Decided to take the white rabbit on journey from Brighton to my old home in North London because I am vaguely thinking of making a new film. This was where our rabbit was made and where I spent most of my childhood.
A florist on St Pancras Station was pleased to see him as was a man playing the piano he insisted the rabbit did a a little dance!
Tufnell Park seemed to be as it always was, but the area half way up Dartmouth Park Hill where our old family house had been has completely changed.
We walked up to Waterlow Park. When I was young we took bits of bread to feed the ducks but sadly today the surface on the first pond looked rather cloudy.
We took a bus down Highgate Hill to see if the the stone cat was still there and it was!
It is said that this is where Dick Whittington heard the bow bells that called him back to London.
At the moment the film is mainly in my head but I am hopeful with some old and some new poems it will happen.
Sprawled on the kitchen table
the Mad Hatter
his top hat
covered in papier-mache
picture of Putin
the March Hare
missing an ear
and Alice her dress
washed and drying
on piece of garden wire
hanging over the sink
The White Rabbit
checking his pocket watch
in the perfect condition
he was 30 year’s ago
has plenty of time.
Everyone helped on Christmas Eve, the children in the living room
trusted to make neat crosses on sprouts bottoms,
peel potatoes and prod the hot chestnuts
We’d laugh at my mother’s story of corn beef roast during the war.
Now a few years on it was a roast chicken killed by Grandma
out in the garden and hung in the scullery for two days
Grandpa staggered up the hill from the underground at eight
with apples, pears and nuts from our greengrocers in Goodge Street,
gifts from fellow shop keepers, glace fruits being our absolute favourite
Grandmother insisted all through the war there would be no black market;
her Methodist beliefs could not sanction anything dishonorable.
“Pity”, said Uncle Jack in later years, “we could have had butter, eggs, all sorts.”
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