The cone and the crown

It’s been one of those days. This morning as I travelled on a bus through Rye Lane I saw a police operation… uniforms moving fast. Moments later a collection of limousines, the shiniest I’ve ever seen, parked outside Rye Lane Chapel on double-yellow lines. There was a funeral. Then, when I reached the West End I spotted Prince Charles in the back of a (shiny, of course it was shiny) black car (his presence announced by a police outrider blowing a whistle). But all this was topped by the sound and sight of a guy who looked like he lived on the street. There he was outside Oxford Circus Tube making music with a traffic cone. I kid you not. He blew into one end and out the other end came ‘Hey, Jude’ as if played on a trumpet, sort of. I didn’t have my camera. Shame. Loads of others did and an Irish guy said to me after he’d finished filming: ‘That’s going straight on YouTube.’ Lots of people tipped money into the inventive musician’s paper cup. 

Elvis found in London shop window!

Long before hippies, the hips of Elvis. How they swivelled. My dad, in his old-age, would enjoy listening to Elvis, particularly his love songs. Love me tender, love me true. When Dad died the priest asked what music we’d like at the funeral. I said, ‘Elvis.’ The priest laughed and, sorry to say, I joined in with his laughter. We resorted to the usual plaintiff hymns. And, now years later, I regret it. Should have gone with the mellifluous voice of  the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll and not the strangled rendition of a tired old hymn. 

Putting a spell on you

I’d never noticed the whacky spelling on this defunct business in Peckham until the other day. I would guess that it was not lesions that were on offer but driving lessons. In any case, the collision of one word with the other would turn off most learner drivers.

And how about the bonkers sign in Abu Dhabi offering univeersity research, forigen translation and overce (now that’s ingenious) calling. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be searching out their advertised help with my curriculan vitae. 

Rasta Man

As soon as he recovered from a coughing fit, this gentleman, an elderly Rasta, lit a large spliff and puffed away on it to his heart’s (if not his lungs’) content. He was one of many characters at Shepherd’s Bush market yesterday braving freezing weather and flurries of snow.

Dabbling in Abu Dhabi

A crop of photos taken in Abu Dhabi. I was only there for a day. Taking my camera for a walk was the most entertaining and cheap thing I could think of doing while waiting for a delayed flight out of there to Australia. 

The fan and the fire

Long absent from the blog because I’ve been travelling. Yes, ventured out of Peckham!

So, there I was in Abu Dhabi… when I spot this odd scene. To the right is an electric fan plugged into an energy source inside the abandoned café. To the left is a construct containing a small heap of burning coals. The fan is directed at them in order to keep them alight. But, why? As I ponder this a guy comes along and lights his cigarette from the coals. Then he saunters off to his building site, one of many in this land of petroleum fortunes. The explanation, surely, is that lighters and matches are banned on site and the Heath Robinson contraption is a way to get round this. Ingenious. Daft.

A homage to Lee Miller

I took this photo because the scene reminded me of a famous shot taken by Lee Miller: 'Portrait of Space, near Siwa, Egypt'. Hers depicts a desert landscape beyond a rip in a fabric. Mine, a shop in Choumert Road, off Rye Lane in Peckham, which is seen through a tear in the cover for a vegetable stall. And here’s the contents of the  market stall. Bright and peppery. 

I thought the lay-out of this blog entry would be the words sandwiched between the photo of the rip, and the peppers, but, hey, it's gone tits-up. I'm confounded once again by technology. Never mind. With luck you get the message.