August Bank Holiday,

‘Out of the Office’, automatic replies come bouncing in to anyone foolish enough to write a business letter in the month of August. Occasionally there is a head’s up – a note saying “I will be away on holiday until the ‘something’ in August. If this is urgent please contact – whoever the poor soul is who has been left to ward off intrusive calls.” Lawyers, bankers, publishers, doctors, stylists, and politicians all go away, usually taking a plane to Spain or even as far as Turkey, leaving delivery drivers and grocery clerks to carry on. Pete from the Primrose Hill market farm stand has taken his wife to visit her family in Croatia.  

Over the weekend, the river is choppy as the wind battles with the sun to give the tourists a boat-ride to remember while cruising up and down the Thames to Greenwich where the Cutty Sark, along with the maritime museums and colleges waits patiently for them.

Returning to the city from their seafaring adventures the tourists pour into the street, across Westminster Bridge circling around the Palace of Westminster, the House of Parliament and Big Ben, now free of three years of scaffolding, and whose clock-face shines over the river.

But across the bridge from the Houses of Parliament is the wall that encircles St. Thomas’s Hospital and lines the walkway along the river.

The Hospital was named after Saint Thomas Becket and first built in Southwark, possibly as early as 1173. The reformation of the monasteries caused its closure but in 1551- the young king – Edward VI – allowed the hospital to move up-river a bit while being rededicated to another Thomas – the Apostle. St. Thomas’s Hospital was first dedicated to serving the poor, the destitute and homeless and though it has become a world renowned teaching hospital it has remained open ever since. It is seeming and appropriate that the wall that cradles the hospital close to the Thames and faces the Houses of Parliament is still decorated with painted hearts and messages commemorating the thousands who died in the Covid epidemic that began in January of  2020. 

Within the Houses of Parliament, the green benches in the house of Commons and the red benches from the House of Lords are mostly bare. If Sir Keir Starmer, during his term as Prime Minister, finally has his way then those red benches, so bloated by gift peerages from previous governments – both Labour and Conservative – will become even more sparsely filled and those gifts of ermine robes in very short supply. Though most of the politicians have popped off on holiday the Prime Minister has cancelled his two weeks of family time in Europe and stayed at home. Sir Keir knows that there are things to attend to and if he is lucky he can get some serious work done – for he is a methodical and serious fellow – and have a look at the bookkeeping left by the previous government. What exactly is the state of the economy and the country and how much money is available in the kitty for all those reforms that he promised? Not a lot it seems. Like a new contractor coming in for your house repairs, there is some teeth sucking as he looks at the job before him. And like any English builder – there is fault to find with those who came before him. Instead of “They used the wrong paint love,” Sir Keir’s line is already “Things will get worse before they get better.” A version of Lord David Cameron’s “Hard times are ahead we are going to have to tighten our belts.” And we all remember how that went down. The £600 fuel allowance that was so freely given out last year has already been cut for the upcoming winter. There will hardly be a city and country household who will choose not to heat their entire house – however small it is.

Like many of us – not on holiday – in England – Sir Keir has been watching the wars as they continue to unfold. The Ukrainian army has popped a missile over into the Russian territory of Kursk, and captured a few Russian soldiers that it promptly swapped for 115 men of its own. Our screens light up with the flames from the Israeli and Hezbollah strikes at each other. Is it a game of fire and fury, a warning or wake up move? All is paused as each side ponders and watches the other.

Then there was the Democratic Convention held in Chicago last week, orchestrated into a fine piece of rousing theatre. Only the most cynical among us could not be flickered into a moment of hope that the homegrown terrorist among the American people could be held at bay. The concept of a  woman – a comfortable and pleasing shade of brown – with a steady coach beside her, may – with much luck and hard work – keep America safe for a few more years, is enough to make one giddy with hope. One could see this as a sea change of colour that comes with autumn, the maturing of the fruits of this season.

At the market the colours are changing too. Bright red berries are giving way to the blush of young apples, the green cream of pears and the dark purple of Victoria plums, while the deep black of hedgerow berries glisten with a shimmering autumnal hue.

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