I was wrong when I said Tigger was not returning to work until Wednesday (today): unbeknownst to me they had changed her hours so that she ended up working Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday this week. Confusing? It certainly is, but you learn to live with it and it’s still better than working 5 days a week, though I expect we shall return to that pattern soon when “furlough” arrangements finally end.

Yesterday, I was lazy and stayed at home all day. I read and pottered about and did nothing of any great moment. Still, the occasional downtime doesn’t hurt and may even be good for one. Today, however, I had something I wanted to do.

The “Cutting Bar”

First on today’s agenda was a visit to the “Cutting Bar” in White Lion Street. I don’t remember when we had our hair cut last but it was some weeks ago and mine was now uncomfortably long. As Tigger wasn’t ready yet for a meeting with the shears, I went on my own.

In an age when barbers charge £25 before even picking up the scissors, basic hair-cutting establishments like this are a godsend. For £8, you receive a perfectly good haircut, done to your specifications. Why do people pay the exorbitant prices at what are increasingly called “Grooming Parlours”? Vanity, perhaps. My purse has no vanity and both it and I are happy with the service provided by the men and women at the “cutting bar”. (Yes, they have male and female “cutters”, both equally expert.)

Colourful bunting at Angel Central

Freshly shorn, I decided to go for a little walk before returning home. I started by walking along Upper Street. This is not my favourite place to walk but it’s as well to keep tabs on it and the changes that are going on all the time. The pandemic has led to the closure of shops and businesses at a faster rate than ever before and many premises are standing empty. I passed by the entrance to Angel Central and saw it was decorated with coloured bunting. This is presumably to do with their “Summer Fête”, about which we have received flyers through the door.

Public call box, modern style

It’s a long time since I last used a public phone – probably a couple of decades or more – and though I have noticed that the traditional red kiosks have given way more modern versions, I haven’t paid close attention to the changes. I was therefore somewhat bemused to see in this open-fronted kiosk a notice in large print beneath the handset:

Free phone calls only
No cash accepted

Apart from the emergency services, who else can you call for free in this day and age? I can’t imagine there are many or that this phone sees much use.

Mountain Warehouse

The name of this shop always gives me pause for thought . It’s a perfectly good shop and I have bought things here myself, but the name seems infelicitous somehow. Every time I pass, a voice in my head says “Whoa, having bought your mountain, how do you carry it home?” A silly joke, yes, but I suppose little things please little minds.

Monument to Sir Hugh Myddelton

Prominently sited beside Islington Green is the Grade II listed monument to Sir Hugh Myddelton, financier of the New River Project. The Historic England listing reads “Statue of Sir Hugh Myddelton. 1862 by John Thomas. Standing figure in Sicilian marble on a pedestal of grey granite, flanked by putti with urns forming part of a fountain. The statue presented jointly by Sir Samuel Morton Peto, the New River Company, and the people of Islington.”

Showing signs of damage

While time has dealt lightly with the figure of Sir Hugh, the same cannot be said for the accompanying figures. Both they and the urns they are handling shows wear and damage.

Sir Hugh’s name occurs often in street and park names in the borough and for the very good reason that his famous project, meritorious in its own right, has greatly influenced the layout of streets and other features of the neighbourhood. There is a sense in which Sir Hugh’s presence is felt right up to the present.

Islington Green from Essex Road

After greeting Sir Hugh, I started along Essex Road, pausing to take a photo of the green over the railings. The green is a pleasant area in which to sit although it tends to be crowded because of its proximity to busy roads. In the photo you can just make out the circular war memorial, a unique and somewhat curious design for its purpose. Sculpted by John Maine, it was installed in 2007, replacing an earlier, more conventional, memorial which the Council claimed had fallen into an irreparably poor condition. See here for an account of that old memorial.

A meadow on the Green

I also photographed this bed of long grasses and colourful flowers that resembled a spring meadow, a cheerful sight even on a dull day.

Old and new rub shoulders

Looking across the road, this pair of buildings struck me as typical of much of London today, where old buildings stand cheek by jowl with modern structures. They seem to co-exist but every year more of the elegantly styled old buildings are destroyed to make way for the new. Will these boring iron and glass heaps be valued, a hundred and fifty years from now, as we – well, some of us – value the lovely older buildings? Come to that, will these hurriedly built structures even exist a hundred and fifty years from now? From the way things are going, I have my doubts.

Am I being watched?

I now began to feel I was being watched. Yes! A face is peering at me through the glass of that door. It turns out to be a dummy, though why it is there, I have no idea.

Get Stuffed

The caption is not an imprecation but is the name of the shop, belonging to a taxidermist. It’s not a good photo because the screens over the windows make it hard to see what is within. In one sense, that is a blessing, because the shop is full of dead animals or, more accurately, their skins, preserved and padded to give a semblance of life. I do not approve of such businesses because it is quite wrong, in my opinion, to kill living creatures to make “exhibits”, especially just for decoration.

On the other hand, this shop reminds me of my childhood when I would drag my mother into the museum in Brighton “to see the animals”. In those days, Brighton Museum had an extensive collection of preserved animals and in my state of childhood innocence I loved to visit them. They have now all been done away with, except for those moved to the Booth Museum of Natural Science. So while I disapprove of collecting living creatures in this way, I have to admit the influence of those long ago in the museum that first began to shape my attitudes to nature and living creatures.

Astey’s Row and its rock garden

A few steps more brought me to these steps which lead to a narrow street called Astey’s Row (after one John Astey who, in the 18th century had a dwelling hereabouts). Beside is runs another of those “linear gardens”, as the Council calls them, narrow gardens hemmed in on either side by streets.

The path through the rock garden

I don’t know whether the rocks are real or artificial, though I suspect the latter. The “linear gardens“ owe their existence to – did you guess? – Sir Hugh’s New River. It still exists but in places has been covered over and gardens made on top of it. We thus owe Sir Hugh for his water and for some pleasant gardens in which to sit and stroll.

Flowering bushes

The path meanders along between rocks, trees and shrubs. I photographed two bushes covered with flowers.

Fallen tree, left in place

There was also a fallen tree that has been left in place, perhaps as a “feature” but also to serve as food and refuge for the smaller denizens of the gardens.

Nearing the end of the garden

Finding myself near the end of the linear garden, I decided to turn back. The weather forecast had predicted rain later this morning and, though I had my folding umbrella with me, I didn’t want to be caught out in the rain.

Aboard the 73

I decided to take the bus back and soon found a stop where I could catch a 73 bus. I sat at the back downstairs, as this photo shows.

I hope it is not vain of me to think you might be curious for a glimpse of my new coiffure. Here, then, is the shorn head for your delectation, courtesy of the bathroom mirror:

SilverTiger shorn