Tower Bridge | Muriel Murch

August Bank Holiday,

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side.

‘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.

Chugging along under Tower Bridge Photo by WSM

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.

Painting of St. Thomas’s Hospital at the Welcome Trust Museum

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.

With constant support by murchstudio.com

Recorded and Knit together by WSM

Factory workers and university students have now joined the rota of protests in Belarus now working in daily shifts, slowing the country’s economy down hour by hour, adding their voices to the opposition of President Lukashenko.

In Poland too, the women have had enough. The latest change in the abortion laws – stating that even when the fetus is diagnosed with a serious and irreversible defect – abortion is now illegal, is seen as the last tightening knot against democracy, and there is a growing anger at the Church’s complicity in this ruling. The strikes are led by women in the work force, housewives will no longer keep house, and more women than are counted have ‘Shut up Shop’ – completely.

While Belarus and Poland protest, France mourns and prays as the attacks by ISIS extremists continue. With night-time curfews in France, Spain and Italy no-one knows when to have dinner.

Most of Europe now recognizes that each country’s initial ‘me-first’ reaction to COVID-19 didn’t help countries individually or Europe collectively. Belgium, Germany, France, Italy and Spain are now opening their borders for any needed treatments of COVID-19 patients. While England goes into Lockdown for four weeks. There is an old adage in medicine, “Timing and Dosage” which applies to everything we try to do. Everyone is struggling and, unlike Asia, no European country has succeed thus far in controlling the virus.

Here on Thursday all non-essential businesses will close for another month. Shutting up Shop has never felt so poignant. We tend to look inward and not venture too far afield. While the first wave of COVID caused a lot of closures and adjustments there were also new beginnings. Now there are six pubs within less than five minutes of our front door: The Pembroke, The Queen’s, The Lansdowne, The Princess, The Engineer, and finally The Albert which has reopened after four years. The opening of The Albert took place on Friday. A handful of locals gathered outside and Andrew Marr, of political inclination, declared The Albert open and joked that this was the most important thing he had done all year. Cheering and clapping on the corner of the street, but it too will close again on Thursday.

The Albert is ‘Declared Open’ by Andrew Marr. Walter Murch, Phil Cowan, Line Copper are among others present. Photo credit unknown. Thank you.

While walking through the modern complex of shops and high-rise apartments at the Tower complex I thought of our friends Hwai-Min LIN and Hsun CHIANG who had been gifted an apartment there for this summer. They arrived in February, and left in March. “The English are crazy, no masks no distance.” They very sensibly fled to the safety of home in Taiwan.

We had been nervous of going to a theater in these COVID Times. And maybe that is what these times will be known as – These COVID Times. But I snagged the last two seats available for a Saturday afternoon matinee at The Bridge Theatre. We were to see a one hour monologue of David Hare’s “Beat the Devil” performed by Ralph Fiennes.

How wonderful it was. And how brave. The Bridge Theater shines as a beacon by the Thames River and is looked down on by Tower Bridge. Across the river stands The Tower of London. Old and New London within a cricket ball toss of each other. The entrance doors of the theater are open, we have a window of time within which to arrive. Masked attendants guide us through the temperature check, check our tickets and show us where to go. The loos are easily accessible. The theater seating looks as if it has been prepared for an orchestra, so many seats are missing and spaced apart.

Getting Settled at the Theatre. Photo by WSM

More staff come by for bar orders, another holds a glowing “Please wear a mask” sign and – if someone leaves their mask down for a chat beyond a sip – gently goes to remind them of their collective responsibility. The mask notice supplanting the ‘please turn off your cell phones’ message. At first I wonder, what on earth is it like to perform to such a sparse house? Does it feel provincial, like stepping out on the boards for the first time, trying to make your way in a flea-bag pit. But this is not that and soon after our ginger-beer drinks arrive the audience buzz begins. It is the same hum of excitement the same music of expectation, as if the audience is indeed in the orchestra pit and tuning up as musicians do. The hum grows, but then – the lights dim – and a hush comes over us all.

Ralph strides onto the stage and loudly places his props on the table, claiming the table and the props as a supporting cast. He is the magician who will hold us in David Hare’s mind with his fears of the disease, his anger at the government’s handling of it all, and his heart’s rage at the treatment of the NHS nurses. He longs for a gentle ‘Platonic disease’ while later realizes that “The Virus is always with me now.” The septuagenarian is there, twisted in Ralph’s body now sinewy as a maturing cockerel.

When the play was over, the applause was wondrous and we left the theater uplifted as art moves us, brings us closer to each other. As the audience goes their separate ways, we share that communion and feeling of belonging within this city.

Under the night lights we walk along the river finding our way back to the little enclave of Primrose Hill. It is time to try out the newly opened Albert pub for a half pint of cider and an elegant Ploughman’s supper bowl. It has been too long since I’ve crunched a pickled onion.

This has been A letter From A. Broad.

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch