March 2015 -

Top Ten ISAs

(Institutions of St Albans: Ten local things to be proud of)

1. Window shopping on Holywell Hill.

I refer, of course, to the much-loved pastime of sitting on Holywell Hill, engine on, clutch half engaged, waiting for the lights to fleetingly turn green. You can look at the fancy radiators, the expensive kitchens and strain your eyes to read a Chinese menu; you can remind yourself that one day you must actually go inside the White Hart Hotel and look for a ghost. Surely I’m not the only person who thinks ‘Is that yet another new gents’ hairdresser?’ You can repeat this thought every few months as they seem to come and go pretty fast around there.

The best shop ever was the fish pedicure place a few years ago. You could sit in your car and soak up the carbon monoxide and wonder what sort of muppet goes in there. I did (go in, I mean). It was my birthday. I did it of my own volition. They put me in the prime window seat. A school bus stopped right outside. I was laughing at the fish; the kids were laughing at me; the fish were eating dead skin from my feet (I don’t think they were laughing, but how would one know with such tiny fish – or even with big ones). Anyway, it was my birthday treat to myself. Afterwards I went next door for lunch. Best cheese-stuffed whitebait I’ve ever had.

2. Barry Cashin

With a name like a third-rate pawn-broker, Barry is a living legend. Well, local at least. Hell hath no fury like a Barry scorned. So if you are a car driver, a cyclist, a breast-feeding baby, a noisy child, a parent, someone who has birthdays, someone with long (or short) hair, bald, or just minding your own business keeping yourself to yourself and quietly going about your daily life in St Albans, then sure as Barry rhymes with Gary, you’re in grave danger of one day incurring some Cashin wrath.

I don’t know if the local paper has a Leader Board to keep tabs on the most prolific senders of letters, but if they did, sure as Cashin rhymes with bashin’, Barry would top it.

Love him or loathe him, Bazza makes our top ten. (I’ll admit that I ‘like’ him, inasmuch as he spices up the Letters in the local rag and elicits ‘outraged’ responses from others.)

3. St Michael’s Folk Festival

If there’s a finer place to be every first Wednesday in July then I’m yet to find it. St Micky’s Folk Fest has it all: beer, Morris dancers, barbecues, swords, beer, bands, a dragon, a closed-off road, beer. Even though the number of pubs in that neck of the woods is falling fast, the Festival is the most quintessentially English summer’s evening out you could hope for. You should go. You really should.

I once saw the ‘off-duty’ dragon get its camera out and take a photo. ‘Nuff said.

4. St Albans Mums (or SAMs to use their abbreviated title)

No, not just mothers of St Albans, these women are a bunch of complete mothers. Ask Jeeves, Google, Teletext, your Great Aunty Joan – in their day these were trustworthy founts of all knowledge, but none – repeat none – came anywhere close to ‘St Albans Mums’.

SAMs is a Facebook group. You can (assuming you’re a mum, in St Albans, and accepted to join the group) ask a simple question – maybe you’ve a tricky social dilemma and would like a little help – and get up to 6,000 responses. Of course, any simple yes or no question will give you 3,000 in favour and 3,000 against so you’ll be none the wiser, but you’ll have got your thoughts out in the open and shared with kindred spirits which, after all, is what being a woman is all about, as far as I can tell.

So, if you’re unsure what to wear today (“Will it be cold?”); want to know if what your child does is normal (it is); or if what your husband does is normal (it isn’t); if you want to know if somewhere is open/closed or if anyone can recommend a cake maker (I can and I’m not even in the group) then whatever you do, whatever you do, don’t use your initiative or common sense; throw both of these out of the window and ask a bunch of local strangers. After all, it’s obviously better to crowd-source random opinions than think for yourself. And, yes, you should get that rash looked at.

5. “Any bowl for a pound”

Camden, Portobello, Brick Lane, Borough – there are many great markets, but if you need batteries, fitted blinds, almonds or large pieces of foam for fancy dress then St Albans is the place to head. Legally it should be “Contents of any bowl for a pound” because you don’t actually get to keep the bowl. Just sayin’.

6. St Albans armed forces

The frigate HMS St Albans is well-known – though I’ve not once seen it on the lake in Verulamium Park – but our other local unarmed forces are less well-equipped. Military fitness (or milfit for short) is a big thing in St Albans. If we’re ever invaded by marauding hordes from Hemel, then we can sleep easy, safe in the knowledge that we will be robustly defended by new mothers in numbered bibs and middle-aged men carrying kettlebell weights. No army does a star jump quite as well as our lycra-clad public park warriors. Although bibbed-up like a bunch of Year 7 girls at a netball tournament, these fitness enthusiasts are our territorial army-in-waiting. “We will fight them on the beaches”, or at least jog to that tree and back and then go for a skinny latte.

Our air defences are located on the outskirts of the city at RAF Chiswell Green. Should aggressors choose an air attack (only on still, summer days, please – early mornings or early evenings preferred) they would be repelled most defiantly by a squadron of hot air balloons (or is it just the same one seen lots of times?). Armed with champagne bottles, these Virgin beasts can fire corks at ranges of up to 5m.

7. St Albans Half Marathon.

Where else do you take part in a high-profile event at the mercy of blazing sun? Oh, yeah, Qatar. Everyone should do the half marathon. Not, obviously, at the same time otherwise there’d be nobody left to hand out cups of water.

One blazing June a few years ago, I was running down Bluehouse Hill, cup of water in hand when I spied someone in the sparse crowd I knew. He was facing the other way so, safe in the anonymity of a pack of runners, I threw the full cup at him and kept running.

I’d like to now apologise to the stranger who got soaked, as it later transpired that my friend wasn’t even watching the event that day. Sorry.

8. Westminster Lodge car park.

‘Build it and they will come.’ ‘Come and they will park.’ ‘Park and they will pay.’ ‘Pay and they will complain.’ ‘Complain and they will be Cashin.’

9. CAMRA

Easy to ridicule, I know, and as a white-sock wearing, Capri-driving native of urban Essex, I love a stereotype, but you have to admit that as pressure groups go these guys have done a pretty good job over the years. (Real ale is presently in rude health). Plus, what other campaigning group allows you to drink your own bodyweight in beer each week all in the name of research.

Based on Hatfield Rd within a limp arm’s reach of a Cornish pasty from Morrison’s bakery counter, CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) is St Albans born and bred.

I know that it’s probably only a question of time before I join their swelling (in more ways than one) ranks. Beer. Real beer. What’s not to like. Plus, it’s just dawned on me that my enjoyment of Morris dancing and CAMRA would go pretty-much hand in hand.

10. The Alban Arena

Confession: I love the Arena. Top (mostly) entertainment within walking distance of my house. I go a lot. Ok, so I might be a bit less selective than I would be if I had to schlep into London to watch something. Why the Arena can’t link number of tickets sold and type of event to number of bar staff on duty is beyond me. The amount of revenue lost by people giving up queuing for drinks and popping out to the Wendy Barn instead must be huge. And think just how desperate people like me must be to view a Wetherspoons as any form of ‘better option’.

My wife asked me last December about Arena tickets I might like as a Christmas present. I gave her a list of ten comedians. Ranked in order of preference. Unfortunately, she’d already bought me some tickets. The show she’d bought (Paul Merton/improv) didn’t even make my top ten. Her risk. My loss. The only thing that would’ve been worse would have been any show on ice. ON ICE? Why the ice? I don’t get that. Thing is, with a young daughter I fear that prospect is heading my way some time soon.

Central Perks

We left our daughter with a stranger the other day while we went swimming. It was the first time we’d done this. (Left her with a ‘stranger’ that is, not gone swimming – although, thinking about it, it is the first time we’ve been swimming together – holidays aside. We don’t go swimming as a couple. The fact my wife can’t actually swim being a key limiting factor.)

We’ve left our daughter with relatives before and she does a couple of days at nursery, but this was the first time we’d left her with some random person. Ok, so some of our relatives could be considered ‘random people’ (my brother delighted in ensuring one of the first body parts our daughter could point to was her sternum, after she was entrusted to his care for an extended period. Not for her pointing merely to her ‘nose’ or ‘eyes’. Of course, I kept this key piece of anatomical knowledge alive; I didn’t want him to think that his hard work had gone to waste.) We did two visits and four ‘settling in’ sessions at nursery before we left our daughter with registered childcare professionals at an Ofsted inspected premises. When we wanted to go swimming, we just booked a babysitter by dialling Guest Services on ext.3403.

Ok, so we were at Center Parcs (always feel like that should be ‘Centre’ Parcs – I’ve an irrational dislike of that mixing of French and American-English spellings). But we were leaving our child with a stranger for the first time…to go to the water park. We weren’t going to a family funeral or some other absolutely essential event like a 15% off day in Feather & Black (is there ever not a sale on in that shop?). We weren’t actually even going swimming; we were going to play on the water slides with other adults who were also leaving their toddlers for the first time with a ‘vetted babysitter’, as described in the Guest Manual in our lodge.

I was against it. I volunteered not to go. Not because I don’t like water slides, outdoor rapids and sitting on large rubber rings whilst zooming down oversized plastic tubes – in fact, I probably like these more than most people – just because I was against it. Just because. Plus, I knew I’d then have the cast-iron get-out clauses of ‘I told you so’ and ‘It wasn’t my idea’.

We had a nervous 24 hours between booking the ’sitter and speed-changing in a humid cubicle.

‘What if it’s a man?’ I said. ‘It won’t be,’ my wife replied, based on nothing whatsoever. ‘What if it’s a teenager?’ I said. ‘It won’t be,’ my wife replied, based on nothing whatsoever. ‘What if it’s a …’ I was interrupted by a complimentary guest magazine hurtling towards me.

To leave the single most precious thing in your life (complete Figurini Panini football sticker albums and chronological set of St Albans Beer Festival commemorative glasses excluded) with someone you’ve never even met before is unnerving.

We spent the whole preceding day not talking about it, save for my brilliant suggestion:

‘What would you prefer – me complaining all evening that I don’t trust her or me leaving before she arrives and you shouldering the responsibility as to whether she’s a fit and proper person to look after Bridget?’ (Bridget isn’t our daughter’s real name, but people always hide the identities of their children so I’m just following suit. Her name nearly was Bridget, though (or would it have been Bridgette, or even Brigid – we never got that far, thanks to the timely intervention of morphine – it’s a long story).

We came to a compromise: The ’sitter (I dislike that term, having now typed it twice. I want her to stand, walk around, sing, play games – be a mix of Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee, perhaps with a sprinkling of Taylor Swift for my benefit, not slump in front of the TV watching TOWIE while my daughter cries) was due at 7.30pm so we agreed that I’d leave at 7.25 so as to absolve myself of all parental responsibility. A brilliant plan, I thought, and one guaranteed to ensure I had a conscience-clear evening of water slides and inflatable rings, followed by two swift pints in what passes for a ‘pub’ at Centrerere Parcs (CAMRA members and anyone with a sense of taste and a desire for quiet drink turn away and save your eyes – think Jarman Park meets Luton Airport bar).

Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.When the spotty teenager or middle-aged male babysitter arrived, I’d not be there. My wife would be armed with a toddler not called Bridget and a get-out-of-jail emergency plan. This pre-agreed escape route was that if the ‘vetted’ babysitter arrived looking like he/she had been vetted in the animal medicine sense of the word, my wife would promptly pay in cash and say ‘thanks, but no thanks’. Either away, my appointment with Tornado, Twister and Torpedo was assured.

The knock on the door came at 7.22. Damn. My selfish, unfair plan de-railed in an instant. Debbie (real name – can’t imagine this blog hitting national headlines) was lovely. In fact, Lovely with a capital L: a warm, kindly, person with grown-up children. She was a cross between Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee (well, the Taylor Swift bit was probably too much to ask in the first place). She worked in one of the shops on the site. If only they’d told us this in advance then we could have ‘vetted’ her ourselves by creeping around said shop and trying to eavesdrop on her conversations to check if she was nice to small children.

Debbie was brilliant. Our friends had Jean, who was equally great, apparently. With names like Debbie and Jean, our children were in safe hands.

Now, I don’t know much about babysitters as we fortunately have relatives locally, but one of the things that concerned me most was the cost only being £6.50/hour. When you’ve precious little by way of advance information to go on, price can be an indicator of quality. Now, I use the term ‘only’ with real caution. But, remember, we were at Center Parckcks; a place where, despite being in a forest (of sorts), once inside the barrier the cost of living exceeds that of uptown Manhattan, with everything about 30% more than in the real world. So our £6.50 was really only about £4.90. Plus, we booked Debbie indirectly so I’m sure CP took a cut somewhere along the line. This means, very roughly, we’d probably paid the real world equivalent of £3.90 an hour for a top-notch babysitter. In advance this made me nervous. With hindsight, I now think it’s probably about the only flippin’ bargain available anywhere at a Parc Central. You live and learn.

p.s. The water-slides were great.

I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien…

I’m a North Londoner in Saint A.

Yes, like my fellow contributor (see To be or not St A), I am not a native.
I’ve lived here for just over 7 years and what’s not to like?

The journey from North London to South Hertfordshire is not too far as the crow flies but believe you me, St. Albans is, in nearly every aspect, a world away from Edmonton.
Yes, Edmonton, London N9, not all bad, but not much good these days either.
Anyway, in case you never get the opportunity to visit (and I can’t imagine why you would bar a court summons) here is what you’re not missing.

Trees
St Albans has them. And, as if you don’t already have enough, you are building a forest down the road just so you can have some more.
‘Building a forest’?
Edmonton had a huge space just out of town suitable for a forestation project. There, by the river in the valley, nestling between the reservoirs, they did plant. Edmonton Solid Waste Incineration Plant.
St. Albans has tree-lined avenues and parks brimming with dozens of mature trees.
Even Edmonton’s municipal golf course didn’t bother with them. After all, the electricity pylons that cross the fairways and the discarded supermarket trolleys in bunkers provide all the “natural” hazards an aspiring golfer could wish for.

Enough nature for now.

Community
St Albans actually has competitions to name things. My better half (St. Albans ‘born and bred I tell ya’) informs me that ‘The Maltings’ shopping centre was named by an old school chum of hers. I imagine there wasn’t a competition to name Edmonton Green’s shopping centre which is called Edmonton Green Shopping Centre.

Pubs
There’s a plethora of pubs and restaurants in St Albans and a coffee shop explosion (which this tea lover will ignore). In Edmonton there were two pubs you went to. Your ‘local’ and your football match pub. However, etiquette dictated that you didn’t go to the latter on non-football days as it then reverted back to being someone else’s local and your welcome would consist of stares, grunts, disapproving looks and foul-mouthed mutterings. The barmaids are pretty mean in N9. Conversely, the pubs in St. Albans are varied as are the ales and clientele and you can pretty much feel welcome in any of them. And amusingly, you have two within a stone’s throw of a place called ‘Temperance Street’, what happened there then? That’s like having two ‘saunas’ near Angel Road!

Now, I’ve dined in a few of the restaurants in St Albans. Some really good ones and a couple of not so good ones but everything is catered for from breakfast through to dinner (or do you call it supper?). Recommendations on request. Edmonton has restaurants, mostly of the takeaway variety. No recommendations but, to my knowledge, no restaurant of any kind in St Albans has been closed due to (nature alert) the discovery of cats in the freezer. But please let me know if I’m wrong.

Schools
Now there are a couple of good, nay, very good schools, in my home town but St Albans is dripping with them and I am not aware of any of the Junior schools having their surrounding fences topped off with barbed wire as I was dismayed to see at my old school the last time I passed by. I did wonder if it was there to keep intruders at bay or to stop the teachers from escaping?
Another, minor observation (although AL3 WTF would like to point out that ‘minor observation’ is frowned upon nowadays. We like trees, just not Project Yewtrees!) is this. There are a high proportion of St Albans schoolboys all seemingly coiffured by a boy band’s tonsorial artiste. Nothing wrong with that though, just sayin’.
As for famous pupils, I’ll trump your Stephen Hawking with Sir Bruce Forsyth. Yeah, Theory of Everything, but can he remember all the items on the conveyor belt?

City Centre
The centre of the city is nice. St. Peter’s Street. Trees, more trees! Mind you, beware ye the brightly coloured bank and hotel lights for they pave the way for massage parlours and a 98p shop.
One big plus of the City centre is that, should I ever wish to recreate some of the atmosphere of my old stomping ground, I just have to stroll along St. Peters Street early on a Sunday morning. Avoiding the herd of MAMILs* as they prepare for their weekly cycle ride, walk past the 99p and quid shops and there it is. The unmistakable scent of Eau du Wee by Chav Pour Homme, still lingering from the previous night’s Waterend Barn hordes who have marked their territory (presumably so they can find their way back to the taxi rank after Veeda – or is it Adelaides?).
*MAMIL – Middle Aged Man In Lycra

There’s the clock tower and its views. The only towers in Edmonton are of the block kind and the views are industrial parks and concrete. St Albans Industrial parks are away from the city centre. I’m hoping the concrete crop circles left behind by the removal of the gasometers near Homebase will be turned into ice rinks for Christmas. A quick skate, walk up Holywell Hill (though for some reason pronounced Hollywell – why?!) to see the lights, night cap at the top end of town and home before anyone has sprayed their trail.

Traffic
Wait, are the tables turned? Is St Alban the patron saint of potholes, parking restrictions and penalty charge notices? St Albans doesn’t do cars really does it? A couple of weeks ago my morning commute was bliss. I quickly realised that this was because I was travelling unhindered by the usual stream of Jeep Rover Q7s and their drivers apparent lack of girth awareness. Seriously school runners, you can get a bus through there. Yes, you Mrs Oversized SUV, in fact, a bus did get through just before you but your lack of width perception prevented movement. Half term was too short.
Edmonton traffic is, of course, constantly moving. Admittedly, fear is the key. Keep moving or get car-jacked. Only joking (or am I?) but, if the traffic does stop, you can be pretty sure there’s a road rage and/or police incident ahead.

Central locking on. Avoid eye contact.