Book Memory

It was Wednesday and it was raining. Light, drizzly, rain and although it wasn't what I would have called cold, the wind definitely had a chill. However, this is not a weather report so let me move forward with the story. I’d just been for lunch with a friend near Bank and I had plans in north London with another friend later that day for dinner. It was two in the afternoon and I had around four hours to kill. Given the weather conditions, a stroll through the park was out of the question. I’d also already had about four cups of coffee so finding a Starbucks or somewhere similar was probably not the most prudent of ideas. Besides, a four hour stint at a coffee shop is pretty excessive by almost anyone’s standards. Instead I decided to peruse Leadenhall Market's shops as a time-filling exercise, firstly because I was in the area, but more importantly because it was warmer inside! To cut to the chase I made a visit to Waterstones and it was here that I was confronted by a book I haven’t seen, let alone thought about, for well over a decade – Sue Townsend's "The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, aged 13 ¾’’. It conjured memories which had been long forgotten.

I bought it of course, how could I not. I was a late-comer to Sue Townsend's classics (apparently this instalment is thirty years old), however when reading it about fifteen years ago it left such an impression on me that I can remember exactly what I was doing at the time. Sounds strange but I think, looking back on it, it was the first book I actually enjoyed reading (and also the first book I wasn’t forced to read). I reckon it’s a little like the first time my Dad took me to a football match, such was the power of the experience that I can remember exactly what was going on in my life at that time. I suppose it’s true with anything that is important; it helps you to contextualise your life. In the case of Adrian Mole, seeing this book took me back to my secondary school days. For a split second I was sat in our school's far too modern-looking library, with the sounds of shouting from the sports field outside rising above the noise of the commercial lighting system. Most of my memories from school seem to contain bad weather, so maybe the conditions on this wet Wednesday were partly responsible for jolting my memory too.

Adrian Mole (not personally of course, but his diary) had provoked a strange reaction in me, and this got me thinking. I hadn’t needed to even re-read the book, just the sight of it had provided enough stimulus to spark off an entire chain of repressed memories. I liked this feeling and I wanted more. When I got home I examined my bookcase to see if there were any other examples which concealed such vivid memories. There were, and unsurprisingly they were among my favourite list of books. However, the memories affiliated to them were a mixed bag.

One Day – I read this book whilst living in a flat, roughly sized ten feet by ten feet, in a house off Portobello Road; cracking location, crappy flat. Features included a cockroach infestation and a mouse problem. My bed was on stilts and gave what the estate agents called "a mezzanine level", but was actually a bunk bed without the lower bed. The idea being to put the bed above the floor and utilise the space below. The outcome was a bed about four feet from the ceiling and more often than not a writer with a sore head. At the time I had boycotted TV and had no internet connection. I moved into the flat for pretty much the sole purpose of finishing a first draft of a book I was working on. I came close to insanity a few times. One Day had not really taken off back then (well, not to the extent it eventually did) so I had no idea what to expect. When I finally opened it, I finished it on the same day. It gripped me from the opening, to the final sentence. I recall feeling profoundly hard done-by when the book ended, thinking. ‘This was the book I wanted to write’.

1984 – Possibly one of my favourite books, and by my favourite author. I read this for the first time towards the summer of my final year at university. My girlfriend at the time had lent it to me to read, and as such I felt obliged to do so. I am so glad I did as I really enjoyed it and it also came in useful because I managed to reference it in one of my final year exams, where I discussed the impact of technology on society. Despite the depressing nature of this book (although also brilliant), it will always remind me of a girl, the summer and of the end of university. This book has nothing to do with any of these things, however I will always attach these memories to it.

The Picture of Dorian Gray – For anyone who has had a lousy summer break then you’ll know that

entertainment of any description in a quality form is a welcome distraction. Oscar Wilde, in this his only full length novel, achieved this nicely, supplying a welcome break from my mundane summer holiday, if only for a day or so anyway. I bought this book along with Pride and Prejudice in the interval between my second and third year at University whilst at home in Bath. I purchased the two because they were books, I thought, I was supposed to have read. I hated Pride and Prejudice, it bored me half to death and I must confess that to this day, despite a few more attempts I have never managed to finish it. With ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ it was a totally different story (obviously – see title). I was engrossed and couldn’t put the thing down. I recall finding an oak tree in one of Bath's parks and sitting under it for hours uncovering the sordid Victorian world described in its pages. That summer it rained, I was living with my parents after experiencing the freedom of University and my love life was flatter than a pancake (possibly even a crepe, as they are flatter still). However, this book gave me a welcome respite from these depressing truths. So thanks Oscar.

Then We Came ToThe End – I really enjoyed this story, but seeing the cover of this book now makes me feel ill. I loved it for the fact that, in the context of work, it seemed to know exactly what and how I was thinking and feeling. Books which can relate to you in this way are very rare and this one does it marvellously well, a very well-written and thought-provoking book. So why do I feel nauseous around it now then? Simple really, I spent two weeks in hospital when I was reading it and those two weeks were possibly the most traumatic of my life. I would have never admitted it at the time but I was scared to death, and the book cover now just serves as a reminder of that period. It’s a shame really, because I doubt I’ll ever re-read the book now, despite its enjoyable nature.

Now I will leave it at that I think, as listing more would be a bit self indulgent and honestly that was not the point of this blog. The point is simply to acknowledge that beyond the story, a book can have many more meanings, formed by a reader's own life and their own experiences.  Wilde comments plainly in his preface to ‘The Picture of Doran Gray’ - “It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Down and out in Paris and London...I mean Camberwell!

Carrying on from last month's slightly upbeat blog, I wanted to share with you my experience of Camberwell. Not that all my experiences of Camberwell have been positive, but still, it’s where I have held residence now for almost three years and holds a special place in my life. I know, I know, I can hear you gagging from all the heartfeltness but hey it’s the way I feel. Also, as a disclaimer, I want to point out for anyone who saw the title and thought this may have anything to do with George Orwell, I apologise profusely. You have been, to coin a cockney saying, “mugged off”.

For those of you who are not from or do not know London, Camberwell is located in the south east (of London) somewhere between Elephant and Castle and Brixton, and Oval and Peckham. I would assume that most people have a heard of these places and if you haven’t maybe you should Google the following: riots, test match cricket, Only Fools and Horses and Michael Caine.

In preparation for this article I did a bit of research on Camberwell. However there was unsurprisingly - but disappointingly - very few ‘facts’ available on the Internet. So, in the interest of having at least a couple of historic gems, I decided to consult the oracle of unverified information. That’s right Wikipedia. Wikipedia describes how in a bygone age Camberwell’s name could be directly translated into either ‘Well of Britons’ or the less politically correct ‘Cripple-Well’. Wikipedia goes on to explain how Camberwell was either a place renowned for its healing qualities or a place where lepers were expelled. Given that this is slightly breezy information, I decided to leave the history lesson for someone more qualified. However it does illustrate how drastically divided the views of Camberwell can be, even the historical ones. If you go online and try searching for Camberwell, the most high ranked returns will probably include the Arts College, the Sexual Health Clinic and Kings College Hospital. So from that, the most basic of information, we can deduce that Camberwell is a place of ‘arty types’, Doctors, nurses, and people who like to have lots of unprotected sex. Having checked the Camberwell Tourist Information website, they have opted to highlight its artistic nature and the (now historical) healing springs rather than its STD hotspot, ex-leper colony side. My experience of Camberwell, like everyone else’s it seems, is varied. Let’s begin with the bad. I want to knock down the reputation of the area just a little bit more, before gradually building it back up.

It was dark, it was the summit of the night and it was blooming hot. My room, which faces Camberwell high street, is an ice box in the winter but a green house in the summer. The window is open and the sirens from Kings College Hospital keep me from drifting into a deep sleep. In the distance, from my unsettled slumber I hear shouting, two men, wasted by all accounts. From the hot summer's evening the voices of these two men radiate. Louder they get until their voices are fully audible.


"I'm gonna f**king stab you!"

Silence follows. I'm now awake ,really awake. It continues.

"I'm gonna f**king stab you in the eye!"

A sentiment thatis then reiterated a dozen times. I’m in bed, with work in the morning, mentally urging them to shut up. Then they do. This is scary. Complete quiet ensues. Has he stabbed him in the eye? Oh I hope he hasn’t, god I hope he hasn’t. Then the argument starts up again. This is a relief, at least everyone has their eyes and no one’s gotten stabbed.

“I’m gonna f**king stab you in the eye!”


The noise disappears the way it had come and then the streets return to relative silence, disturbed only by sirens.

Okay definitely not a unique incident in London, but one of quite a few social disturbances on my doorstep. The police are called out roughly at weekly intervals, just to our section of the high street, normally to disperse the mixture of crack addicts and drunks that seem to enjoy loitering outside the many bookies and pawn brokers. I’ve come home from work to, on more than one occasion, someone urinating on my front door. Once I confronted the person, who became massively embarrassed and tried to make it up to me by apologising and then offering me his hand to shake. I declined. I once witnessed a pregnant women smoking crack in a carpark just around the corner. Large gangs often congregate, smoking and drinking openly in public. Police move them on, but they come back the next day.

At this point you’re probably thinking something like, “Why the hell do you live in this place?!” or “I thought you were going to carry on your positive vibe from last month's blog!”. Well calm down, just calm down, I’m getting to that. If I jumped straight to the good stuff I’d be accused of gushing, and get comments like, “you’ll grow out of it” and “when you’ve lived there for a while you won’t like it so much”. So let me start my counter argument by saying that since leaving home at eighteen this has been my longest residence. I won’t lie, I’ve thought of moving a few times but to be honest I just can’t do it and I’ll come to the reasons why now.

To start off with there’s the location. It sits smack bang in the middle of Zone Two and it’s cheap. It may be south of the River, but you can be at almost any point in Zone One within thirty minutes on a bus, or ten to fifteen minutes on the Tube or Overground. I know there are always going to be people who live north of the River, who will be saying (these are actual things that people have said to me by the way) “It’s South London so it doesn’t count as London” or “It’s a bit rubbish, not much there”. But these are hardly  compelling arguments and to be honest I don’t really care. I normally ask people why they don’t like South London specifically. The responses vary but the normal reply is something like“I don’t know, I never really go there”. Well that’s a bit like the spoilt child who doesn’t like chilli because it doesn’t look very nice, but has never tasted it. Enough on that anyway, otherwise I might digress and discuss the stereotypes of both North and South Londoners, which for the most part is irrelevant to my point.

Secondly, as the Camberwell Tourist Information website points out, there is a large artistic community. Camberwell is home to the Arts College and the South London Gallery which has housed work by some of today’s most celebrated artists, including Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin (apparently). Also, Florence Welsh (Florence and the Machines) and Guardian columnist Zoe Williams live in the area. All this I have to say doesn’t really concern me greatly. It’s nice to know a few 'famous' people have taken up residence nearby(or studied here) but it doesn’t increase my enjoyment of the area. What does, however, is the mixture of personalities you find on an average day. I didn’t live in London a decade ago, but I would imagine that ten years ago Shoreditch would have been a lot like Camberwell is today, only Shoreditch moved passed its rough and ready stage and is now one of the London 'hot spots', particularly in terms of the night life. I imagine in some capacity Camberwell has been on the cusp of popularity a few times, but never managed to break into the inner sanctum of coolness. From its cult reference in ‘Withnail and I’ with the Camberwell Carrot, to its vivid inclusion in The Room of Lost Things (although specifically the book focuses on Loughborough Junction), to the songs written about it by the likes of Basement Jaxx. In my opinion, which means very little in the grand scale of things, the place just needs a bit of plugging and for what it’s worth I’m willing to try. When you can’t afford to be part of the centre of things, and in this instance I mean popular areas like Hampstead, Shoreditch and Islington, Angel etc etc, instead of worrying about it, I’m just going to try and move the centre. Also, and less selfishly, the place deserves some good publicity.

Thirdly, people talk to each other. I know it’s strange for an inner-city-London borough but it actually happens. I know my neighbours, we have mid-length conversations with each other, they may even come to dinner one evening. I know the main staff in all the local take-out establishments and the three staff members who work at the local shop. People, when they’re not threatening to stab each other, are much friendlier here. I remember buying a Christmas tree last year from my greengrocers and the old man reserved the best one for me by putting it aside, despite the fact he could barely carry the thing. I obviously tried to help him but he was having none of it. Instead, if my memory serves me correctly, he called his wife and the elderly couple lugged the tree "round the back" for me. I felt awfully guilty, but it was pretty sweet to watch this elderly couple working in unison. We actually have a green grocer, which seems to be a fading part of local communities. But not just that, we also have a butcher, a baker, a flower shop and a fish monger. A friend of mine joked, when she read the draft of this blog, that all we need now is a candle-maker. What’s more is that despite the Morrison supermarket just seconds away, people still make use these independents.

I lived in Notting Hill (as did George Orwell, which means I have actually made one reference to him) for almost a year when I first came to London. I think the only conversation I had with someone in the area was a plumber who came round to fix my shower, happy days. I smoked back then as well, which normally gives shopkeepers the opportunity to strike up a rapport with their customers. However none seemed in the slightest bit interested.

The fourth and final reason that I'm fond of Camberwell is because of its architecture. Again, I know some people will doubt what I’m saying here, but walk up and down Camberwell High Street and New Camberwell Street, and point me in the direction of a tower block. You know the ones I mean, the ones built in the sixties, where design and taste went out the window in the interest of providing affordable accommodation to a growing population. Purposeful and necessary as they were, I don’t think anyone could argue that they are aesthetically  pleasing. Camberwell has a number of lowrise estates, but I think you’d have to go towards Elephant and Castle and Oval before you find what I would refer to as a proper estate. The rest of the buildings (excusing the hospital which I think we can forgive as it’s not only useful but also one of the best in the country) are Victorian and Edwardian style terraced houses. If you look behind even the pawn brokers the houses there are quite pleasant. I live behind a bookie in a converted factory and although you have to walk down an alley to get in, which obviously has its disadvantages (see 'urinating in doorway' experience above), the actual building and brick work is really pretty cool.

Before I sign off I’d like to invite people (and I'm sure I’ll regret this) to give their own views and experiences of the area. If you’ve never been to Camberwell, maybe let me know one reason you love the place you live. However, if you comment on Camberwell be kind. I bloody love this place, puss-filled boils, warts and all.