Four things I wrote 50 years ago You may have had something similar, a small notebook used to record the spellings you needed checking when you were writing something in class. If we had a query we'd go and queue at Miss Green's desk and she'd tell you what the spelling was and you'd write it down. It was also the book in which you listed the words you'd got wrong in your exercise book and had needed to be corrected, so it paid to check first. Don't I have lovely handwriting? colourful is always a classic, conscious is pretty tricky for a ten year old and commanders-in-chief looks more like showing off. I see from the rest of the book that I was particularly focused on awkward plurals - echoes, heroes, octopuses, potatoes, tomatoes, thieves, volcanoes - or perhaps we just had a special lesson about words ending in o. I wonder what Miss Green thought when I asked her to spell frigid? Also you'll see that one of the words in my C section is incorrect, and it would be terribly easy to blame my teacher for this but it could just have been a transcription error. She got benefiting right on the opposite page so I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt. We did French in the top class one afternoon a week as preparation for big school. A nice European lady came in and talked to us and we repeatedly repeated things, often numbers, animals and colours. Just being able to count to ten would give us confidence later, which I suspect is why she never led us into the morass of the seventies and nineties. Almost everything we did was oral so as not to scare us with actual spellings, but occasionally Mrs L got us to draw pictures and label them with the proper accents and everything. We started with parts of the body, which is always a good choice for classroom demonstration, then moved on to two pages of clothes and the inevitable symbols for weather. I still look exactly like that pencil portrait, obviously. Où vas-tu? with the correct prepositions and had the first hint of the grammatical horrors of a language with two genders. I thought this was well advanced, but checking my primary school's curriculum today I see they start teaching French two years earlier and this term the top juniors are 'consolidating their knowledge of grammar' and being taught how to order in a café. C'est la vie. I think it's original, I don't think I was consciously copying any particular existing piece. It's not difficult to come up with a tune, but perhaps rather more prodigious to be able to write it down in proper notation on actual manuscript paper. It would have been devised on the violin because I couldn't play the piano, even though my parents had somehow acquired a second hand instrument in the hope that I might. I should say that the guitar chords were added later by an interested adult, I wouldn't have had a clue myself. Also I think the intention was that I would eventually end up conducting a rendition by the school orchestra, which admittedly was mostly recorders, but blimey how good is that title? This is the puzzles page in my hand-drawn magazine, Splodge. Alas my classmates weren't particularly interested, even when issue 1 came with a free strip of ½p Green Stamps, and I see I had to amend the closing date for the story competition from Nov 13th to Dec 12th using a strip of sellotape. Nobody responded anyway. Also this was a time before reproduction was viable so there was only ever one copy, hence the instruction Do Not Write Into The Above Squares!, which really didn't help circulation. Splodge ran to eight issues before I finally admitted to myself that nobody else wanted to read it, but hey here I am 50 years later subjecting a far wider public to my self-published ramblings so maybe it all started here, on two sheets of A4 paper.

They're like the buses, these rotisserie places. You wait years for a decent, affordable spit-roast chicken in the capital, and then two come along at once. one in Holborn closed (where I would go at least once every couple of weeks back in the day), then Kentish Town, then Tooting, and then after hanging on for a year or two the final spot in St John's Wood shuttered. Hélène Darroze's Sunday roast (sorry - Dimanche poulet) at the Connaught, and while some of the starter elements were very nice (particularly a genius-level chicken consommé and Armagnac shot - hook it into my veins) the main event was overcooked, dry and disappointing. And, of course, stupidly expensive. Knave of Clubs (in fact I believe they opened within a couple of months of each other) is Norbert's in East Dulwich, a much more modest operation than that grand old Victorian pub in Shoreditch (I'm sure Norbert's won't mind me saying) but still aiming to apply intelligence and skill to the business of roast poultry. The menu is short - very short, just the aforementioned chicken with sides and a couple of starters - but then that's the whole point of a specialist place like this. This is not a restaurant that does chicken, it is a chicken restaurant, and if you're vegetarian, well, you can find somewhere else to eat. We started with taramasalata which in itself was lovely but the salt and vinegar crisps it came with was, I think, a flavour too far for the same dish, the astringency fighting with the seafood. Much better would have been plain, I think. But still, an excellent tarama. didn't like it, and was offered something else. In a hapless attempt to salvage both mine and the restaurant's mistake I offered to pay for the first wine anyway, so we ended up in the end spending a small fortune on wine, not all of which we ended up drinking. The chicken, though, was just about worth the stress. A healthily thick, dark skin packed with spice and seasoning, a brined but not in the least bit 'hammy' flesh, some excellent crisp fries that held their structure and flavour until the last bite, and a supremely crunchy, fresh salad. Perhaps it wasn't quite the same level as the Turner & George chicken from the Knave, for an almost identical price (salad and fries are extra here, but included at the Knave) but was still worth the journey. We also found space for some nice cheese from Mons cheesemongers up the road, a gruyere style from Ireland which was a perfect temperature. Which didn't help our £72pp final bill but as I say, most of that was wine, whether we wanted it or not. I'm in two minds about Norbert's. On the one hand it is perfectly acceptable chicken for not a huge amount of money and it's an unpretentious little addition to this corner of East Dulwich. On the other hand the whole business with the wine left us wishing the whole experience had gone differently, and yes it doesn't compare well with a certain other rival rotisserie spot in Shoreditch doing things a little bit better for pretty much the same price. I think I know where's more likely to get my repeat custom. We paid in full but didn't get a photo of the receipt. If you want to keep subscribing for free via email please sign up to my Substack where there may also even be occasional treats for paid subscribers coming soon.

One Stop Beyond: Merstham In this series I'm taking the train one stop beyond the Greater London boundary, getting off and seeing what's there. Today that means Merstham, one stop beyond Coulsdon South on the Brighton line. For positioning purposes it lies at the foot of the North Downs, a couple of miles north of Redhill thus very much in Surrey. It's a truly ancient village whose long term expansion is mainly thanks to rocks, roads and railways, most recently the massive M23/M25 motorway interchange which despoils the immediate neighbourhood. If you can hear a muted roar throughout today's post, that'll be it. North Downs Way threads through the churchyard so you may well have walked past. I walked in. It's always lovely when a quaint old church is unlocked for visitors, something St Katherine's tries to do most days. The interior looks rather more Victorian once you get through the door (and have located the light switches and turned them on). The font's properly medieval though, and above it is the colourful spider formed by the dangling bellropes that Jack and his team tug every Wednesday ('for fun and fitness', if you're interested in joining). I was particularly struck by the little yellow cards arrayed across the nave, two per pew, encouraging servicegoers to scan the QR code and give some money. I've seen 'tap to give' pads at the backs of churches before (in this case default £10), but the steady decline of ready cash is spurring a donation revolution in our places of worship. stripe between the escarpment and the village proved the line of least resistance. Heading west a red sign warns of an upcoming 10% gradient, this the civil engineering compromise for climbing Gatton Bottom, and heading east a slip road opens up on the approach to mega-Junction 7. This is one of just three four-level stack interchanges in the UK (the others being the M4/M5 and the M4/M25), built when it was assumed the M23 would burrow deep into south London, and since surrounded by a shield of woodland. very attractive and has an excellent name - Quality Street. It used to lead to the local stately home, Merstham House, but that was demolished after the war so it's now a a very well-to-do cul-de-sac. The jumble of detached houses includes a former tavern, a converted village school, a half-timbered forge and a cottage dating back to 1609. The inhabitant of one house spotted me taking photos of Quality Street and addressed me with a challenge - "Do you know how it got it's name?" I very much did know because I'd done my research, but I played along all the same. "It's not the chocolates," I said, "it's the West End play." He smiled, thwarted, then asked for the name of the playwright hoping to catch me out. "That'd be J M Barrie," I said and he nodded, beaten. When Barrie's play Quality Street opened on Broadway in 1901 the lead actors were Seymour Hicks and Ellaline Terriss, and after the married couple moved into The Old Lodge in 1904 the street was renamed in their honour. We chose to leave all that backstory unsaid, thankfully, but if you are ever challenged while walking down Quality Street on the North Downs Way you'll know how to respond. Surrey Iron Railway followed the River Wandle to Croydon and was extended to Merstham in 1805, transporting sandstone from the local quarry in horse drawn wagons. As with many pioneering technologies it couldn't compete with later innovations, but what really killed it off was that its rails were too weak to support steam locomotives and by the 1830s it was gone. The rails here alas are replicas made by local resident Mr Postlethwaite after the originals were stolen. station on the eastern edge of the village, this still wonderfully convenient today. But most trains on the Brighton line speed by on an entirely separate line that carves a roughly parallel track all the way from just before Coulsdon to just after Redhill. The two lines now conspire to divide Old Merstham from the new, a large overspill estate built by the London County Council in the 1950s. You walk down School Hill past attractive tiled cottages, duck beneath a pair of viaducts and the conservation area swiftly metamorphoses into postwar pebbledash and brick. Thousands now live here amid a network of interlocking avenues, apparently the most deprived area of Surrey by some data measures, although quite frankly it looked like paradise compared to several parts of East London. At the estate's heart is a modern shopping parade with a Co-Op and an independent convenience store called Londizz - no copyright infringement admitted - located on the footprint of a demolished pub. Churches were still being built when the estate opened so three denominations got lucky, in typically postwar architectural style, whereas these days more people worship at the culinary trinity of Merstham Kebab, Merstham Chippy and Merstham Tandoori. The newest facility appears to be a snazzy Community Hub where the library's been rehoused, while the oldest must be the remains of Albury Manor. This looks like a patch of undulating wasteland behind Bletchingley Close, whereas it's actually a scheduled monument with inner and outer banks and a dip where the moat used to be. Merstham FC play nextdoor at a ground called Moatside, which is a much better name than the nickname their supporters have which is The Mongos. grassland along the edge of the estate. Thus if you're walking your dog you can shadow the westbound carriageway through open space and woodland for the best part of a mile, right up to the edge of the monster interchange, or you can cross another footbridge onto a slice of semi-untouched chalk grassland. I walked all the way to the far end of the estate where the quarries were, now lakes and nature reserves but strictly inaccessible except to wildlife because, as the scary signs on the gate attest, 'Quarry Water Is Stone Cold And Can Kill'. up in arms, claiming that this "huge increase in housing would bring Merstham's crumbling infrastructure to its knees". They've also successfully annulled the opportunity for 11 homes on the site of the former library because apparently it would overwhelm a service road, thus the old premises remain boarded up helping nobody. It's hard to be objective as an outsider unfamiliar with the level of local services, but it seems it only takes a few decades for the inhabitants of an overspill estate to become total nimbys lest any incomers might enjoy the same benefits they did. What a mixed bag Merstham is, and has inexorably become.