Journey of Words

The 05:30h out of Maze Hill to Cannon Street was pretty full.  London needs its cleaners, cooks, nurses, delivery drivers, shop staff, museum curators, tube drivers and such.  You get the picture, workers, old and young, enduring the early start, rubbing shoulders with each other on the way to Town for another mandatory shift.  A.I. may one day be able to do some of the jobs these sleepy heads are turning in for this morning, but not all of them. Working from home is not an option for the majority of these early birds.

Canary Wharf's towers could be seen on our walk to the station. The technology allowing WFH has hollowed out these buildings. My host and travelling companion explains that some of the skyscraper former offices down by the Thames, are being converted to residential use. How and at what cost, I wonder.

The Canary Tower can be seen from Hertfordshire, twenty five miles to the north. It is an immense structure, designed to house white collar workers, without the internal infrastructure for hundreds of homes. Designed for daytime use, not for the night, how much plumping can it accommodate, for a start? Water pressure in, then sewage out, are two important matters to address before office space can become living quarters.

The 06:05h from London Bridge swept us to Gatwick Airport where the army of ticket inspectors, cleaners, police, security staff, duty free shop staff were already uniformed and at it.

"Belt, sir!" a reminder to remove my trouser belt and add it to the tray holding my jacket, boots, wallet, phone, everything, before the body scanner pose has to be adopted and I'm free to leave the country.

It is Maundy Thursday in the Christian calendar, the day Christians recall The Last Supper of Christ and the identification of his betrayer, Judas, the thirteenth at the table. Here is the origin of thirteen's unlucky reputation, expanded to include every Friday that falls on the 13th of any month, as a doom-laden day. There are superstitious people I've met, who won't let thirteen people sit at a table together. They don't do church in any noticeable way, but they are sticklers for numbers at dining tables. At Gatwick it is hard to tell that today is in the middle of Holy Week as you wind through the bright lights, perfumeries, alcohol stalls and general tat of the duty-free bazaar, so somebody has thought to employ a short woman at the exit to the South Terminal lounge to remind us. This diminutive woman is dressed in pink pyjamas with a cartoon giant rabbit stitched to her chest. The rabbit is holding a brightly patterned Easter egg in its front paws. It looks startled, which you would if someone was up your rear in a busy shop, I suppose.

Spiritually revived by that thoughtful prompt, I make a note to keep an eye out for Holy Week festivities later in the week when I get to Malaga. Spain does Holy Week very well.

Selsey Bill, Chichester Harbour, Portsmouth and The Isle of Wight are easily seen as the plane full of good-natured families and couples, heads off to the Costa del Sol. I sleep a little, then read more of Call For The Dead, a Cold War espionage thriller by John Le Carré. Post-war London, post-war weather, post-war language and post-war attitudes to women and foreigners. It's a fascinating read. The little details of the time give insight to the world my father lived in when he first started work, the world my mother escaped to from Baston Fen, as soon as could leave home at Eighteen.

Malaga airport swung into view as the pilot banked to port and lined up the runway. The flightpath in curves over the city and takes a long turn over the Med. The excitement of children and families at sight of the blue sea and sky, the beaches and mountains grew as we came in to land. It was a happy ship, even at disembarkation, which is often a little tense, because people have had enough of confinement in the aircraft the second the seat-belt lights are switched off.  Thankfully it was not long before Andy and I were standing on another platform, this time waiting for the C1 train to Fuengirola.

From there, the end of the line, the 220 to Las Lagunas and a beautifully cool rented apartment. I imagine the place would be hard to heat if needed, but for today in weather approaching 28C it is perfect.

Lunch in the shade of a lemon tree in the courtyard of Utopia was enjoyable. Then after more catching up on sleep, it was suddenly time to go and find Huw, the second member of our little gang. Huw had booked a table a few hundred yards west,  along the coast at the Panorama Beach restaurant.

Three old guys talking about all manner of things, current and past. We had not met often in the four decades since we first worked together at The Greenhouse in Clerkenwell Green, but we had been recruited by the company directors because it was thought we would work well together.  Luckily, this turned out to be true.

Dinner was excellent, the conversation was good-humoured, punctuated by spontaneous laughter at gentle-ribbing and recovered memories.

Having arrived the day before, Huw had explored the immediate vicinity and he led us over the road to a bar which offered live music. Tonight a Dolly Parton tribute act.

Unfamiliar with the full repertoire, I listened with interest, but by the time the woman stopped to rest her larynx we got out of there.

The full moon was rising, frogs were calling romantic belches to each other in the concrete river gulley and Huw headed off to his hotel. Andy and I sat inside Utopia talking more about what life has shown and taught us over mas viño blanco, before going to our rooms. Tomorrow some quiet time, before the 70th birthday party that we have come all this way to attend.

~

CLP 02/04/2026