SPRING LETTER FROM NOTTING HILL
‘Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide,’*
Well it is Eastertide and spring is one of the nicest seasons in Notting Hill and as I write this we are enjoying the most glorious weather and the trees in the streets all around me are strewn with pink and white blossom, though I fear, unlike Houseman when he wrote the poem, I may have less than fifty years to appreciate this glorious phenomenon.
Portobello Road takes on a different character as it moves into spring, more upbeat as a cocktail of sizzling smells, sunshine and the streams of tourists mix in the spring sunshine to the constant background music of the buskers and the tinkling of a tin drum.
Currently there is bunting on Blenheim Crescent, one of the streets running west from Portobello which is I presume preparations for a street party to celebrate the upcoming royal wedding, this surprises me. I remember the Diana/Charles wedding of 1981 and the near hysteria that attended the event at that time, we have, despite the attempts of the media to whip up such a frenzy, seen nothing like that this time. Indeed the widespread indifference to this event is one of the great un-reported stories. So if you are reading this elsewhere, particularly in the US, do not believe all that you read or hear about royal wedding hysteria in the UK, it is currently the dog that refuses to bark.
What people are willing to celebrate is another public holiday, known as a Bank Holiday in the UK. We have the lowest number of such days in Europe and on the day in question there will be a celebration of this free day in my local square, with no mention of the Royal Wedding, it is being billed as a celebration of community spirit and harmony.
Have just returned from Portobello for my loaf of bread from the bread stall, a delicious soft white bloomer and then it was on to the French cheese stall which arrives from France to set up a stall every Friday and Saturday, containing a dizzying variety of cheeses. I stand spoilt for choice, or spoilt for cheese to be more accurate. The young Frenchman talks about the selection in a way that makes choosing cheese feel positively erotic. I opt for some strong goats cheese and a small salami sausage that tastes to me like breakfast on the decking in Sinemoritz Bulgaria, food and memory, as Proust so famously understood constantly embrace one another.
Community spirit and harmony sounds wonderful, certainly far more attractive than the candy floss and marzipan wedding. However I cannot work up much enthusiasm for clowns and games for the children, party food and the twin sound systems promised, the latter being the opposite of harmony in my experience. However ‘community’ tends to be one of the most overused words in the political lexicon, the gay 'community,' the Muslim 'community,' or even more absurdly Asian 'community.' These are not descriptions of ‘community’ but an attempt to coral persons with wholly disparate interests into a stereotyped entity. As for real communities, a space of shared experience, a mutuality of concerns and interests, a supportive framework in which lives are lived, these are becoming increasingly rare.
Though I have no wish to pour scorn on this communal event and wish it well, I cannot somehow see my self becoming involved. I fear that I may be in favour of ‘community’ in principle but in practice tend to hold my self aloof.
Apropos the royal wedding I see that the King of Bahrain was offered an invitation, along with a collection of Saudi royals, this at a time when people across the Middle East are giving their lives in protest against such tyrannical regimes, truly a ‘let them eat cake,’ moment.
* AE Houseman ‘Loveliest of Trees.’
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide,’*
Well it is Eastertide and spring is one of the nicest seasons in Notting Hill and as I write this we are enjoying the most glorious weather and the trees in the streets all around me are strewn with pink and white blossom, though I fear, unlike Houseman when he wrote the poem, I may have less than fifty years to appreciate this glorious phenomenon.
Portobello Road takes on a different character as it moves into spring, more upbeat as a cocktail of sizzling smells, sunshine and the streams of tourists mix in the spring sunshine to the constant background music of the buskers and the tinkling of a tin drum.
Currently there is bunting on Blenheim Crescent, one of the streets running west from Portobello which is I presume preparations for a street party to celebrate the upcoming royal wedding, this surprises me. I remember the Diana/Charles wedding of 1981 and the near hysteria that attended the event at that time, we have, despite the attempts of the media to whip up such a frenzy, seen nothing like that this time. Indeed the widespread indifference to this event is one of the great un-reported stories. So if you are reading this elsewhere, particularly in the US, do not believe all that you read or hear about royal wedding hysteria in the UK, it is currently the dog that refuses to bark.
What people are willing to celebrate is another public holiday, known as a Bank Holiday in the UK. We have the lowest number of such days in Europe and on the day in question there will be a celebration of this free day in my local square, with no mention of the Royal Wedding, it is being billed as a celebration of community spirit and harmony.
Have just returned from Portobello for my loaf of bread from the bread stall, a delicious soft white bloomer and then it was on to the French cheese stall which arrives from France to set up a stall every Friday and Saturday, containing a dizzying variety of cheeses. I stand spoilt for choice, or spoilt for cheese to be more accurate. The young Frenchman talks about the selection in a way that makes choosing cheese feel positively erotic. I opt for some strong goats cheese and a small salami sausage that tastes to me like breakfast on the decking in Sinemoritz Bulgaria, food and memory, as Proust so famously understood constantly embrace one another.
Community spirit and harmony sounds wonderful, certainly far more attractive than the candy floss and marzipan wedding. However I cannot work up much enthusiasm for clowns and games for the children, party food and the twin sound systems promised, the latter being the opposite of harmony in my experience. However ‘community’ tends to be one of the most overused words in the political lexicon, the gay 'community,' the Muslim 'community,' or even more absurdly Asian 'community.' These are not descriptions of ‘community’ but an attempt to coral persons with wholly disparate interests into a stereotyped entity. As for real communities, a space of shared experience, a mutuality of concerns and interests, a supportive framework in which lives are lived, these are becoming increasingly rare.
Though I have no wish to pour scorn on this communal event and wish it well, I cannot somehow see my self becoming involved. I fear that I may be in favour of ‘community’ in principle but in practice tend to hold my self aloof.
Apropos the royal wedding I see that the King of Bahrain was offered an invitation, along with a collection of Saudi royals, this at a time when people across the Middle East are giving their lives in protest against such tyrannical regimes, truly a ‘let them eat cake,’ moment.
* AE Houseman ‘Loveliest of Trees.’
