Life affirming
Abney Park Cemetery, at Stoke Newington, North London, is one of the great municipal burial grounds laid out during the 19th century among farms and market gardens on what was then London's rim. Here, and to Highgate, Norwood and Kensal Green, came the thousands of metropolitan dead. All the cemeteries were fated to be engulfed by the ugly concentric layers of London's inter-war expansion, but on such a day as this, with bees humming among the blossoms and a woodpecker drumming nearby, one might close one's eyes and imagine one's self in some far off fairy dingle. Indeed, it is in the "duality" of such places that their peculiar fascination dwells ...in the juxtaposition of chaotic vegetation with smoothly wrought stone, in their seeming to be both rural and urban, of our being, in life, surrounded by death.
Upon opening our eyes, however, we are soon undeceived, for the cemetery is the resort of the district's sots, derelicts, scroungers and layabouts. Here, for instance, an unfortunate dotard, in the evening of his days, stares half-wittedly at the camera. I do not begrudge these unfortunates their enjoyment of this agreeable place. Like the rest of us they need their solace.
Nor do I have "a problem" with the oil drum pressed into service as a litter bin. It is unsightly but doesn't pretend not to be; it is authentic and unselfconscious. That post, just beyond and to the left of it, is a different matter. It tells us that amenity-mongers have been here, assessing eligibility for funding, formulating conservation strategies, identifying species-rich habitat, ensuring that paths, gates, steps, styles and miscellaneous provisions comply with the appropriate guidelines, quantifying density of vegetation and decrepitude of masonry to ensure that each accords with the bureaucratic idea of romantic dereliction. How infuriating is the post itself ...its metric dimensions complying with Euro-directive 97/320, so conspicuously unobtrusive in the unpaintedness of its naked timber, so "appropriate", so harmonious, so natural; yet, in its fatal, smooth-edged, square-cornered newness, so obviously a very recent introduction and so obviously a product of contemporary delusions. Below the tastefully discreet "waymark" disc is another little roundel. What would that be? Probably the "logo" of the local authority. Why do we need to be told that the Council provided the post? The Council should spend our money providing public works and necessary services. There is no reason why it should expect our admiration or gratitude. Oh well, next year you'll be able to see it all in the glossy brochure that comes with your Council Tax demand ...the pictures of photogenically well-preserved pensioners, preferably female and from a less than wholly English background, smiling widely from their mobility scooters with the sheer joy of using Council-provided wheelchair accessibility. It makes you glad to pay, doesn't it?
Life affirming
Abney Park Cemetery, at Stoke Newington, North London, is one of the great municipal burial grounds laid out during the 19th century among farms and market gardens on what was then London's rim. Here, and to Highgate, Norwood and Kensal Green, came the thousands of metropolitan dead. All the cemeteries were fated to be engulfed by the ugly concentric layers of London's inter-war expansion, but on such a day as this, with bees humming among the blossoms and a woodpecker drumming nearby, one might close one's eyes and imagine one's self in some far off fairy dingle. Indeed, it is in the "duality" of such places that their peculiar fascination dwells ...in the juxtaposition of chaotic vegetation with smoothly wrought stone, in their seeming to be both rural and urban, of our being, in life, surrounded by death.
Upon opening our eyes, however, we are soon undeceived, for the cemetery is the resort of the district's sots, derelicts, scroungers and layabouts. Here, for instance, an unfortunate dotard, in the evening of his days, stares half-wittedly at the camera. I do not begrudge these unfortunates their enjoyment of this agreeable place. Like the rest of us they need their solace.
Nor do I have "a problem" with the oil drum pressed into service as a litter bin. It is unsightly but doesn't pretend not to be; it is authentic and unselfconscious. That post, just beyond and to the left of it, is a different matter. It tells us that amenity-mongers have been here, assessing eligibility for funding, formulating conservation strategies, identifying species-rich habitat, ensuring that paths, gates, steps, styles and miscellaneous provisions comply with the appropriate guidelines, quantifying density of vegetation and decrepitude of masonry to ensure that each accords with the bureaucratic idea of romantic dereliction. How infuriating is the post itself ...its metric dimensions complying with Euro-directive 97/320, so conspicuously unobtrusive in the unpaintedness of its naked timber, so "appropriate", so harmonious, so natural; yet, in its fatal, smooth-edged, square-cornered newness, so obviously a very recent introduction and so obviously a product of contemporary delusions. Below the tastefully discreet "waymark" disc is another little roundel. What would that be? Probably the "logo" of the local authority. Why do we need to be told that the Council provided the post? The Council should spend our money providing public works and necessary services. There is no reason why it should expect our admiration or gratitude. Oh well, next year you'll be able to see it all in the glossy brochure that comes with your Council Tax demand ...the pictures of photogenically well-preserved pensioners, preferably female and from a less than wholly English background, smiling widely from their mobility scooters with the sheer joy of using Council-provided wheelchair accessibility. It makes you glad to pay, doesn't it?