Diary – 21 June 2008

The summer solstice is upon us. Time to get out the woad, ramp up the chanting and perform some ancient pagan rituals involving fire, water, air and earth. It might be very cheering to get blue and naked in the countryside, and it would certainly take our minds off the current doom and gloom that is our daily news. So why not? ‘Because it’s idiotic,’ was my 19-year-old son’s response. My suggestion that he might like to celebrate the longest night with a bonfire and marshmallows on the wild heathland overlooking the sea in Norfolk was met with a withering look. ‘It’s probably illegal,’ he said. ‘And how old do you think I am anyway?’

London is now my home again after 15 years of living in Norfolk. I have moved to Paddington, to the top floor of a crumbling Regency cake of a house, with tumbling stucco and undesirable water features on the stairwells both inside and out. Apparently the Westbourne river flows merrily under the building, often escaping Thames Water’s boundaries and contributing to a mediaeval dungeon atmosphere in our exterior cellars. Last week I made a trip down the outside steps to look for the gas meter. It wasn’t there, but in the most subterranean cavern was a folded copy of that day’s Financial Times and a mattress. My mind was fixed in pursuit of the gas meter, so I thought for a mere split second, ‘How odd, who would want to come down here to read the paper? It’s the sort of place Fungus the Bogeyman would turn his nose up at,’ and continued on my mission. The next day, though, an email arrived from the residents of the basement flat.