Being threatened with a subpoena (London)

In my first two years in London, I lived in one of the bedsits on the first, second and third floors of a terraced house in Belsize Park.  The ground and basement floors made up another flat.

Towards the end of my two years there, the owner of an estate agent moved into the flat below with his family.

I then started to hear music emanating from the room next to our shared bathroom on the first floor.  One day, on my way to the bathroom, the door to that room was ajar: I could see that it was just a storage room kept by the landlord, who lived further down the road, full of spare furniture and bits and bobs, all thrown together.  Sitting among all this was a transistor radio, blaring out music.  I’d thought at the time that maybe the landlord had been working in there, repairing some furniture, and was just taking a break without bothering to switch the radio off.  However, after that day, whenever I went down to the bathroom, even in the middle of the night, I’d hear the radio still going — every single time.

One day, my landlord told me that the owner of the flat below tried to get him out on the grounds that he didn't live there.  (I think the chap downstairs owned the freehold to the whole house.)

Ah, I see, that was what the radio playing 24/7 was about:  my landlord was trying to make us tenants think he was actually living in that room.  I didn't like this sneakiness.

Not long after, I moved out to West Hampstead.  Because he had my new address (for forwarding my post), my ex-landlord turned up one night with his lawyer.  The lawyer explained the situation:  the case had gone to court, so they wanted me to be one of his witnesses — to say that he did indeed live on the premises.  I said I was sorry but I didn’t want to do that.  

I would've been more sympathetic had she not then tried to pressurise me by saying, “We can subpoena you, you know.  You will not be able to refuse then, if you were subpoena’d.”

Instead of making him lose face by saying I knew about his radio trick, I simply said, “It will not be to your advantage to do that.  I will have to tell the truth in court, so it will not be to your benefit to have me there as one of your witnesses.”  

She then had a little discussion with him in Greek, and they left immediately.

(London, 1977–1979)

Sanity-challenging conversations: 11 (London)

I was waiting at the Brent Cross bus terminus for the 189 bus when an old lady with an Irish accent (in her 70s; or early 80s?) sitting next to me asked, “Where does Finsbury Park go to?”  She had a big shopping bag of food bought at Sainsbury’s.

For a moment, I couldn’t process what she meant.  I said, “It doesn’t go anywhere.  It’s a place.”  Then, I saw that bus 210, going to Finsbury Park, had just pulled up, which must've been what prompted her question.  I said, “Oh, you mean where can one go from Finsbury Park?” as she must’ve been trying to establish if she could take bus 210.  “From Finsbury Park, you can go to Highbury, or to Stamford Hill.”  It was obviously not what she wanted, as she went off to ask someone else before I could give her more place names, entering into a long, gesticulating conversation with a young lady.

Bus 189 turned up, the old lady came back to ask the driver, “Do you go to Edgware Road?”  Driver said yes, so she boarded and sat in the seat by the door, facing the rest of the bus.  I got on after her, stopped by her seat, and said with a smile, “So, you’ve found your bus!” and sat in the seat the other side of the doorway, facing the front and facing her.

After taking a back route — down back streets, around housing estates — the bus got to Cricklewood, just before turning into Edgware Road, joining it about two-thirds of the way up Edgware Road.  

The old lady looked at me across the doorway and asked, “Should I get off here?”  I said, “I don’t know where you’re going, so I can’t tell you.”  I then got up and went over to her,  “Where do you want to go?”

Old Lady:  I want to go to Edgware Road.  I asked the driver, and he said this bus goes to Edgware Road.

Me:  But Edgware Road is a very long road.  Which bit of Edgware Road do you want to go?

OL:  I want to go to the end.

Me:  There are two ends.  Which end do you want to go to?

OL:  (getting cross and tetchy by now) END END!!

Me:  (still trying to be helpful)  This bus is heading for the Marble Arch end.

OL:  (still tetchy) Oh NO, I DON’T want to go to Marble Arch!

She got off when I did, but wandered off up the road before I could ask her any more questions to try and establish how I might help her get on the right bus.  I had to cross the road to change to a bus going to the north end of Edgware Road to get something, so had no time to run after her.

Thinking back about it now, I think she might’ve been wanting to go to Kilburn, which is an Irish area further down on Edgware Road, so bus 189 would’ve taken her there.

I also think now, from her behaviour and her communication style, that she was suffering from dementia.  How did she manage to buy a whole bagful of food, though, when her brain was in such a confused state?

(London, 2019)

“Knife mouth, beancurd heart” (London)

There is a Chinese saying — 刀子嘴、豆腐心 dāozi zuǐ, dòufǔ xīn / “knife mouth, beancurd heart” — for describing someone who has a tongue as sharp as a knife, but is actually soft-hearted underneath.

One particular example comes to mind.

When I was working at the Baker Street branch of the pub chain, I used to pick up the small plastic food boxes that were thrown out, to take home, wash and re-use.  They contain pre-portioned-out quantities of, say, baked beans (for English breakfast), or mushy peas (for fish and chips), and are thrown out once the contents have gone into the dish.  

As an ecologically-minded person, I simply cannot bear to see this one-off usage of these plastic boxes, even though the financial cost isn’t mine to bear.

One of the kitchen hands — let’s call him Adam — was a fiery character.  He was loud, swore a lot and complained a lot about things, and I often witnessed heated exchanges between him and another kitchen hand.

Adam saw me picking up the boxes one day, and said, in a harsh tone of voice, as was his wont, “What do you want that SHIT for?!?”  Even though he meant it metaphorically, I still felt a bit offended — “rubbish” would’ve been acceptable to me.  I explained that I was trying to recycle the boxes as much as possible, to save the environment.  He said nothing.

After that, I missed out on a few months of my once-a-week Saturday shift because of a couple of broken fingers from a fall.  

When I did eventually return to work, the first thing Adam said to me was, “Where have you been?!?  I’ve been collecting the boxes for you!!”  He led me to the storage room at the back where there was a huge plastic (rubbish bin) bag of the used plastic food boxes.  

I was so touched.

(London, 2014 and 2015)