The Indian Bean Tree

I have always loved trees, yet it has become a perennial disappointment that I can never remember their names, I mean species. So it will come as no surprise to you that my favourite of all trees is the Indian Bean Tree, a tree whose name falls easily on the ears of of an idiot, and whose leaves can be spotted, even at some distance, by a regular contact lens truant.

I first fell in love with this tree when I ricocheted through the tourists at Piccadilly Circus into the throng of expensive suits that marches up Piccadilly. Rushing to a work placement, I nevertheless clocked the tranquil churchyard, noting the way it sat nonchalantly back from the busy thoroughfare in front of St James's church, wishing I could linger.

I returned later that day to eat my lunch, resisting the urge to trace with my finger the initials of George VI that sit proudly in the intricate wrought iron gates, and passed through into the gloriously empty churchyard. It was only after I had ravenously devoured a sandwich - one which, in truth, deserved greater attention, given its pressed by virgin thighs price tag - that I was humbled to find myself sitting in the company of greatness.

Not two metres away, turmeric yellow leaves the size of horseshoes created a stunningly full, heavy-laden dome of foliage above the vintage trunk. On closer inspection, the leaves were heart- shaped, and looked a little like the exuberant misshapen hearts that kids draw in other kids' exercise books, relishing their first taste of rebellion.

Adding to the tree's splendour was a green medal which hung casually around the trunk. It confirmed the tree's status as a "Great Tree of London", if indeed further confirmation were needed.

The tree looked impervious to the sticky bustle of the busy street beyond the gates of the churchyard, as if soothed by the wisdom of age. Later that day I found out that it had achieved its standing under the sub category of "oldest", although I'm sure this particular tree could have satisfied any of the indicators of greatness on their website.

Given my growing affection for it over the next couple of weeks, I was delighted to find that my parents had planted an Indian Bean Tree in their garden. I can't wait for the opportunity to see the tree in flower, something I have not been fortunate enough to witness on my lunch breaks.

My parents' tree is growing well and, at under six feet, has already accrued the distinctive leaves. I have also been able, much to the amazement of my dad, to drop snippets of horticultural wisdom when the tree is mentioned. Just don't ask me to recognise a chestnut tree!

Market Mutterings

16:00 Ridley Road Market, Dalston.

Walking home through the market, armed with a paper bag full of veg, I was blissfully aware I was actually part of the scene. Unlike the ones moving fastest in the melee, the ones with the ubquitious orange florescent glow of polythene Sainsbury's bags cutting into their hands, hot- stepping through the market, their guilty eyes firmly to the ground as they hurry through the stalls.
As I passed the run down Mr Bagels - incidentally, the first bagel shop I've seen with a slot machine - and approached the butcher's on the corner, praising the civility of market trading in my head, a lady who looked like Quentin Blake's illustrations of Mrs Twit, but wearing Dunlop sportswear, tapped me on the shoulder.

Lady: Fifteh pee....I'll gis' yer a blow job.
Me:......... Neeeew thenkyew (my shock decapitating my ability to pronounce basic vowels)

Poisoned Mutton and Squealing Pigs

I found these two fascinating articles in "Late Extra! Hackney in the News" by David Mander. The book is a collection of articles and photographs taken from over 200 years, and provides an absorbing insight into the history of Hackney and its people, from the pages of the local newspapers.

London Magazine, 17 May 1787

A remarkable instance of the hand of Providential justice was exhibited last Monday at Hoxton. On the Saturday previous to that day, a man took the diabolical resolution of destroying his wife and children; to pepetrate which, he bought a leg of mutton, and rubbed it over with a considerable quantity of arsenic; so done, he took it home, and told his wife to dress the mutton on Sunday, and as he did not expect to be at home, he desired that she and the children might eat it, without waiting for him. On Sunday the mutton was dressed, but he was not coming home, his wife, not wishing to eat it without his being at dinner, made some yeast dumplings for herself and children, and left the mutton uneaten. He did not return that evening, and still the leg of mutton remained whole; but on Monday he came home and brought with him a few flat fish ( as supposed to save the appearance of guilt, expecting his family to have been poisoned). On seeing his wife, he, somewhat agitated, asked her, if she and the children were in health, and being answered that they were well, he asked whether they had eaten the mutton? The wife told him it had been dressed, but he not coming home they had made their dinner on dumplings and the mutton they had not touched. At that answer he appeared much vexed and surlily ordered his wife to dress him some of the flat fish. She immediately dressed him three, and he sat down and eat [sic] them. Directly afterwards, in great confusion, he asked his wife in what she had fried the fish, and on being told the dripping from the mutton which had been dressed on Sunday, he exclaimed 'Then I am a dead man.' He then made a full confession of his wicked intention, and in two hours afterwards, expired in great agonies.

c. 1788

An uncommon method of inhuman sport and which is to be celebrated weekly during the winter, was exhibited on Wednesday afternoon near the Shoulder of Mutton and Cat. In Sun Tavern Fields, viz a pig clean shaved, and soaped upon the tail, was turned out to be caught by any person, who holding it by the tail and throwing it over his head, was entitled to a gold laced hat, which was elevated upon a pole. Many attempts were made, but none of them effectual within the time of running, owing to the competitors pulling each other down etc. However the shrieking of the animal, and the halooning of the company, caused much diversion, to the disgrace of the brutes concerned.

The Number 38

The only redeeming feature of the Number 38 at 9am on a Tuesday morning is when it pushes through the crowds of the Junction tailed by an empty twin. As I took my seat, I was content that I had won my daily battle of morning madness in Dalston.

I had performed Ayrtonesque manoeuvres to outwit the hairpin of the dole queue at the Post Office, a Zidane turn past the stallholder chasing a watermelon making a break for freedom from Ridley Road Market. I'd even made up time from a tailback behind a wall of two rhino-sized ladies transporting their daily intake of their own body weight in Iceland Bags down Kingsland Road, creating a bottleneck that stretched all the way to Stoke Newington, arriving at the bus stop having skipped across Balls Pond Road with a blatant disregard for self preservation in moving traffic.

Content that the frantic game of grumpy musical chairs had less velocity with the options on offer, I took my seat in a leisurely way, nodding to myself in approval at the seating arrangements.

I first caught sight of my aisle neighbour when someone accidentally knocked him as they passed. He jumped up, "Cunnnttt", the last syllable stretched as long as his half-extended tiny legs could hold, buckling back into his seat as he crossed his final 't'.

He was wearing the signature footwear of a lunatic, those shoes that look like special issue, the type that make you wonder where you get them in adult sizes, the laces pulled so tight that the eyelets look like angry eyes.

He looked like a frenzied combination of Pee-Wee Herman, Mr Burns, and the banjo-playing boy from Deliverence. He was wearing a baseball cap with its dilapidated leather strap pulled as tight as his laces, producing a protruding cushion of flaky scalp. I watched as he eyeballed his free paper, a Steptoe grimace spread across his face. `It quickly became apparent that he wasn't actually reading it, pinching the pages to turn them with ear waxy long fingernails, which oozed cuticles that had the appearance of nicotine stained Polyfiller.

Suddenly an almighty cough erupted from opposite me. I looked up to see a smartly dressed Indian recoiling from a seemingly blood-draining inner explosion. It was swiftly followed by another that nearly lifted me out of my seat. He was in his fifties, immaculately turned out, sitting with his hands resting on his knees. Next to him sat his wife, in equally splendid Indian formal dress, looking calm and, perhaps somewhat resolutely - though there was no hint of it in her expression - staring out of the window, her gaze never faltering despite the velocity of the eruptions next to her.

I could feel my shoulders tensing with each gap of silence. I couldn't help but imagine, with my limited yet vivid biological understanding, that the silence was the phlegm sticking to his lungs before dripping and filling his air passages.

My eyes then wandered nervously over the shrinking aisle, as I noticed first that the lunatic had crossed his legs, and then that he was tapping thin air furiously with his foot. As we pulled past Angel tube, the Indian gentleman let out a rib-splitting cough, causing the lunatic to protrude a vulture-like neck over the aisle to stare at him. His aged skin was almost completely hairless, his lack of eyebrows accentuating the wrinkles that looked as if they had been filled and left stained by Iron Bru. Dark hairs protruded from in and around his nose, like angry black thorns standing in line. He kept on staring. For two more stops his tiny eyes pierced the coughing Indian, motionless, his mouth hung open. During this time, the Indian's wife continued to look calm, gazing through the window, admiring the rain polished pavements of Roseberry Avenue while her husband caught explosions from within on the palm of his well-cuffed hand, his neatly trimmed moustache twitching like an angry cat, before returning to still serenity between each outburst.

My eyes were again nervously drawn to the lunatic, who was now facing me from across the aisle, his eyes transfixed on a tissue in his hands. He meticulously started to extract the contents of his nose with his long, long fingernails, laying out each find like a piece of cold meat ready to be seasoned. Now I was aware of the term, "searching for rubies", when you subconsciously check the contents of your tissue post blow, but he was lining his grotesque treasures in single file.

As another cough whistled past me like a stray bullet from an air gun, I frantically searched for my nearest exit. As we passed Grays Inn Road, I knew I only had a couple of stops left. Jumping out of my seat, I performed a mini high jump kick to avoid the newspaper and tissue that spilled off the lunatic's lap, brushing against me. I saw the tissue land treasure side down and stick to the newspaper on the floor. As I stepped off the bus onto Clerkenwell Road and freedom, I saw the bus pull away, and thought to myself how much I'd like to see the look on the face of the person who innocently picks up that free newspaper.