May has arrived with all that deviousness of the London weather. We have been warned since childhood: 'Nere cast a clout till May is out', and this old folklore advice particularly applies to this great city.
I am always caught out and made to look silly. I am sauntering along the Harrow Road wearing my medium weight anorak and woolly jumper whilst the rest of the population are sporting T-shirts and sleeveless dresses. They are enjoying all the freedom of light clothing as I am caught in the regimen of multi layers. Yet if I decide to throw caution to the wind and wear a summer sports coat there is a biting north wind waiting round the city corners and a damp chill rises from the gardens to freeze me to an ice cube.
I try to pay attention to the morning weather forecast but my mind does not appear capable to concentrate on these important statistics and so I do the balcony test. I stand on my second floor projection and try to assess the weather from that personal point. But I am apparently prejudiced by home influence for I invariably get it wrong and eventually watch all the beautiful people tripping past whilst I wallow in the wrong gear.
We have had a momentous few days with the election of London's new mayor. Ken Livingstone was not allowed to stand as the official candidate for the Labour party and so went as an independent candidate. Londoners took him to their hearts and he won well. Ken is one of our own and has a quip for any occasion and he loves pulling the tale of the power dog no matter which form that takes whither it be big business or a major political group. He seems to find the angle that nobody has thought or been fearful to face. He is interesting and charming and he brings a humanity and humour into the bland spoutings of the political game.
He has even suggested that we should have a Saint Patrick's Day parade like lots of other major cities and this should be a real winner. I can see the green snake winding its way down from Cricklewood through Kilburn and onto the Edgware Road to finish in a powerful Irish celebration in Hyde Park. The Irish in London are now coming out of their tribal haunts and becoming quite mainstream. In the past they often kept their feelings and culture to themselves and had an inhibition in publicising themselves. Now its nearly 'in' to be Irish and there is a growing self belief and pride in what we are and have achieved.
The Celtic tiger across the way is growling and carrying on and some of this bumptiousness is passing on to the English cousins. But there are still many Irish in London who came across when times were hard and had to keep their faces down in an often hostile environment. The Irish centres do their best to support these and also the younger Irish who now arrive with many complex problems, unable to settle into employment at home where there is practically a full job market. Their troubles are very deep rooted and need a lot of very sensitive untangling.
received from WSLH
That is one of the fascinating aspects of London life. Many people fled here to escape persecution and improve their chances in life and somehow in London were able to carve out a means of survival and put down fresh roots down to start anew. Each new wave was often vilified and had to develop a tough outer skin. But survive they did and brought colour and diversity of culture and language into the bubbling caldron of London life.
I have put French marigolds into my window box this year. I usually go for a mixture of plants and colours but when I went to Clifden's garden centre I was captivated by the marigold display. They are a combination of orange, red and deep bronze and if they grow to their expected height of six to twelve inches, I am going to have a display that will have my competitors grimacing into their geranium shows. One of my neighbours, Lillith, keeps a close eye on the affairs of the estate. She is very traditional and likes to see old values adhered to. A blazing bronze/yellow display will set her eyes dancing but in time she will soften and compliment.
Bobby, the Irish pensioner, is still thinking of home. He lived in an orphanage around Dun Laoire near Dublin and he can still see this beautiful area in his mind's eye. He will be eighty-one next birthday and his fervent wish is to get back to the old sod and allow the remaining years to be lived among his own people in his own land. In his dream he lives in a small bed sit overlooking Dun Laoire harbour and he takes his morning stroll along the pier with a dog companion. It was from here that the mail boat took him away to English shores and it is in Ireland that he wants to finally rest and relax and reflect on a busy and, at times, fretful life.
Len, the gardener, has been taken way to hospital looking pretty ill and we are hoping that he will soon get better and return to supervise his garden. It is an inspiring sight on a summer's evening to see Len transfixed gazing into his domain. He appears to enter another world and finds a spiritual kingdom that is there but not many see it on this earth. Len enters through the gate of his garden and wanders the universe in the company of pixies and other magical creatures.
I feel a trip to Ireland moving in my bones. It's always a real excitement getting ready for a trip that is only fifty flying minutes away. I like to travel from Heathrow airport and tube it up from Hammersmith, gathering up the enthusiasm of Londoners leaving for a break. It's a moment of truth as the plane moves towards the Irish shoreline and the little yachts stream mark their way over the Irish sea in a joyous dance of welcome. As I walk on Irish soil you feel part of the earth that is you and you walk that slow movement to friends who are waiting. The bustle and stress of London seem many miles away as people stop to gossip and communicate in a manner that is eternally Ireland.
Letters from London 
