The table

We have spent the last two days doing nothing but lug boxes, bags and suitcases full of our belongings from Highgate to our new home in Finchley. It turns out that there is nothing more intense than the rage one experiences when lifting incredibly heavy objects, particularly when said objects get stuck in doorways and you’re trying to move them on one of the stickiest, muggiest days you’ve ever experienced. I found myself wanting to shout obscenities at complete strangers whilst rivers of sweat ran off my forehead and stung my eyes. Every time I arrive in Finchley Central, I have to remind myself that this is my new gaff. It doesn’t have the genteel quality of Highgate. I’m not sure many areas in London do. Finchley feels poorer than Highgate. Things get dumped in side streets and the area feels a great deal less cared for. Next door have a bright blue, mildew-covered tarpaulin stretched over their outside walkway. There are a lot of betting and charity shops on our new high street. People go through the bins behind Tesco looking for food and things which they can sell on. I shall particularly miss the trees in Highgate. Every view from our house is a riot of different shades of green. However grotty and rain-damaged our house got, I always knew that Queens Wood and Hampstead Heath were just around the corner. And I could escape to a Merchant Ivory world. It was Sunday yesterday and we pulled up on the street outside our new house to unload our belongings. Returning to the car after five minutes, we discovered a parking ticket, which felt outrageous. All the streets in the area have free parking on Sundays, which begs the question as to why on earth a parking warden was out and about. Our only crime was parking slightly on the pavement. The warden must have thought all of his Christmases had come at once when he found our car. For heaven’s sake! Welcome to Brent Council! I also discovered to my horror yesterday that we now live in Margaret Thatcher’s old constituency. How horribly ironic is that? It’s still in the hands of a Tory MP - albeit a gay one, although I don’t know that this makes him any better. It was actually 1992 when I last lived in a Tory constituency! That said, I’ve just read up about our new constituency and seen that it was briefly a Labour seat, and that, in the last election, the Tories had a very small majority. I’m pleased to say that I drove to Thaxted yesterday to collect the kitchen table we used to sit around when we were kids. It’s been in my parents’ shed for ten years, but I’ve longed to have a kitchen big enough to house it. It holds so many memories. We ate every meal sitting at the table. Breakfast was always accompanied by Radio 3. We played games: Escalado, Rat Fink, Cheat... We did all of our homework there. Edward used to sit there to conjugate German verbs with his friend Scott. Tammy and I made an igloo cake there. Fiona, Ted Thornhill, and I sat there to eat chocolate chip cookies, whilst rehearsing string trios. Tash died my hair purple sitting at that table. It was the place where people gathered. It was the hub. Name me a person who visited the house and I can picture them sitting at the table. We were all therefore rather relieved that the table came out of the shed in one piece, without woodworm or warping and I was able to drive home (with the thing crammed into the car, dangerously close to my neck!) I was also more than a little excited to smell the infamous ghostly smoke as I exited Thaxted. I see that as a good omen!