Let me let you into a little secret. I'm a Time Lord and I have a Tardis. I'm going to take you back in time to Mill Hill in 1960. Now shut your eyes and imagine this scenario (assuming you can shut your eyes and read at the same time). You are sitting in my garden, which backs onto the M1. There is a constant rumble of traffic noise. It's Sunday morning. If I fancy sushi and a mango smoothie for lunch, I need go no further than Marks and Spencers at the bottom of the road in Mill Hill Broadway. But, as I'm a Time Lord, I fancy a rather different lunch today. I want Sunday lunch with all my family. Yup, with my dearly departed and much missed Mum and Dad. So I'm going to nip down to the end of the garden and enter my Tardis, which is cunningly disguised as a shed. Now as you can't meet yourself, if you are a Time traveller, without serious consequences, I'll set the time to 1960. I've won't be conceived for another 18 months. You may wonder if my Dad will be shocked at the age of 43 to meet his 48 year old son? Of course not, he's a Time Lord as well, he understands these things !
Anyway, in we go. I turn the dial to 1960 and hey presto, we're in the back garden in 1960. As I emerge, it seems rather odd. What is it? It's rather quiet. There is no M1 motorway. Where the fence which demarks my garden is today, there is a public footpath to the railway goods yard for Mill Hill, on which the motorway was built. A few rusty rail wagons are idly sitting around. Suddenly we have a right racket. A steam engine hurtles through towards London, polished green with red coaches. The air becomes acrid with the smell of coal. My garden is also rather different. A ditch runs down the middle, with some tadpoles in a large pool. The large apple tree and pear tree, chopped down in 1970 are resplendent and full of small fruit. A few runner beans are growing. But where are the family? It's 11am? Of course, back then, Mass (we are Roman Catholics) at the Sacred Heart was at 11am. They are all at Church. I look at my house, no extension (added in 1970 by my parents), the old shed and full coal bunker (removed for the extension) are present. No side gate (added by me in 1988 when I bought the house from mum). No loft conversion. I walk out into the street. I'm shocked at what I see. Virtually no cars. Every house has a well manicured hedge. All of the doors and window in every house seem to be painted green. Almost no houses have driveways. Mr Grover and his wife are attending to plants in the garden, they give a friendly nod. I walk down the road. I see a Humber Hawk parked in the street, shiny black with a leather interior. There is a brand spanking new Ford Anglia up the street.
The front gardens are all tidy and well tended. There are no wheelie bins and no litter whatsoever. I walk down to the Broadway. Barclays Bank is still there. Costa Coffee is the Electricity showroom. There is not a soul around. Costcutters is J. S. Sainsburys, not an electric till in site, just rows of cans and other produce. Where Marks and Spencers is, we have Callis and Maxwells Art shop, a small rundown bike shop. The 140 bus is parked in Station Road, no motorway flyover yet. As I turn left up the Broadway, I see many long gone shops. We have Walton, Hassle and Port grocers. On the other side of the road, we have the Kentfields toy shop. There is the gas showroom. There are no bins outside shops, no gaudy signs. The pavements are spotless. The bus shelters have no perspex. There are red phoneboxes. The streetlights are sturdy looking items. The post office is in the slot where Hee's is now. The slot it occupies today is The North Thames Gas showroom. There are three greengrocers. Mayers is next to Smiths (one of the very few surviving shops). On the other side of the road, we have The National Provincial Bank, where Bairstow Eves is today. It looks forboding. There are no pelican crossings.
I walk up to the Scared Heart. It is still the old church. It hasn't even had the old social Centre build yet, there is a glorified hut next to it. I walk in. I see my family half way up. The church is packed. One thing I notice instantly is the fact that everyone in the congregation is white. The women have covered heads. The church smells of incense. There is a team of boys on the alter, immaculately turned out. The organ plays, the parishioners in the pew join in. Then as I listen, I realise the whole mass is in Latin "Credo in unum deo...."
Wheras the church today is open and welcoming, the service is mainly conducted by a priest with his back to the congregation. There are alter rails, to demark the boundary between "the sanctuary" and the mob (us). The priest has the air of aloof majesty. All of the children are completely silent. Another interesting thing I notice is the size of the Catholic Families. There's the Fannings (my cousins) with seven children and another on the way. My lot have five (we were a small family!). Every family group has a seemingly unending group. Now who is that cute little two year old girl there in a pink dress, sucking her thumb, with her big brother? Why that is none other than Mrs Angry, the Broken Barnet Blogger - my word, if only her mum knew !
As mass draws to a close, the congregation drift out. I see my Dad, he nods in recognition. "How you doin slim" he asks in his thick Aussie accent. "Piling on the pounds a bit". I reply "Behave Dad". A couple of the parishioners come up "Who's this Laurie? Is it your brother?" They ask (we look a bit alike), "Nah, it's my son, he's visiting us from 2011". They laugh.
Anyway, the rest of the story is family business, but if ever you wanted to know the secret of my Dad's success at the bookies, now you know. I hope you enjoyed the little tour with me.
Anyway, in we go. I turn the dial to 1960 and hey presto, we're in the back garden in 1960. As I emerge, it seems rather odd. What is it? It's rather quiet. There is no M1 motorway. Where the fence which demarks my garden is today, there is a public footpath to the railway goods yard for Mill Hill, on which the motorway was built. A few rusty rail wagons are idly sitting around. Suddenly we have a right racket. A steam engine hurtles through towards London, polished green with red coaches. The air becomes acrid with the smell of coal. My garden is also rather different. A ditch runs down the middle, with some tadpoles in a large pool. The large apple tree and pear tree, chopped down in 1970 are resplendent and full of small fruit. A few runner beans are growing. But where are the family? It's 11am? Of course, back then, Mass (we are Roman Catholics) at the Sacred Heart was at 11am. They are all at Church. I look at my house, no extension (added in 1970 by my parents), the old shed and full coal bunker (removed for the extension) are present. No side gate (added by me in 1988 when I bought the house from mum). No loft conversion. I walk out into the street. I'm shocked at what I see. Virtually no cars. Every house has a well manicured hedge. All of the doors and window in every house seem to be painted green. Almost no houses have driveways. Mr Grover and his wife are attending to plants in the garden, they give a friendly nod. I walk down the road. I see a Humber Hawk parked in the street, shiny black with a leather interior. There is a brand spanking new Ford Anglia up the street.
The front gardens are all tidy and well tended. There are no wheelie bins and no litter whatsoever. I walk down to the Broadway. Barclays Bank is still there. Costa Coffee is the Electricity showroom. There is not a soul around. Costcutters is J. S. Sainsburys, not an electric till in site, just rows of cans and other produce. Where Marks and Spencers is, we have Callis and Maxwells Art shop, a small rundown bike shop. The 140 bus is parked in Station Road, no motorway flyover yet. As I turn left up the Broadway, I see many long gone shops. We have Walton, Hassle and Port grocers. On the other side of the road, we have the Kentfields toy shop. There is the gas showroom. There are no bins outside shops, no gaudy signs. The pavements are spotless. The bus shelters have no perspex. There are red phoneboxes. The streetlights are sturdy looking items. The post office is in the slot where Hee's is now. The slot it occupies today is The North Thames Gas showroom. There are three greengrocers. Mayers is next to Smiths (one of the very few surviving shops). On the other side of the road, we have The National Provincial Bank, where Bairstow Eves is today. It looks forboding. There are no pelican crossings.
I walk up to the Scared Heart. It is still the old church. It hasn't even had the old social Centre build yet, there is a glorified hut next to it. I walk in. I see my family half way up. The church is packed. One thing I notice instantly is the fact that everyone in the congregation is white. The women have covered heads. The church smells of incense. There is a team of boys on the alter, immaculately turned out. The organ plays, the parishioners in the pew join in. Then as I listen, I realise the whole mass is in Latin "Credo in unum deo...."
Wheras the church today is open and welcoming, the service is mainly conducted by a priest with his back to the congregation. There are alter rails, to demark the boundary between "the sanctuary" and the mob (us). The priest has the air of aloof majesty. All of the children are completely silent. Another interesting thing I notice is the size of the Catholic Families. There's the Fannings (my cousins) with seven children and another on the way. My lot have five (we were a small family!). Every family group has a seemingly unending group. Now who is that cute little two year old girl there in a pink dress, sucking her thumb, with her big brother? Why that is none other than Mrs Angry, the Broken Barnet Blogger - my word, if only her mum knew !
As mass draws to a close, the congregation drift out. I see my Dad, he nods in recognition. "How you doin slim" he asks in his thick Aussie accent. "Piling on the pounds a bit". I reply "Behave Dad". A couple of the parishioners come up "Who's this Laurie? Is it your brother?" They ask (we look a bit alike), "Nah, it's my son, he's visiting us from 2011". They laugh.
Anyway, the rest of the story is family business, but if ever you wanted to know the secret of my Dad's success at the bookies, now you know. I hope you enjoyed the little tour with me.
5 comments:
er, amongst the wilder claims of this alleged stroll down memory lane, may I point out that you would not have seen the infant Mrs Angry at your church at any point, even in the mid Georgian period of her childhood, as she lived in Edgware, and went to St Matthias, which was a hideous church built in the mid sixties, now closed. Before that I think mass used to be held in the Sparrowhawk pub, rather surprisingly. Have I made that up? Seems wrong, in many ways.
Mrs Angry was very cute, of course, but did not suck her thumb, as her stern mother would not have tolerated such behaviour. If only your mother had been as strict with little Roger Tichborne.
Yes, I thought it was too cute to be you
Why, here we are in 1960 (ish), in Mill Hill Broadway, and who is that skipping along on the pavement in the far distance, muttering as toddlers do, something about "Netgro, Betflo, Metpro,..." can't quite make it out.
You didn't run across any of the respected Town Hall staff in your walk. The ones who were smartly dressed, worked hard at fair pay levels and hadn't dreamt up any stupid ideas like OneMillHill.
Well there you go. Mr Mustard gets it. He's clearly waiting for Part II which is where us Timelords discuss the demise of civic pride.
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