire pit and old oven; I thought of my days at Forest School Camp.  Perched on a grass margin, there was a colony of tents, next to a sign saying assembly point B which presumably related to one of the nearby buildings. Recent technology advances mean that tents are virtually self-erecting but these plainly belonged to a simpler era.  A couple was gallantly struggling with an enormous frame tent which I suspected hadn't left the loft in decades but now served to unequivocally establish their eco-credibility.

The reception procedure was a trifle ramshackle.
'Registration is at 6,' I was told, 'but you can use your room in the meantime.' They had decided to adopt a "no keys" policy for this event, she explained. How nice, I thought, obviously transitioners can be trusted not to abuse the sharing economy.  Then she added, 'So you should keep your valuables with you at all times.'  She waved in the general direction of a large two storey building and suggested I select a room, which seemed a startlingly relaxed approach to hotel management.  Upstairs there were several sparsely furnished, unnumbered bedrooms but judging by the scattering of clothes over beds and floors some were already taken.  I selected the larger of the two double rooms. The walls were painted a lurid orange: no money had been wasted on interior designers. There were no curtains at the windows but the views across a tufty lawn and the Devon countryside with the sea visible between two hills more than compensated.  There were two wardrobes; neither had coat hangers but after a moment's indignation I was comforted by the thought that this was presumably not the kind of event where sartorial elegance was at a premium.  No ironing required!  The shared bathroom, I noticed with relief, bucked the "no locks" rule but lacked either soap or shampoo.

I'd arrived early and since there was nothing to do but make a badge - which I did with bad grace, simply writing my name on a card and eschewing the ribbons which others were gaily attaching - I decided to take a stroll around the campus. I'd printed the colourful map which accompanied the registration email and as I tried to orient myself, I thought of the bumptious lad in the train and how he might be having much the same experience finding his way around unfamiliar surroundings with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.  More likely, he'd already fulfilled his primary ambition of getting ratted.

© David Thompson 2016

Bridges

At Crewe, the departure board indicated platform 8 but I couldn't see any platforms between 5 and 10. This reminded me of a New York hotel where one bank of elevators served floors one to seven and another fourteen to forty. When I asked the concierge about the missing numbers, he looked around stealthily.
'I'm not supposed to tell you,' he confided, 'but they're missing.'
I had visions of a gap in the building, the upper storeys mysteriously held in place by skyhooks.  'What do you mean,' I asked.
'The numbering goes straight from seven to fourteen to make the hotel seem higher,' he explained sheepishly.

A similar explanation for platform eight seemed unlikely but when I found it, the train appeared to be destined for Manchester, not Cardiff.  A porter explained that it had been going to Manchester but broke down so they brought it back to Crewe and it was now the Cardiff service.  This didn't sound very reassuring but several other passengers had more faith in the vagaries of the train network and were already aboard so I joined them.  Nothing happened at the appointed time for departure and we were informed that there was no crew, which, it being Crewe, I found mildly amusing. Gerry was there to meet me, forty minutes late, at Craven Arms, predictably fulminating at my choice of route, his implacable hatred of Virgin trains necessitating the Newport option, although as he always drives it's only a theoretical choice in his case anyway.                  

The overnight stop on our two day walk was at Bridges.  Accommodation was in a converted barn, two interconnected rooms one with twin beds, the other with bunks, with a bathroom serving both. The only decoration was a dark mural covering an entire wall of the twin room depicting demons. I elected for the bunks, regarding a modicum of privacy as recompense for a less comfortable bed; in the event, it was necessary to cover the mattress with a spare duvet to prevent laceration by the feral springs.

Dinner was acceptable pub food, an open fire and an unexpected visit from Gerry's acquaintance Val. When she'd gone, Bob and Gerry speculated about her new boyfriend, a subject of endless fascination despite limited content since neither knew who he was.  I'd brought my head torch; I rarely have the opportunity to use it and wasn't going to miss this one.  I sauntered up and down the deserted road a few times and wandered over to the stream whose crossing points give the hamlet its name. Sheltered by a stand of trees, I switched off the torch. For a few moments, the darkness seemed absolute, an experience which fascinates and terrifies the city dweller in equal measure.  After a few moments, stars materialised followed by the indistinct outlines of bushes. There were no cars.

Back in the barn, Gerry and Bob were getting ready for bed.  Bob went back to the bar and returned with a deep basket with a zipped cover containing our breakfast.
'I expect you'd call it a hamper,' Bob said to Gerry, gnomically.
'Why've you brought it in here,' Gerry demanded. Bob said he thought it would be cooler than in the overheated bar.
'We're supposed to have our breakfast in there,' we hooted, 'take it back!'
After a few minutes, there was a knock on the door. It was the barman returning the basket.
'I've brought your breakfast,' he said, 'you forgot to take it.'
Bob produced a pair of pink sneakers from his backpack.
'They're my wife's, our feet are the same size,'he said. There was a note of pride in his voice; dating apps take note, I thought.  Gerry poked fun at Bob's pyjamas and Bob poked fun at my electric toothbrush.  Bob and I were too sorry for Gerry to make fun of him.

It wasn't a restful night. The extra duvet overheated me and I was fearful of banging my head against the upper bunk if I sat up. In the morning, Bob claimed to have been disconcerted by the demons, although I thought Gerry's snoring more likely to be the problem.

© David Thompson 2016

Wonderland

Punctuating the ecclesiastical gloom, each occupant is cocooned in a puddle of light dripping from overhead lamps.  In silence, their heads are bowed to the documents in front of them.  Periodically they refill their coffees or green teas, even though no tithes are levied here.  

By the windows there are livelier groups and an unobtrusive susurration coats the air.  A man holding a small child on a table like a puppet leans forward to talk with two women.  A group of suits has commandeered a space and conducts urgent discussions.  Forthcoming events are being planned by a T-shirted huddle. ‘We’ll have Hamlet by then,’ I hear one say.

What happens on the stages of the National Theatre - tributes to august playwrights, experimental offerings - cannot compare with the incidental dramas enacted in its foyer.

The advent of mobile technology combined with the vacuum created by the closure of libraries, pubs and church halls creates an opportunity for the remaining public realm spaces.  Here is light and warmth, comfortable seating, convenient tables, well-provisioned toilets, plentiful food and drink and a bookshop.  Only an airport could offer so much under one roof!

No pictures adorn the walls.  The sepulchral grey is relieved only by cerise and mauve poufs, more art objects than furniture.  A cleaner manoeuvres an old-fashioned carpet sweeper around them; perhaps vacuum cleaners are deemed to conflict with the ambience, or maybe this is performance art.

The interlocking slabs of concrete and honeycombed ceilings suggest the building has been slotted together, like the house-building cards we had as children.  Ascending the stairs, I pass arrow slits offering truncated glimpses of each level.  Three naked toilets glow green eerily.  A bored attendant, surreptitiously reading an ebook, explains. ‘It’s a promotion for wonder.land.  Let me help you with the virtual reality.’  Sitting on a loo, encased in the headset I watch luminous bubbles rise and fall, and a leering Cheshire cat drift pointlessly.   I return to Denys Lasdun’s wonderland.  Stage lights, hanging from poles like some strange fruit, illuminate the concrete columns.  They bear the imprints of wooden boards, 1970s architectural chic, and soar through the building, reminiscent of the trees whose trunks they echo.  On the next level, a restaurant manager is inspecting bone-white napery and precisely placed silverware.  Rectangular windows make photograph frames for panoramas of the City of London.  At the summit, beyond all but the most intrepid visitors, surplus catering equipment litters the floor.  Light reflected from the river assails a man asleep against his rucksack: an exhausted tourist or inebriated tramp. 

Back in the foyer, the flickering clusters of students and office workers are replaced by theatregoers, jostling for drinks and scanning programmes.

Functional convergence has blurred the boundary between work and leisure.  Offices host cafes; cafes often resemble offices; bookshops hide cafes; cafes offer book exchanges.  Without compromising its original purpose, this space has embraced the change.  Perhaps as they crouch over their laptops in the corners and crevices, the cappuccino drinkers are incubating the plays of the future.

© David Thompson 2016

Fathers

It's one of the most important jobs yet there is no manual, no training and no pay.  Recrimination is inevitable; with luck, there may be posthumous recognition.

Like the two-dimensional beings inhabiting the satirical novel Flatland, it is hard to conceive of alternatives to one's own experience.  Thus I believed my family to be normal; so when I visited friends' homes, it seemed strange, their fathers eating meat and recounting wartime exploits.  Mine was a vegetarian in the days when they subsisted on eggs and cheese, (during holidays in France waiters were puzzled when he refused omelettes with jambon) and a conscientious objector who subsequently participated in the Aldermaston marches.  During return matches, my friends would be baffled by his obscure puns; he would smile wryly to himself and wink at me conspiratorially.  Consequently, family social interactions served to sunder, not cement, my friendships.

An intellectual ascetic, my father was a virulent atheist, despised sport and was bored by gardening.  While other fathers watched football, mowed the lawn or trudged to church, he would be cloistered in his attic study. Wrapped in a thick coat and tapping away at an Imperial typewriter or turning the handle of a vast mechanical calculating machine, which made a rasping noise like tearing paper, his weekend consultancy was funding the cost of his children’s private education.  Occasionally he embarked on ambitious carpentry projects; in old age he liked to claim he’d been doing DIY before it was invented.  The results occupied that unfortunate territory between barely functional and annoyingly inadequate.  Drawers stuck, cupboard doors didn't fit.  Loathe to offend him, we would be stuck with these proud botches for years.  But some were successful: when I visited the house decades later, the current occupants were still using the secondary glazing he'd fashioned in our kitchen. Immediately, I was transported back recalling the smell of the plastic he melted it to seal the corners.  All his pastimes were lone enterprises, refuges from a turbulent family.  His second family became apparent much later.

As a teenager, my father was abandoned in London when my grandfather, an avid communist of Jewish extraction, emigrated to the Soviet Union.  His struggle to achieve an education and build a career in science, culminating in a prestigious academic position, made him intolerant of indolence or incompetence.  I owe my A level successes, at least partly, to his grudging tutorship, but his disappointment in my mathematical prowess was equalled only by relief at his superiority being unchallenged.  Praise was unusual and bestowed only in the absence of possible competition.  He seemed genuinely impressed when I landed my first consulting job, which was also my final break with the world of science, his dominion.  Rarely, he acknowledged his own shortcomings. ‘You're a better father than I was,’ he once volunteered.  But it was not a compliment I felt I deserved, the dissolution of my family was imminent.  He took quiet pride in his own achievements and once directed me to fetch a cardboard tube from his study and examine the contents: his admission to the Royal Society.  On the occasion of his retirement, a large bound volume was presented to him.  To my astonishment it contained hundreds of eulogies from former colleagues and students from all parts of the world effusively thanking him for support and encouragement.

I have observed how like my father I have become: I am meticulous, organised, pedantic.  In adulthood, I tended towards his musical taste, a similarity he appeared to resent rather than encourage, trespassing on his private turf.  I developed a taste for walking and after his death I discovered a rusty canvas rucksack in his loft which my mother said he had used during lonely treks in the Lake District.  I pass his photograph in my hall every day.  We look similar and people often assume it's a picture of me.

© David Thompson 2016