It's well over four years since Don's Cafe closed, but I can still taste the last fried egg I ate there. For a while afterwards there were no fried eggs to be had near the Pond, whether on toast or with bacon and chips. Life was bad. Happily, Havana's has since filled the gaping space, but Don's place just stayed boarded up. Nothing changed exccept the colour of the builders' fencing.
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I'm getting my hyperlocal 2012 pledge in early: I hereby promise to update this blog more efficiently than I have during 2011, even though the coming London elections and Olympics mean that my day job is likely to devour even more of my time than usual. You read it here first. It may turn out to be true. On the other hand...
Among the many neglected lessons of history is that Christmas traditions change all the time. I grew up with the one that involves families gathered cheerfully around enormous meals and blazing hearths. It goes back to the days of Charles Dickens, yet if you read his 1836 sketch A Christmas Dinnner (written under his pen name of Boz) many traditional Christmassy things are either mentioned only in passing or completely absent. The sketch pre-dates the popularity of Christmas cards, crackers and trees, while in those days seasonal gifts were usually exchanged on New Year's Day. Father Christmas in his modern form wasn't invented until 1931. He's a transatlantic import, by the way.
Sunday morning scene in the St John-at-Hackney church yard: foreground remembrance poppies include wreaths from the Association of Jewish ex-Servicemen and Women; to the rear, Hackney Homemade stalls include clothing, jewellery, spit-roasted pork sandwiches and Muslim school girls selling teddy bears as part of school charity project. The plastic ice rink is a seasonal extra. So were the two men selling Christmas trees (obscured by the memorial), whose merchandise was propped against the church wall. I bought one - price, £50. Two of the kids helped me carry it home.
One of the many pleasing things about Palm 2 is that its in-store music isn't ambient. It isn't sonic wallpaper, chosen for its tranquilising effect on Clapton's consumers they walk the aisles in search of chocolate fingers or tzatziki dip. I've had intense encounters with Aretha Franklin while shopping there, and sociological stimulation inspired by static-free exposure to Classic FM. The other day, though, I had my first disagreement with the aural element of the Palm 2 experience. It is, perhaps, a further tribute to the establishment's appeal that even this had transformed into a source of happiness by the time I left the premises.
Hackney Council is among the small throng of public bodies pinning great hopes on the long term futures of the Olympic Park press and broadcast centres. The two buildings presently stand emptily adjacent awaiting their finishing touches before swarms of sports journalists colonise them for a few weeks next summer before disappearing as rapidly as they arrived once the orgy of athleticism has been and gone.Then what? Like the rest of the park, the press and broadcast centres will become the responsibility of the Olympic Park Legacy Company (OPLC), whose job it is to re-fill them with bustling, cutting-edge media-type businesses and entrepreneurs.
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