I hate South
London. The Romans weren’t
stupid. Marching north from
wherever they landed on the south coast, they would have plodded across the
marshes south of the Thames looking for somewhere to cross the river. They found it close to where the Tower
of London is today.
“Let’s build a settlement on the north side of the
river,” said the General in charge.
“South of the river looks like a stercore-foramen. In the future,” he went on, “I predict there
will be terrible marching problems south of the river.”
Although I lived in London for 40 years, I only
deliberately went south of the Thames on very few occasions. Apart from going to Guy’s hospital a
couple of times and going south to play rugby or cricket, the only times I went
into South London was to visit Carshalton Beeches, Surrey. Before the orbital motorway, the M25,
was built, getting to Surrey had to involve a trip through the hell that is south
London.
My uncle and aunt are both over ninety now and last
Friday we went to visit them in Carshalton Beeches.
They should possibly be the focus of some kind of
medical study. My father was the
youngest of four and he was born in 1923.
His three siblings were born in 1909, 1910 and Jim, my uncle, in 1920. My father, his other two siblings as
well as both his parents were very heavy smokers. Not one of them lived to be 70. Jim, who never smoked, is 93.
It seemed very simple. According to the Sat. Nav. it was 74 miles and would take 90
minutes. We left at 11.30 am but
we didn’t arrive until 2.30 pm.
The M25 was closed because of a very bad accident and so we were forced
to divert into central London and then out through Hammersmith, Clapham,
Tooting, Streatham, Purley and then on and on and on – for ever!
Unlike north London, which almost gives the
appearance of being somewhat planned, with wide, straight four-lane roads
leading north, south London is just a maze of 16th, 17th
and 18th century random rural tracks that have been tarmacked over
without widening them first. The
few main roads going south from London are narrow and have traffic lights every 150 metres or so. You can see that
the Roman General was right when he said it would become a shit-hole.
We left Carshalton Beeches at 5 pm and intended to be
home by 7 and then think about getting something to eat. But the M25 was still closed. Traffic had been building for six hours
and so off we went through the wilderness that is south London.
At 8.30 pm, after 3½ hours, we had only travelled 32
miles and were on the Archway road, still one and a quarter hours from
home. On the positive side, the
traffic had cleared the moment we had crossed the river into north London. I had an idea. “Let’s go to the Capri.”
The Capri is an Italian restaurant that Caroline has
been going to ever since she moved to London and which she and I visited many
times over the last 15 years. It
serves simple, cheap but beautifully cooked Italian food that is prepared in
full view of the diners by the owner/chef. The restaurant is small, catering for no more than 24
covers.
Because it is so cheap, when we lived in London, the
Capri was the sort of place we went to midweek, when we had nothing in or just couldn’t be bothered to cook.
This Friday evening it was busy and to accommodate more diners, the
tables had been pushed closer together.
We were shown to a table for two that was next to another, unoccupied,
table for two.
The first and main courses available are very Italian
but the desserts, written in chalk on a blackboard, are eclectic and that is
good for me because most Italian deserts contain alcohol which I can’t have. There was lemon tart, crème brûlée, zabaglione, tiramisu and chocolate pie.
Whoever wrote
these deserts on the blackboard was running out of space by the time they came
to ‘chocolate pie’ and had been very cramped for room. Consequently it appeared as:
c H O c o L a t e P I
e
As we finished our first course, a young woman came
in. She stood in the middle of the
restaurant and by gesture alone, summoned the waitress.
“I’ve booked a table. Fletcher.”
She was shown to the table next to ours and sat down
diagonally opposite me. After a
moment or two she got out her phone and made a call.
“I’m here.
Fourth table on the left.
Where are you? How
long? Bye.”
Why did she have to tell the person where she was
sitting, I thought. Perhaps they
don’t know each other.
A young man came in. He walked to the table next to us and held out his hand to
the woman sitting there and said “Hi.”
She reached out for his hand but instead of shaking it, she tugged at
it, yanking him forwards so that he could kiss her cheek. He seemed flustered.
“First date,” Caroline mouthed silently at me. I nodded.
“We shan’t have a starter,” the woman told the
waitress and also, probably, her partner.
Twenty minutes later, I was convinced that this date
would be the last. She was
horrible - assertive and domineering.
I knew all about her: where she was born; where she went to university;
who she worked for; her salary (!!) and that she really, really loved her
mother who was also her best friend.
As for him, I didn’t even know what accent he spoke
with. The poor bugger.
The waitress came across to take their dessert order.
The woman looked up at the
blackboard.
“Tell me about your chocolate
pie,” she said.
But, that’s not actually what she
said. By putting on the French
accent that she had either been taught at the very expensive private school
she'd been to, or had picked up on one of her many holidays in Biarritz, she
pronounced ‘chocolate pie’ as,
“shocolatterpee-yay".
We
laughed out loud and, be honest, you would have done too.
