For no reason in particular

This is an incredible image of observing solar events at the Royal Observatory at Greenwich in the later seventeenth century. I forget about this image and its maker, Francis Place, but I don't want to any more.

A Stroll Around Greenwich

As it has been almost a year since Old Ken moved to Greenwich, I figured it might be a good time to re-acquaint myself with some of my environs. While the saying "no time like the present" might be bandied about for various suspect reasons, in this case it was quite true. For, not only is today gloriously sunny and auspiciously autumnal, but it is the first day of a weekend-long "open house" in London-town. This means that folks are allowed in to places normally closed to the public for free.



Well, I started my stroll down through Greenwich market. If you are ever looking for some over-priced rubbish or something to give as a gift to someone you don't really like, this is the place!

Feeling slightly peckish (that is "hungry" to y'all on the other side of the pond), I got myself a delicious berry smoothie and picked my way through the crowd, stumbling over baby carriages as I went. I am not sure if I have posted any of my rantings about the incredible volume of baby carriages clogging London's sidewalks. I have been told that this is partially because people here use their cars less than in the States, and so if you want to have a day in the city with a small child (or even just to go grocery shopping), the stroller is a must. I am slightly skeptical about this; I think it has more to do with the absolute idolatry of children in this country. But, let us leave this as a topic to detain us another time.


Suffice to say, though, as I left the market I was glad to see a trash can that clearly shared my sentiment about children. For, as you can see, it seems to have eaten the child and then discarded the inedible shell just outside its house.


Could we talk about Greenwich with touching upon the delightful subject of naval history—of "rum, sodomy and the lash," of the proverbial "swapping of the poop deck"? Wait, what were we talking about again? Well, strolling east along the mighty Thames, past Christopher Wren's Naval Hospital toward Woolich, Old Ken happened upon the small Trinity Hospital for the poor. Founded in 1616, the Hospital has a lovely garden as seen above.



Interestingly, the diagonal strip of white gravel inset into the pavement marks the prime meridian as our helpful sign tells us.



In any case, I made my way into the curious Hospital, eager to learn. Although it is small, the interior courtyard is charming. I thought that I might keep my distance from the fountain, having heard that such waterworks are frequently a source of transmission for Legionnaire's disease, which is supposedly spreading like wildfire in Lewisham. But, as I chased the cats around the loggia, I began to work up quite a sweat—a fever, if you will, for which there is only one cure: fountain-bathing!



So, maybe I'm joking about that, but it was a little perambulation around the loggia that brought the most amazing feature of the Hospital: it's shocking proximity to the behemoth that is Woolich power station.



I don't think that the image above quite captures the sheer discrepancy in scale between these two structures. Indeed, Old Ken simply was not able to stand within the confines of the Hospital's spacious garden and take a photograph that encapsulated the entirety of the power station's height. Kinda makes an old duffer like the O.K. scratch his head and wonder what they were thinking.

Marie's Day in the Park

Do you have a hero? Someone whom you look up to, perhaps when the proverbial chips are down, when life seems to have dealt you a tough hand? Well, my lovely sister Marie does. And that hero's name is Ellen—Ellen Macarthur. Or, better yet, Dame Ellen as she is now properly known.

Let Old Ken bring those of you States-side up to date here, as I understand that you may not have the same proud tradition of yachting as we do in "ye olde countree." Perhaps y'all back in the States think that yachting (which totally destroys golf, by the way) is just some kind of activity that a bunch of rich people with nothing better to do spend a lot of money on. No, no;we here in Britain know that people on yachts aren't rich swine; they're heroes! And it's especially heroic to dispense with the regular hired help on a yacht and go for a long sail all by yourself, as our Ellen did. Not only does this kind of self-sacrifice raise you into the glistening firmament of British cultural heroes—right there alongside Tony Blair, Wayne Rooney and dancing sensation Bez—but it can even separate you permanently from the great unwashed, should the Queen herself be tempted to introduce you into the peerage. Congratulations Ellen!

So, on a cold, grey afternoon not so long ago, Marie and I made our way down to that great center of English maritime history, Greenwich. There, beneath the prodigious historical shadow of the famous Cutty Sark, Dame Ellen disembarked from her well-traveled yacht and thrilled the crowd with a fascinating account of how she had entertained celebrities, prepared peacock-liver pâté and managed a rigorous fitness regiment while circumnavigating the globe. Marie, always eager for a little lime-light, tried her best to catch Dame Ellen's eye. But, as you can see from the jubilant faces of the rapt audience, Ellen was too busy working the crowd like a master magician; Marie and I were certainly worked up into quite a frenzy.



To cool things down a bit (but only a bit), Marie and I made our way down to the waterfront itself, where Ellen's boat lay at moor. Marie remarked that it seemed smaller than she had expected. We reminisced a bit about our childhood on our own humble craft. I mused a bit on where Dame Ellen must have housed the orchestra for her fancy-dress ball. Canary Wharf, that majestic home of commerce, smiled down on us from a distance. By the time we got home, Marie was ready for a nap—she was plum-tuckered out after all that excitement.