Christopher Preston – Page 17

Cycling around London for Thirty-five Years

CS2 Cyclists have to pull out to overtake busses — CS2 Cyclists have to pull out to overtake buses

I’ve been cycling around London since I arrived here in 1978. There were then only a handful of cyclists and no cycle lanes. People regarded us as insane to risk our lives in the traffic and our health in the pollution. However, cyclists then, as now, were able to use the Bus Lanes which provided some degree of safety. I don’t know if cycle awareness was included in bus driver training but I never had any problems with busses or taxis. I’d been a car driver since the age of 15 and this helped as I knew the basic road code, stopping at red lights, doing clear hand signals and allowing pedestrians to cross on Pedestrian Crossings. I’d had a job which involved driving a hire car around London and somewhere on a roundabout on the South Circular in rush hour on a winter’s evening I was overtaken on the inside by a huge lorry, which then drove across the front of the car. After that I was pretty careful cycling around places like Hammersmith Broadway or Hyde Park corner which in those days were uncontrolled by traffic lights. The pollution problem, I disregarded as these particles spread out to cover the city uniformly (that’s a law of Physics) so just living in London means you’re breathing it in.

CS2 A@ Stepney shares with the busses — CS2 @ Stepney shares with the buses

In the early eighties, I moved from Hammersmith to Bow in Tower Hamlets and would regularly cycle though Whitechapel to the Kings Road, Chelsea, though the City and along the Victoria Embankment. The Mile End and Whitechapel roads were pretty challenging in terms of traffic, dust and rubbish from the market. At least on the Embankment there was grand architecture to look at. During this period I developed a strategy of coming forward at red lights so I could get ahead. The initial acceleration from a bicycle is far greater than any motor vehicle and you could easily clear the space to allow them to pass later. I also would make eye contact with drivers, particularly on roundabouts and prepare to take evasive action if they seemed unaware of me.

Fifteen years later, I moved to Hackney and my route into the West End took me though Clerkenwell or Angel and I still get a thrill from freewheeling down the Bus Lane in Pentonville Road to Kings Cross. In all that time I was only knocked off my bike twice. Once near Old Street, as I stopped for a light, a car drove slowly into the back of me and in a quiet street in Hackney on a rainy day, a tradesman, who had been resting in his van, decided to open his door just as I went past. Luckily there was no other traffic to run me over as I slid across the road. ‘What the f… do you think your f…ing side mirror is f…ing for?’ I screamed. The third incident, earlier this year, was in Cornhill on a dark wet evening. A car with no lights on and parked on a double yellow line opened the driver’s door and I went flying for the second time – the car owner was traumatised. Wearily, I said, ‘It would have been good to look in your side mirror.’ There have been numerous times when I’ve had to break suddenly due to a car overtaking me then immediately turning left. Sometimes it’s too late and I’ve found myself also turning left to avoid being run over. This happened to me only today, thus prompting me to blog about cycling, something I’ve been intending to do for months.

CS2 Cars parked on a Sunday while the pavement has lots of room

CS2 Aldgate corner where a talented young woman was killed

Now twenty-five years later I’ve moved back to Tower Hamlets – Stepney Green, just off the Mile End Road. So what’s changed? For a start there are thousands more cyclists, particularly commuters. They flood into and out of the City, West End and Docklands during rush-hour in an aggressive frenzy. I don’t often cycle at these times, but when I do, it’s almost as bad as taking on an HGV. We have high visibility clothing which has, thanks to the success of British Cycling as an Olympic Sport, become ‘designed’ with helmets to match. In the Olympic summer of 2012 I cycled around London with great inspiration, but was disappointed that few took advantage of the cycle park.

CS3 The lanes narrow - a dangerous crossing — CS3 The lanes narrow – a dangerous crossing

CS2 On A Sunday and at night, cars can park in our lane

We have flashing lights with batteries which last months rather than weeks and tyres which are less susceptible to punctures and we have cycle lanes. A few, like the one through Bloomsbury have been around since the Ken Livingston days, others, painted Tory Blue by Boris are new. I’ve discovered that Super Highway 3 will take me along Cable Street to Tower Bridge on a dedicated lane in fifteen minutes. It’s brilliant. But it can be crowed with overtaking and failure to give way when required or to stop. I recently saw a woman cyclist collide with a pedestrian on a crossing. Then there are the red lights, which demand a special mention, later. To the north of me is Super Highway 2 which runs along Mile End Road to Aldgate. Yes it’s the same road I cycled on twenty-five years ago. It has the same traffic and dust and markets, there’s just a blue strip painted on the inside of the bus lane so you still have to negotiate the traffic. I cycle down this route often and enviously look at the wide deserted pavements on either side of the road which could be dedicated to us. It all narrows down along the Bow Road and rather than negotiate the tricky Bow roundabout (site of a recent death) I always go up and over the flyover – there’s nothing to say I can’t and it’s safer.

CS3 Raised cycle lane separates us from the cars.

Someone has at last noticed the difference in cycle and vehicle acceleration and put in the cycle zones at lights and intersections. These are fantastic, provided motorists pay attention. That’s the point of them; if they illegally stop in this zone, they are delayed while we pull ahead and clear their way. Buses and taxis are guilty of this as well and can all be fined.

CS3 Sunday Cyclists stop on the red light

The other thing I’ve noticed with the burgeoning of the cycle population is ignorance of the Road Code, arrogance (cycles always have the right of way – even if they don’t) and plain wilfulness or risk-taking. As the holder of a drivers’ license, I can get points for infringements on my cycle, so I’m happy to stop at red lights while all and sundry ignore them completely or cross on the pedestrian green man dodging the walkers as they go. The women are just as prone to this as the men and it’s quite usual for a nice middle class girl with a wicker basket on the front of her ‘ladies bike’ to sail by without a care looking neither left or right. Periodically the police set up traps but not often enough.

CS£ Sunday Cyclists go on the green light

Finally, there’s the issue of signalling. Cyclists, I believe need to give clear signals of their intention to turn left or right, and If you’re wearing a bright yellow jacket, all the better. None of this one finger pointing right at hip level, but a whole arm horizontal from the shoulder, telling everyone ‘I am a cyclist and this is where I’m going.’ I also think that the road code should be altered so that motor vehicles must indicate intention to turn left as well as right, in good time and including waiting at lights. When I sat my test, signalling was only recommended when necessary – whatever that meant. I’ve often pulled up to the left of a car which is not indicating and I assume it’s going straight ahead, only to be cut up when they turn left. If a waiting car is indicating left, I can pull up on their right and go ahead or turn right. This, I believe would improve our safety even more.

CS2 Anyone for a ride through the trees? There's room. — CS2 Anyone for a ride through the trees? There’s room.

I’m constantly astonished that there aren’t more fatalities, particularly on the Boris Bikes and notice that motorists are much more wary of cyclists than they used to be. Cycling in London is so much better than in 1978.

Ian Stewart on Twenty-Two Eighty-Four

Fellow writer, Canadian Ian Stewart (Vancouver) has just finished reading Twenty-Two Eighty-Four. Throughout his read hes been sending me notes and observations about his experience. Its interesting to look at his intellectual and literary reaction to the story and its societal setting in the future, to compare it with where we are now in the world and what needs to be done.

From Ian:-

I’m really liking the role of the womyn (sic) I’m also gladded with the normalisation of sexualities I think we’re at a window of opportunity to voicing these views, hitherto so fiendishly suppressed, and I feel that strong work of this nature — beyond being timely and highly current — might even see-away the artificiality of imposed homophobia in a more lasting fashion than we’d hope.

Back to your Twenty-Two Eighty-Four, which — yay! — is to my mind continuing excellently as before. I liked very much the characterful and evocative transit to Istanbul, where I found the societal fronting of men within this further ‘Eastern’ matriarchal world intriguing and thought-provoking. I liked the subsequent chapter in Norfolk and the party scene was interesting in bringing the various character streams together. I also like the government interventions on Pitto’s work-life, as well as the descriptions of his earning tasks. Reaf, also, is developing nicely, with a concomitant leitmotif I find highly worthy to be got into print, around the father-son advice and mentoring — which is novel in queer literature, to me, anyways, in the explicit flagging of such support, especially within this underlying or hovering context of homosexuality (so well done there!).

The Norfolk women’s welcoming-in Hebe and Pitto is well handled, and Quercus’ saying “Kara?” on seeing her clone Hebe is nicely effective. Im liking the — again, unexpected — father and son webbed feet at the end (is there more to that than just a shared quirk of genetic expression? I like that we’ve only heard of their hot bodily perfection thereunto): I took all the genetics stuff at face value, accepting your authorial guidance, knowing too little on the subject.

When the — interesting and cool — Nolly character says about the planet being saved by the HFV I spontaneously clicked my palate with my tongue and softly said “Wow” aloud. Moved to thus physically, bodily reacting, with surprise; understanding; my interest honed; absolute delight with your authorial accomplishment; and a penny-dropping ‘aha!’ at this key new take on the information we’d had hitherto presented to us otherwise; unexpectedly, alternatively, delivered from a reliable and clued-in source, and immediately, effectively contrasted by Kara’s ‘eco-nut’ thoughts.

Indeed, through this whole closing situational Kara’s outlook is a powerful contributor, I very much liked the comic scramble to find a means to print the documents she subsequently showed to Nolly. I also like the clarification that comes-about via Kara in these concluding scenes, as to the construction of this matriarchal societal structure having been a concerted move to reorganise people from the faulty destructiveness they’ve associated with the male outlook – nice to have that re-adjustment of view coming from Establishment Kara at the end of the novel.

So, overall, delighted, glad to have read it, and — the human mind virus — I’m certain that imagery and ideas from this highly informed and well thought-out, entertaining and sexy exposition around the societal and structural planetary challenges facing us will stick with me, and no doubt shape my views and thinking on these matters. So, well done, Chris, at your fine novel’s timely contribution. You’ve particularly got a solid grip on the manners and issues of interest to both men and women — (I was at a Vancouver reading by Tennessee Williams in my teens, where he said in answer to a comment on that, that he had, himself, “a certain duality of gender”) — which unusual comprehension should decidedly stand you in good stead with readers of either sex.

Im thrilled that it keeps-on excellently through to its conclusion. What a tremendous accomplishment!

Twenty-Two Eighty-Four can be purchased from Paradise Press in paperback or electronic formats. You can also read part of chapter 1 on this site.

Five Go Swim In Paris

Five (Six) Go Swim In Paris

20140606_164720 — Chris at Hotel de Ville

We few, we merry band of men are crossing (under) the channel to struggle for glory at Tounoi International de Paris (TIP). Anyway, that’s how it seems on the Friday when Michael Webster & I arrive to glorious sunshine. Both of us have been to Paris many times, so there’s no need to rush around seeing everything like tourists. We take a leisurely walk from our Hotel at République down to the Sein, saying hello to Notre Dame where we admire her flying buttresses and newly scrubbed up front. Hotel De Ville is covered in Union Jacks to welcome Queen Elizabeth of the United Kingdom. She’s visiting for the D day anniversary and we just have to stop for a photo.

We head up to the TIP Village in the Marai to register. There’s a lot of milling around and getting crossed off various lists, finally at the swimming desk where we get our welcome bags full of promotional literature, one condom & lube plus a pink wrist band to prove we’ve paid to get into the party and a blue wrist band for this event. No one else from Out To Swim is around but Michael spots a woman involved in the Gay Games when he was sailing & I run into Christophe from our Prague relay team. It’s all a bit of a non event but we buy a beer and stand about, clarify the warm-up and start times for tomorrow, then wander down some side streets in search of some French food.

There’s the usual issue with breakfast, eating early enough before a race so we’re the first customers. Getting to Piscine George Vallery is easy and quick on the Metro so I’m one of the first to warm up. There hasn’t been any start sheets sent out so until they are posted up on the wall, we are unaware that Bob McInnes has entered which brings our swimming team up to six. First up for me is the 800 metres freestyle which, in a 25 metre pool means 32 lengths and a lot of counting. There are flip charts with the number of lengths remaining and I’m asked if I have someone to flip my chart. No. But the very nice woman who has been flipping for the previous swimmer offers to flip for me. Phew! I can’t quite believe my time of 14 minutes 07 seconds on the board, but it is correct. I’ve cut my personal best by 16 seconds and I’m thrilled.

The Out To Swim Syncro team arrive and they compete for two hours while we have lunch and cheer them on. By the end of the day, we’ve all won medals. I’m disqualified in the 100 metres Backstroke for an incorrect turn so I miss out on a second gold but our 4 x 50m Freestyle relay team comes second. It’s been unclear if relay entries count towards our five individual events. It turns out, that they don’t so that’s a relief. We are all exhausted at the end of it, but stay to cheer on the Syncro team in their second session.

Abraham is originally from the Philippines, lived in London for a while and swam with Michael. He’s come to watch, and we go off in search of dinner, conversation and flirtatious waiters. The rest of the evening goes quickly and soon it’s time for sleep and recovery. There’s no rush for breakfast on Sunday as the programme starts with the 1500m and that will take several hours. In the event we arrive just as the womens’ heat is ending and are able to cheer on David D. He swam so well yesterday and now he wins the last and fastest heat, turning in a personal best – amazing. Robert Jolly, who swims for Paris Aquatique part of the year and in Australia for the rest, remembers me from Antwerp. He’s in Michael’s age group and is very fast. Likewise I’ve got a man from Aqua Homo just turned 60 and he’s winning all the gold medals in my events today. We are, however content with silver medals as we’ve turned in some very good times. Another personal best for me in the 200m back stroke and a nifty 100m freestyle. David D wins a medal in breaststroke (which he doesn’t like) and Jerome does likewise in his Butterfly race, in which he swallows water and just about drowns. In the lunch break, with the roof of the pool open, the attractive and youthful Paris Aquatique team decorate this lovely pool by sunbathing on floats. We get to know Robert Jolly, who like his name is a laugh. There’s some lovely swimming to watch and learn from, tumble-turns to admire and strugglers to applaud for just having a go. Oh, and I should mention the physiques – Pecs, abs, bums all in perfect shape.

Finally, it’s the medley relay which, after a slight reshuffle of personnel, we win gold and Philippe is beside himself with joy. Champagne is handed out to all, so that Michael & I have to go back to the hotel and sleep it off before dinner and going on to the party, which begins at 10pm. As we walk from restaurant to party venue, the sky is alive with lightning in the distance. There’s an almighty queue when we get there, right around the block so we almost give up as we are both unaccustomed to queuing for clubs these days. It moves quite quickly though and we are given a drink ticket and fight our way into a large sweaty room packed solid with bodies. The show has been delayed so that we can all get in and when it does start, we can’t see or hear very well as there are too many people and they are talking and shouting above the performers. It’s all a bit of a disaster and we are about to go when we run into the OTS water polo guys. They’ve brought 4 teams and one of them came fourth. There’s talk of going to another bar but we’ve had enough for one day and walk back to République via Bastille. One metro stop away, the heavens open with hail-stones and we take shelter under an awning. In a gap, we scuttle into the Metro and by the time we get to République, it’s all over and much cooler.

We can hardly move our bodies to get out of bed the next morning and only just make breakfast. We’ve now got over an hour to walk through the Ile De la Cité, along the Left Bank, take a very short turn in the Tuileries then walking in glorious sunshine through the centre of the Louvre en route to Brunch in the Marais. This last event is much more manageable and we sit down under a canopy in a cool courtyard to be served a great meal. We’re joined by a Parisien squash player so Michael gets an opportunity to practice his French conversation. There are some basketball players from Berlin who are joined by a team mate, originally from Israel. He’s a dancer/choreographer and is very entertaining. His German isn’t that good so we all end up speaking English. Patrick (one of the swimming officials) joins. He’s Canadian but has worked here as a translator for 40 years. Two of the Germans have to go and are replaced by another Canadian/Israeli who lives in London. The conversation is excellent and varied and we’ve forgotten the disaster of a party last night.

Prague Spring – Sunday

It seems that these European sporting meets always have a Brunch on the day after and Ive signed up for it.

The Pavilion Grébovka is set in an attractive park and looks like a gingerbread house basking in the sunshine. I meet up with the three French Guys and proceed to work our way through a feast. Everything is good except the coffee. Theres an offer of a free walking tour around Praha in the afternoon so I have to hang around for this to begin. Pavel is a gay professional tour guide and he promises a somewhat subversive view of things. He wants to show us the history of the Czech Republic and its relationship with neighbours, the rest of the world and homosexuality. There are 10-12 guys on the tour some of them are from Germany, one guy from Austria, a local gay couple (the younger one comes from Slovakia) and the masseur who is from Prague but now lives in Israel.

We begin in Wenceslas Square, which is more of a boulevard sweeping down from the Museum towards the Old Town Square. Pavel tells us this is where, in the past, you could pick up a guy for sex. We see a memorial to Jan Palach a young student who set himself alight in protest at the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 see: http://www.radio.cz/en/section/czechs/jan-palach-the-student-whose-self-immolation-still-haunts-czechs-today

Canal which was Venice in Film Casino Royal

Pavel shows us the contrast between a Soviet designed building and those of a more elegant era. Time is short as some of the party have to leave. They are catching a train and though we dont have time to go to the station we are told about the Kinder Transport bronze statues which are companions to those at Liverpool Street Station in London. Theres also a statue of a Czech kissing a Soviet Soldier which Pavel thinks is very homo erotic, supposedly to show gratitude for being saved. From what is not clear. For the benefit of the Slovakian, Pavel tells us that Slovakia collaborated with the Nazis by handing over their Jews. Prague was apparently one of the first cities in Europe to welcome Jews and consequently there is evidence still of a once thriving community and you can still see the Orthodox on the streets. Everywhere on buildings there are the names of the streets and district we are in. The old ones (germanised) have not been taken down and co-exist with modern Czech versions. To understand all this we have to do some history and as we are standing in Wenceslas Square under the statue of St Vaclav this is a good place to start with the story of Bohemia. There is a very complicated theory of how the word Bohemian came in to being, involving the Roma, who were originally from India via Bohemia and when asked (in France) where they came from the answer was Bohemia, because thats where they were last. We get the story of protestant Bohemia being subsumed into the Hapsburg Empire, returning to Catholicism and being forced to speak German. This is to be a running gag for the benefit of the Austrian and Germans.

They take it all in good part as we make our way to the Castle area on the other side of the river. Here we enter fabulous public gardens around the parliament buildings. The Castle where the president lives is above us as is the Cathedral. The President is allegedly an alcoholic and has been given this job to keep him out of trouble while the Prime minister gets on with the work. The President is anti gay and has also been on record saying that everyone should smoke and drink like him so that people will die younger and save the pension funds. I think that will only work if people have to pay for their healthcare.

Famous View of Prague and the charles Bridge from the river

We come down to the river to see a great view of the Charles Bridge and Old City.

But before we cross there are Pissing statues by David ?ern?. The Czechs are well know for taking the piss out of themselves and here, literally, are two men pissing on a map of their country.

There are more memorials to the revolution. Theres the John Lennon Pub unaccountably sitting in a quiet street. Lennon was never in Prague or the Czech Republic, but the Beatles songs greatly influenced the young and as their music was banned, records were smuggled in wearing Mozart dust jackets. In 1980 anticommunists painted Imagine on a nearby convent wall opposite the French Embassy. It was removed immediately but the wall remained a focus of dissident graffiti and remains ever changing today.

We cross the Charles Bridge noting the location of a Mission Impossible scene and looking at the propaganda statues on the bridge. In particular there is a plaque showing the martyrdom of St John. In 1393 Queen Sophias confessor refused to divulge her secrets and was killed by order of the king. Its supposed to be good luck to touch it. Various bits of brass have been kept looking clean by the constant touching. Pavel thinks that the stories change from time to time so that different parts of the brasses can be cleaned by the tourists.

By this time we have lost most of the party who have had to catch trains or go to the After Party. On the bridge, Pavel points out the Rudolfinum, named after the Hapsburg prince Rudolph who carried out a suicide pact with his lover at Mayerling. This music auditorium was used by the Germans in the war and the story goes that Hitler attended a concert there. He demanded that the statue of Jewish composer Mendelssohn be taken down. The staff had no idea which statue to remove and in the end they decided on the one with the largest nose which turned out to be Wagner. We turn right over the bridge to take a brief look at the National Theatre but the real prize is the Theatre where Václav Havel worked as a stage hand.

Václav Havel's Theatre — Václav Havel’s Theatre

We wander around the streets looking at insignias on the businesses, all the while noting the German and Czech versions of street signs. We pass the Gay sauna next to a church and now there are only three of us who eat at a traditional Czech restaurant. The beer is as usual excellent and the meal, which arrives at speed, is tasty and cheap. I have to leave now if Im to make the evening concert at St Nicholas in the Old Town Square. The ensemble is comprised of four violins, a viola, cello and double bass. Theres a trumpeter and a Mezzo soprano who come in and out throughout the programme which last an hour. Mozart, Bach, Handel, Franck and Vivaldi are on the programme. I realise its a mixture of what can be achieved with the forces available and what the popular tunes are. The audience are all tourists from all over the world. Some applaud between movements but it doesnt matter and the artists are gracious.

Ive an early flight in the morning and decide to take the hotel car so theres no time for breakfast. Its German Wings on the way home. They are more relaxed and comfortable than Ryan Air but I could have done without the long stop in Köln, where I have breakfast and buy Swiss chocolate from the duty free at much the same price as Sainsburys.

Saturday Prague Rainbow Spring

Saturday dawns cold and bleak. Swimming is part of the International LGBT games including Badminton, Bowling, Golf, Squash, Tennis, a trail run, table tennis and Volleyball. For me it’s the usual morning routine eating breakfast at least two hours before swimming. The journey to the pool is by metro and bus, it’s easier than anticipated. A bus arrives almost immediately and I think it prudent to ask if I’m going in the right direction. It’s no use trying to pronounce Czech words as several of the letters have completely different sounds and they just look at you blankly, so I point to the stop on the brochure I got from registration. Yes I’m on the right bus. There’s a screen showing the progress of the bus, the next stop and several beyond, so further reassurance arrives when my stop is indicated.

The pool is part of the Charles University but situated in an outlying suburb of communist era social housing. Blocks of apartments have been brightened up with coats of pain and replacement double glazed windows. I seem to be the only one arriving at the pool but down at the dressing rooms there are staff to hand me a padlock and key. There are a few others changing and I get talking to a French guy from Lyon. He swims with a straight club there. He knows of a couple who belong to Paris Aquatique and soon has me organised to make up a relay team which we call Out in Paris. Everyone seems to know of Out to Swim London so it’s good to be representing the club here even if I am the only one.

It’s a small meet and we’re allowed three entries plus relays. I’ve had the start list and noted that I’m the oldest competitor here today. I’m also the only one in my age group, so I’ll be checking that my times are respectable. I’ve been to New Zealand for a week and although I trained twice with Team Auckland Master Swimmers I fear all the flying may be a problem. It’s not and my times are OK. The competition starts at 11 and the events seem to fly by as apart from the 200 metres freestyle and the 100m Individual Medley, everything else is 50 metres. The commentator does everything in English and we are a bit surprised when he announces the 500 metres butterfly. He continues in this way, but no one does more than 50. There’s an hour for lunch with free food and coffee and the afternoon session is over by 3pm. Our relay team has done well but there are no age group categories for these so we don’t beat the sexy young Romanian team. We have the use of the pool to swim down for the rest of the afternoon and there is a free masseur provided and I decide to take advantage as its all been quite concentrated.

There’s time for an afternoon nap before venturing out to a local eatery which seems to be serving traditional Czech food. I’m shocked to find that people are smoking inside and the waiters take no notice of me so I have to really insist on getting a seat. I end up sharing a table with a young man and his girlfriend. She looks very bored and he casts me an occasional uneasy glance. It’s a steak house – though it’s pork, not beef. Mine comes in a creamy sauce with chips which are the best I’ve ever tasted. The side dish of vegetables is green beans and baby carrots – very salty and from the freezer. It all gets washed down with the usual excellent local beer.

I’m off to the Rainbow Spring Party by tram. Again, it all seems complicated as the No 9 (because of road works) has become the No 29 but I’ve got instructions from the hotel concierge and all is well. I’m going to watch the Gay Theatre which precedes the party in the icy cold warehouse venue. Divadlo-Leti is presenting what the postcard says is Gay Theatre performed ‘in Czech with simultaneous interpreting into English’. It’s a play for one actor called After Frederick by Mattias Brunn a gay actor and playwright, written in 2007, so it’s a little bit dated. The protagonist falls in love with Frederick and has to come out to his Mum and Dad, both of whom are OK with that. The next hurdle is leaving home to move in with Frederick and all is well for two years until Frederick begins to act strangely. He’s HIV positive and so is our hero, who falls to pieces. Frederick commits suicide leaving the boy to pick up the pieces and carry on. So it’s quite grim. The staging is very Eastern European so that the floor is a checker board and the actor can only step on white squares of vinyl. If he wants to cross the stage, he must lay a trail of white squares to walk on. By the climax the white squares are everywhere leaving one mirror tile for reflection. Then in a frenzy the actor scrunches up the tiles and throws them into disarray. The scenery is doing the sub-text. I’m the only taker for the simultaneous translation, which has involved another actor behind a glass screen speaking the English version into my headphones. I can sort of hear both languages but it’s best to concentrate on the English and the actor doing it is good.

The warehouse venue is freezing and I watch the company dismantle the lighting rig and pack up the set whilst waiting for the party to begin. Various heat blasters have been deployed and I make the mistake of getting a red wine (which is terrible) instead of Czech beer (which is fabulous). My French colleagues arrive and we chat and shiver. The music is heavy and dull so by 11.30 I’m ready to catch the tram back to my hotel.

Prague Rainbow Spring 2014

I have ten hours to get from Heathrow to Stanstead, time to go home, shower, have lunch, wash clothes, water plants and have a snooze. Ryan Air is slightly less stressed than it used to be now that there is seat allocation. We travellers still seem to have pavlovian conditioning to rush and queue. The airline likes to keep up the hysteria and has introduces a new threat – only the first ninety items of hand luggage can get into the cabin – the rest will be put in the hold. You have to admire their ruthless efficiency though. No sooner has the plane landed and passengers cleared but we are on and seated. There’s no time for cleaning of the aircraft and no time for safety instructions – they are printed on the back of the non-reclining seats. Steffano from Out to Swim is on this flight, but he’s coming to the games to play volleyball. We meet up again at an ATM in Prague Airport which doesn’t want to oblige. I go through customs and find my pre-ordered transport and a cash dispenser which works. I’ve splashed out on the Art Nouveau Palace Hotel, not wanting to repeat my budget experience in Amsterdam for Valentine’s weekend. There’s a cute young trainee on the desk who checks me in charmingly and I’m relieved that it’s all gone smoothly having left Auckland early on the 30^th April and arrived in Prague late on the 1^st May.

BBC weather has told me to expect rain, so it’s a surprise to find its sunny and warm on Friday. Five metres outside the Hotel, I turn back for my umbrella, just in case. Heading for the town square is always a good place to start and on my way there, stop to observe a fine Art Nouveau theatre – there is a Prague Spring Arts Festival on this weekend and already there are groups of tourists gathering around their tour guides. The Old Town Square has a tower and I can see people looking down from it. That, I decide is my first point of call – nothing like a bird’s eye view to get one’s bearings. The tower, with astrological clock is part of the Town Hall and it’s economical to get a ticket for both. At the top, all the major sights are pointed out on brass plaques in Czech and English. A plan is evolving and there’s time to visit a couple of churches on the square.

I fancy Our Lady before Tyn. It’s one of the oldest with dramatic turrets. There’s no obvious way in as restaurants have been built in front of the façade. I find a side entrance though a classical record shop and see immediately that the interior of the church appears to be mainly gothic in its design and construction with a towering nave but the addition of baroque ornamentation and guilt ruins a once fine piece of architecture. Now, I’m OK with baroque music but architecture and décor is tedious. It’s off to St Nicholas on a corner of the square. This is a true baroque building and works, if you’re into wedding cakes. It’s surprisingly small considering the high dome and has a chandelier too large for the space.

It’s time for the Town Hall Tour (in English) which is well worth it. The pragmatic authorities of mediaeval Prague purchased three houses in the centre of the old town and added a tower.

They’ve retained the individual characters of the houses so it doesn’t look much like a Town Hall. Our guide explains the functions of various rooms – an ex chapel sustained bomb damage in the war and has fine replacement stained glass windows.

A Court Room has statues of the Virgin Mary, St John the Baptist and other worthies to help the judges make the right decisions. Another room is done in Art Nouveau style – very common in this city – and is still used for government receptions. I didn’t know that the Czech Republic used to be known as Bohemia with monarchs such as Queen Ludmila and King Wenceslas (of carol fame) now treated as national saints. I once played Polixenes, the King of Bohemia in Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, but the geography is all wrong in the play as there is no sea coast here and it’s certainly not near Sicillia.

Our tour takes us far underground in what seems like dungeons. Actually, they are the ancient streets of Praha, covered walkways and shops which have been built upon over the

centuries, raising the city higher to avoid the floods. The river Tava still floods so one can only imagine what devastation they caused down at this level. The Town Hall tower is famous for its Astrological clock and we emerge to row upon row of tourists looking at it and the Hall, many of them listening to their tour guides through earpieces.

The sun shines and it’s a warm day, bringing all the tourists into the streets. Praha is a city for walking in and it’s crowded. I vaguely wander in the direction of the Jewish quarter where there are numerous synagogues, a Jewish cemetery and museum, but the crowds are too great and I find my way to the river and walk upstream.

It’s a lovely sight looking across to the castle and cathedral on a hill surrounded by various palaces of government. The President lives on one of them and the Prime Minister (real power) in a villa set apart to one side. On top of a neighbouring hill is a replica of the top part of the Eiffel Tower. Apparently the Czechs liked the original in Paris but couldn’t afford the whole lot. Still, it looks like there will be a good view of the City.

I pass the Charles Bridge, but it is crowded with tourists so I make my way past the gilt crowned National Theatre , which is having its façade restored -onwards to see the Dancing House – otherwise known as Ginger and Fred. It’s the first new building in Paha city centre for fifty years. The Architect is Vlado Milvnic supported by Frank Gehry. The original building was owned by a Dutch company and this one was opened in 1992. Twelve years later it is still looking for tenants. The people of Praha hate it passionately but I think it’s great. With reference to neighbouring buildings it is

both elegant and amusing. There’s a good view across the river from the top and you can have a classy meal in the restaurant. Other floors are given over to modern art exhibitions – the current installations vary from good to poor – but worth a look.

I cross the river and begin to walk down the other side but it’s time for a late lunch and a tapas restaurant nestled on an island in the river presents itself. There’s only a handful off customers at this hour but that doesn’t prevent the service from being slow and surly. I order two dishes and the waitress says ‘Is that all?’ in such a way as to suggest that I’ve not ordered enough, but when they do come I’ve ordered plenty. The clear plastic sides of the restaurant are lowered, the sky darkens, it rains and the wind blows. I’m glad I brought the brolly. I get as far as the Charles Bridge and decide to call it a day. There are statues and brasses to rub for luck on the way across the bridge, trying all the time to prevent the umbrella from blowing out. Later, I venture out to the Old Square for a Czech feast as the menu describes it. Once again I’m sitting outside under heating with slow service and still feeling cold. In spite of this, it’s been a day of unexpected beauty. Everywhere you look in the old city of Praha, it’s pretty and elegant no wonder it’s so popular.

Swim Camp High on Endorphins

Swim CampHigh on Endorphins

It is with some trepidation that I sign up for a weekend swim camp at Cobham Hall, Kent. Organised by my Out to Swim mates Lucille and Lizzie, it promises four swim sessions in over forty-eight hours. I like to swim three times a week leaving at least a day for my body to recover, repair and prepare for the next onslaught. At sixty-two I’m in the ‘yes’ to experience phase of life with a hefty NO on hand only if absolutely necessary.

I resort to Google Maps to look at the area and plan my travel arrangements. Sole Street seems to be the closest station and I plan to take my bike and cycle in a leisurely fashion up to the hall a few miles away. Taking a bike requires leaving London before 4pm, so with all the times and changes on a piece of paper, I set off. What could go wrong? I alter my plan and get on an earlier train at Peckham Rye which isn’t going to Bromley South so I spend several hours changing trains and heaving the pannier laden bike over bridges to different platforms – still arriving before most of the others.

Cobham Hall is stunning. Originating in the Elizabethan era, with a Georgian front stuck on, it was the seat of the Darnleys and is now an independent girls’ school started in the 60s. The leaves are not quite out on the trees as I cycle down the driveway past vast swathes of daffodils.

We are not accommodated in the main building but in Brooke House around the back. This is a 70s building opened by the then minister for Education and Science, Margaret Thatcher, but it is right next to the 25m swimming pool.

We’re divided into ‘Swim Camp’ and ‘Lessons’ groups, the latter comprised of ‘Ducklings’ (don’t ask) and ‘Development’. Our first session is 7.30 – 9.00pm with our coach for the weekend, Martin. The pool is in a sort of glass shed and has an ingenious plastic lining which solves the problem of leaky tiles. There’s a yellow hosepipe across each end as a marker for turning, but I can’t see well enough to tumble and when I do, in the cloudy water, end up in the next lane or crash into Emily who is leading. Eventually I get the hang of it and I become less of a hazard. The schedule has been dictated by head coach Michelle and this session includes a hefty kick set. I’m a bit surprised at the end as it hasn’t felt harder than our normal ninety minutes sessions at the Marshal Street pool, but my legs are cramping all over. I have to sit on the end of the pool for a minute until they stop convulsing so I can stand up and stagger back to Brooke House. We’ve all brought post swim food and I assemble a tuna salad. Gillian has brought fantastic scones and Michel, a delicious home made mackerel pâté. We’ve all been instructed by our leader, Lizzie, to bring cake, but the ‘Ducklings’ have covered up the cake so we won’t eat it until they finish their session at 10pm. There’s beer and some of us have brought wine so we all have a jolly time, but no midnight feasting as we’re all too tired and go to bed. I take a couple of Ibuprofen to help with the pain, but the bed is too narrow for a great sleep.

Saturday morning and it’s an hour long session before breakfast. I stock up with a banana and two cups of tea and am surprised to find the swim completely manageable, no cramps or pain in evidence. We later find out that the plan has been modified. I may get though this weekend after all. A quick nap follows (I’m old enough to nap when I feel like it) followed by a walk. Everyone else is doing a circuit training session in the gym lead by Lizzie, but I’m conserving energy for the two hour session in the afternoon. I’d seen what looked like a grand tree-lined approach on Google Maps and went of to explore, enjoy the daffodils and check out how far to the village pub.

The grand approach hasn’t really happened as the trees are far too young and there’s not really a drive way. By the time I get back, most people are relaxing and I join some of the women who are watching Alex and Emily playing tennis.

How can they have the energy to do that? Meals are in the old house and lunch is tasty pasta and baked potatoes. We’re all carbed up for the afternoon session, but first I have to walk it all off through the gardens and woods of the estate. The ‘Ducklings’ are first and we swim at 4 – 6pm. I’ve never done a two hour swim before, but Martin has it all planned and we are surprised how quickly it goes. Dinner is at 6.30 so it seems that we swim, eat, swim and eat. I have no inclination to walk or even cycle to the pub in the evening and in fact my head is in such a strange place and my body isn’t hurting so I deduce that I’m high on endorphin. Endorphins are related to Morphine and are produced by the body as a result of strenuous exercise. They work to counteract pain and also in older people, stimulate mental activity. That’s why I’m buzzing, I won’t need Ibuprofen tonight. The remains of the cake, beer and wine are consumed and I leave the hard core to play a game called ‘I’ve never done …’

Sunday morning before brunch is only an hour and I feel my shoulders about to give way on a pull set. I’ve had this body quite a long time and know what it can do, so time to just drop out of a couple of lengths. It’s been a great weekend and we’ve avoided lane rage in lane 3. Awards are given out at brunch – not quite sure what they are for, but Michael & I get a joint award, we think for being old and getting through it. Time to dash though as I’ve got a train to catch.

It’s now Tuesday and the endorphins are wearing off – need to get back to the pool.

GLLAM Gay & Lesbian London Aquatic Meet at the Olympic Pool

GLLAM 2014. There’s a ring about it reminiscent of London 2012, same venue eighteen months on. It’s Saturday the 29^th March and the Gay & Lesbian London Aquatic Meet is happening at the Aquatic Centre in the ex Olympic Park and I’m swimming.

I’m normally a bit nervous before a race meeting and have been studying the start sheets working out who is in my heats, their times and age group and how fast I have to swim to win medals. All this, plus the sense of occasion, swimming in the same pool as all those heroic swimmers has me walking around the house in a demented state. Fortunately my best mate Ros from Hastings has come up to cheer me on, so I have to be a bit sane.

We get to the park entrance too early and sit in glorious sunshine outside The Cow Pub, waiting for family member Geraldine. She is also going to cheer for Out to Swim. In 2012 it was complicated, going through security and ticket checks then crossing endless bridges to get to the pool. This time it’s easy. Just walk a short distance from the pub to the pool. The transformation is impressive. The huge wings which accommodated hundreds of seats have gone, replaced by elegant windows east and west revealing a fabulous piece of architecture. The roof curves like a manta ray on the outside, while the ceiling inside resembles the belly of a whale. First sight of the empty pool is breath-taking. The blue water looks so inviting and calming, as if it has just appeared on earth from nowhere, an immaculate conception. Everyone is in a high state of excitement and we greet team mates and friends and coaches, all whirling around in a daze. There’s a host of Out to Swim members in bright blue GLLAM tee shirts fluttering decoratively around preparing to be volunteers. For various reasons they are not swimming today but making sure the event runs smoothly.

Time to concentrate however and after settling my friends in the spectator gallery I have to find the changing rooms and get organised. I’m planning to nip up and join them in between races and so leave them with my printed out start sheets. I’m off to warm up as the 200 metres freestyle is the first event and I’m in heat 3. The pool has been divided in two with a boom reducing it to 25 metres. Somehow it looks short, but that’s because it’s 10 lanes wide. The remainder of the pool is available for warm ups and swim downs during the event. The water is delicious, not chlorine clogged or over-heated and my first 6 lengths, which are normally a struggle, go smoothly so that 300 m are soon over. Better do some backstroke – all the fast guys from club lanes 1 & 2 are getting in this lane. Well, they will just have to wait. Team mate Lucille recommends a few HVO’s so that’s next on the agenda – starting off fast for 10 M then relaxing. By now lanes zero and 1 are designated for sprinting, so it’s time to get the measure of the starting blocks. They have that little raised ledge which gives me a nice little push from the back leg – lovely.

I’m now aware of how many people are actually here. Poolside is buzzing and the spectator stand looking down on our 25 metres of pool is crowded. There are swimmers from all over the world: Barcelona, Brussels, Switzerland, Canada and Australia.

Northern Wave has come down from Manchester to join in and London clubs, Spencer, Y Swim and Otter are here in force. Maidenhead has sent some particularly fast older swimmers to give us a run for our money and the georgeous youngsters from University (LUST) are fast and decorative.

Jean (Stephen’s Mum) Is doing the announcements again and now with a fantastic PA system, can be heard in her full glory. We prepare to welcome the officials but there’s a glitch as the traditional ‘Chariots of Fire’ music is briefly interrupted by a pool announcement. The specially trained volunteer time keepers process in as do the lane judges – including Coach Hillary – there to make sure our turns are legal. Today they are working double time as they each have to watch two lanes.

Heat one of the 200 m freestyle is called, but only two swimmers turn up. Heat two is better attended and we have to be patient as new competitors are unfamiliar with protocol – what the various whistles mean and waiting in the pool while the next heat starts. It’s a learning curve and that’s what today is all about. By the time we get to my heat, comprised of older, seasoned competitors, the pace picks up accelerating with each heat as the swimmers get (in the main) younger and faster. Everyone complains about the 200m freestyle and yet we’ve entered. A few wise ones have dropped out as it is a punishing distance. Not long enough to be settled into, it’s a sort of long sprint. I’m determined not to go out too fast, but to make things more interesting I’ve got Peppe doing butterfly in the next lane. His entered time is only slightly faster than mine, so I let him go ahead to avoid being splashed, then attempt to catch him up on the last length. I almost do it, but not quite. Now, my normal routine would be to do a swim down then go up to watch other races, but everything is happening so fast that there’s no time to go up to the stand and besides the heat sheet which I printed off some days ago has changed and I’ve not noticed there’s an update. Some people, who shall remain nameless, miss their races, so there’s a scramble to look at Head coach, Michelle’s up to date copy. Michelle and Coach Martin are on poolside watching everyone swim as is Steve, who also coaches for Otter. I’m doing the Individual Medley (one length of each stroke) which I haven’t swum since I was nineteen. I’ve been doing some work on butterfly and my nemesis, breaststroke. In the end it goes quite well but this might be for the last time.

Interspersed are 25 m races for the learners and ducklings. Lessons Coach, Vicky has done amazing work teaching people to swim and passing them on to the development lanes.

This is their chance to get experience of racing and we all cheer them on enthusiastically. Prizes can be collected once the age group results go up on the wall and Oonagh and team are sitting behind a window, crunching numbers and doing things with a computer. Jean continues to announce, ranging around with a radio microphone telling us who is swimming in which lane and managing to interpolate impromptu interviews with competitors from all the clubs and volunteers. Distance Coach Alex, who negotiated the deal here at the Centre is looking cool and glam, seemingly imperturbable in all the excitement

There’s a break of ten minutes between sessions – only enough time to swim-down after a relay (which hurt) before diving back into the fray for three more races and a medley relay. I’ve elected to do Backstroke (number one stroke) but all the others are younger and faster – time for cramp to set in. No wonder as it’s been seven races in three and a half hours.

It’s off to the crowded & noisy Cow pub for a beer. I take a last look at the pool which, now deserted, has returned to tranquillity as if none of this had ever happened. But we know it did and our bodies are telling us it did.

While the World Was Watching Crimea…

While all eyes were on the situation in Crimea, the Russian Open Games for LGBT athletes was being systematically harassed in Moscow. Rob from Out to Swim was the only non Russian to turn up for the swimming. Pressure from the authorities forced swimming pools to cancel bookings as organisers scrambled around the city to find alternative venues to no avail and Rob was awarded a gold medal for turning up. Other sports such as Volley Ball and Tennis fared better. There is a sort of mention in the Washington Post but the gay news site Huffington Post has the story.

The Launch of Twenty-Two Eighty-Four

Its difficult to tell how long it took to write Twenty-Two Eighty-Four.

IMGP5772Me & David — David Gee & Me at Housmans bookshop

Looking back at the date of my History of the World document on my trusty old memory stick its 2004. That would suggest ten years, but there have been huge gaps. Looking at one of my old hard-backed notebook, this one is so old it is foolscap; I’ve discovered all the preparation notes written in pencil. There are descriptions of various locations and characters and the family tree of the central family, the Kuceras. Then theres a loose sheet of paper, also written in pencil with a time-line of what happened on various continents around the world. Theres no orderly system in this notebook, and a few pages further on I come across notes from the Genes and Society Festival dated 26/4/03, so I must have been thinking about this for a while. Now Im looking up my old diaries and find a.m. writing entered on 23 & 24 May with Gay Authors Workshop on the 25^th. The first time I attended Gay Authors Workshop however, was on Sunday 22 June according to Dairy.

IMGP5778Books — Paradise Press Books for sale

In July I’ve got more Writing in Diary, but this is for the Espresso Writing weekend with Mark Ravenhall. We wrote a play in a weekend! A week later I was sitting in shock getting feedback on my play from Mark. My Mum had died the night before and I was off to New Zealand for a funeral. I missed the next GAW meeting but managed to make the August workshop. Theres nothing now until November in the Diary because Im on tour with storyteller Rangimoana visiting Village halls around the country. Then with a long planned family holiday in New Zealand December and January, its not until February 2004 that I settle down and begin to write seriously and attend the monthly Gay Authors Workshops. I would read a chapter a time, which gave me an incentive to keep the copy flowing and also do re-writes and corrections. Theres nothing like reading out loud to spot mistakes and typos. I seem to continue attending intermittently on Sundays throughout 2005 and early 2006.

Things keep cropping up on Sundays in 2007 and often if I havent written anything I dont go to the workshops. I must have had a New Year resolution to write more as in January 2008 Ive written Writing day and Half Day Writing in my diary. Clearly this is another creative spurt and Im back doing the workshops. By early 2009 the writing is on the wall for creative funding and I decide to take a part time job as a doctors receptionist. This leaves little time for writing and when in 2010 Phillip & I go travelling around the world, I swap to travel bloging and writing 2284 stops. Ive left my characters stranded in Istanbul where they stay for almost two years.

The travel blog is a great success and when I return to London late in 2011, I have it published. I immediately solve the problem of how to rescue my characters in Istanbul and complete the book quite quickly over the winter months by going twice a week to the newly opened and heated Dalston Library. Most of 2013 was taken up with rewrites, edits, travelling to Norfolk to do a photograph for the cover and yet more edits, critiques from friends and colleagues followed by more corrections, until I know just about every sentence in the book by heart. I dont of course, and have to rehearse my selected bits in advance of the launch last Wednesday at Housmans book shop in Kings Cross. Theres a certain significance launching a book about a sex-worker in this part of town, even though the regeneration of St Pancras and Kings Cross stations is transforming the area. I also agonise over what to read as its quite difficult to avoid frequent sex scenes albeit described quite clinically. My teenage kids will be in the audience. In the end I decide not to worry. The story is what it is and friend, colleague and avid reader Jo has already told me its a page turner. Another friend, Ros says its well written, and thats a relief, but what will my friend from the gardening club in her late 80s make of it?

Theres over 30 people attending and the long narrow shop seems crowded with friends, relatives and members of Gay Authors Workshop and the publishing co-op, Paradise Press. David Gee goes first with an excerpt from his book The Bexhill Missile Crisis. This is set in the early 60s so its a rather large leap ahead to the year 2284 and my three pieces where I introduce sets of characters from different locations in the book. It all seems to go down well and David returns to read from his older publication Sheik-Down. Set in a gulf state and foretelling the possible outcomes of an Arab Spring. We have a short question and answer, the only one being from my friend Phil, who wants to know about the transition from being a playwright to novelist. Its good, having taught playwriting for so many years to realise that Ive taken my own advice, particularly about setting up the landscape and characters, so that the story almost tells itself. Whats even better, I sell copies, so with my insulated rucksack/picnic bag on my back, packed with un-drunk white wine and juice, surplus snacks in a bag for life and the remainder of the books in a small travel bag on wheels, its home to eat and have a glass of wine.

I could never answer GAW questions, How many words or pages will it be? I always think that a piece of writing is as long as it needs to be. How long did it take to write? It took as long as it took, in spurts, maturing in the pauses and gaps for mulling and reflection.