SE6 - Peoples Day

Hello People,

In his most famous novel, the writer George Orwell predicted that by 1984 mankind would be enslaved in a world of perpetual war. Ordinary people would be forced to live their lives under constant government surveillance, and we would be ruled by shadowy elite, who manipulate the information we receive, to create a society filled with fear and mistrust.

What George Orwell didn’t know was that 1984 was also the year of the first ever Lewisham People’s Day:

‘Lewisham’s biggest festival, that brings together hundreds of performers, businesses, and community groups for one amazing day’ – Lewisham Council

See, it wasn’t all bad, was it George?

Every year, without fail, Rosie would volunteer to help out at People’s Day. She did this till her job at the British Museum – where she has to make sure the mummies don’t escape from their crypts, and run amuck in central London – became so busy, she had to stop.

I would always ask her, “Why are you giving up your weekend for a festival that hardly anyone has heard of, for a bunch of people you don’t even know?”

At which she would hold up her hand, and list off these five points,

“1. The sun always shines on People’s Day, proving that God loves the Borough of Lewisham. Unlike Glastonbury, for example, which he is at best indifferent about.

2. It’s a People’s Day. So if you’re a person, then it’s a day held in your honour. Not going would be like not turning up to your own wedding reception.

3. There might be a tombola.

4. You get a really cool volunteer’s T-shirt.

5. It’s free!”

Rose was certainly right about the last point at least. Peoples Day is the longest running free festival in South East London, 31 years in total, that’s even longer than the New Eltham Donkey Derby!

Lewisham council has always been the Greece of the London boroughs. Give them a few quid to fix a few pot holes in the road, and they'll spend it on a massive fire-works display. Say 'Here's some dough to replace those cracked paving slabs, and they'll blow it all on a 12 ft. long fibreglass cat. In this age of austerity, it's probably not considered cool to spend a decent chunk of your budget on a party. But I say good luck to them, what's life without a little fun?

As the years went by, I too began to love Peoples a Day, but not because of the tombola, or the t-shirts, or even God’s preference for inner London councils. I love People’s Day because of the people like Rose, who are willing to give up their free time to help out their community.

People's Day is this Saturday 11th of July in Mountsfield Park, Catford. There will be music, food, drink, a big wheel, a children’s fun fair, and much more. So if you're a person, and proud of it, then I recommend you come along to the party!

http://www.lewisham.gov.uk/inmyarea/events/whats-on/peoples-day/Pages/Peoples-Day-whats-on.aspx

See you there people.

SE12 - The Edmund Halley, Lee Green

Continued from the previous post at SE18 Shooters Hill....

Shooters Hill

“Its you” she said.

She spoke so softly I could barely hear her. She was wore dark red lipstick, and a blue mascara. Her blond hair fell across her shoulders, which I thought strange as it must have bothered her as she cycled. I reasoned that she may have been going out somewhere. Maybe she was going to meet the same person I was looking for, the mysterious man I'd met at Lesnes Abbey. I took a moment to compose myself. I wanted answers to so many things.

Was the 2007 fire on the Cutty Sark really an accident?

Who was the mysterious man I'd met at Lesnes Abbey?

Why didn't he meet me in East Street like he'd said he would?

Had he written the letter she'd given me, warning me off my investigations? If not, who had?

And how do I enable the 'add comments' section on my blog, so I can find out if anyone is actually reading this stuff?

The lady on the bike was my only hope of finally solving this mystery. But how to get her to talk?

She slowly stepped off of her bike and carefully laid it on the ground.

"What do you want?" She said.

Now stood upright, and only a little shorter then I, she seemed extremely calm about me confronting her. But despite her poker face, something in my gut was telling me that she was just as frightened as I was, and that, like me, she too was nothing more than a lost fly trapped in another's sinister web. Somehow I needed to find some way of winning her trust and getting her to talk to me. And to do that was going to take all my charm, skill, and cunning. I held out my hand for her to shake, and offered up my most reassuring smile.

"Let me introduce myself, I'm..."

But I never got the chance to finish, because on seeing my extended arm, she grabbed my wrist with one hand, gripped just above my elbow with the other, and threw me across her shoulder, and high into the air. After travelling a surprisingly long distance, I eventually came down and hit the pavement. My back took most of the force, but I must have hit my head too because I lost consciousness for a moment or two. When I came round she was standing over me. Her blond hair was wild beneath her cycle helmet. Her red lips curled up in a snarl, and her green eyes filled with rage. She looked absolutely terrifying. She lent down, pointed her finger at me and said just two words.

"Back off"

After she'd cycled away, I lay on the pavement outside the Bull for a while and reflected on how things hadn't gone quite as well as I'd hoped.  I then took a moment to consider what my next move should be. After half an hour, or so, I decided that the best thing to do, was go and get a drink. I dragged myself to my feet, and hobbled down Shooters Hill, to find a bus into Lee Green. In next to no time I was on Burnt Ash Hill SE18, and walking through the doors of the local Weatherspoons.

The Edmund Halley in Lee

It had been years since I'd last drank here, and I wasn't sure what to order. I did a quick scan of the bar, and saw that the two most popular drinks were pints of larger, and jugs of Woo Woo. So I ordered a couple of those. My back was killing me from the body slam I'd taken, so I downed my jug of Woo Woo to help ease the pain, and slowly hobbled outside to find somewhere to sit down, enjoy the sunshine, and the view of Sainsbury's car park.

I came to this pub for a very special reason, and it's not the Woo Woo, or the view, or even the reasonably priced Porn Star Martinis. I came here because this pub is named after one of the greatest scientists whoever lived; Edmund Halley.

Edmund Halley

Little is known of Edmund Halley’s privet life. It’s thought he was born in 1656, at a time when England had no monarch, and Oliver Cromwell was Lord Protector. He had a wife and two children, his father was a successful soap maker, but lost everything in the great fire of London in 1666.

Despite losing all his money, Edmund's dad still insisted on having him privately educated. Probably in hope that he would grow up really cleaver, and invent a fire proof soap.Sadly for his dad, young Edmund was not destined to invent scented hand washes, and advanced formula hair products; his future lay in the study of the galaxy!

Aged 17 he joined Oxford University, where he impressed everyone with his book smarts, and caught the eye of the legendary Royal Astronomer, John Flamsteed. Flamsteed took Edmund under his wing, and allowed him to help with his work, which at that time was mapping all the stars in the Northern Hemisphere. Edmund liked the work so much, that he decided to jack in his studies, and sail off to the South Atlantic island of St Helena, so he could do the same in the Southern Hemisphere, and in doing so invented what later became known as 'a gap year.'

During his time in St Helena, Halley mapped the longitudes and latitudes of 341 stars, downed 1204 shots, crashed 3 mopeds, had a picture taken of him which looked like he was holding up a mountain, and slept with dozens of women (although no actual evidence can be found for the last boast).

When Halley returned to England he was a famous man, and Oxford Uni said he could have his degree anyway, just because they all thought he was so great, but this big love-in for Halley seemed to put Flamsteed’s nose out of joint. When asked by a journalist for Astronomers Weekly to comment on Halley’s work,  he would only say that he found Halley’s Southern Hemisphere stars to be, “A little flashy for his tastes, but okay if you like that sort of thing.”

A little dissapointed, Halley responded in the next week’s addition of A.W.  by saying that, “Stars are supposed to be flashy,” and that he found Flamsteed’s Northern Stars, “A little dull.”

The next week Flamsteed gave another interview to A.W. explaining that, “His stars weren’t dull” it was just that, “His stars had to work harder than Halley’s stupid southern stars to shine, as the northern sky is a little less dark than the southern sky, due to it being closer to the sun.”

The week after that Halley told A.W. that Flamsteed was, “Talking out of his arse,” and that not only did his southern stars work just as hard as Flamsteed’s, but that Halley’s stars had to brighten the night sky, while also being, “Upside down.”

The argument caused a feud between the two men, that would last the rest of their lives. Even after Flamsteed died, and Halley took over from him as Astronomer Royal at the Greenwich Observatory, Flamsteed’s wife had all of his instruments removed and sold, so that Halley wouldn’t be able to use them.

Pissing off the world’s most powerful astronomer would have put most people off a career in star gazing, but not Halley. He travelled the world mapping the stars, and trying to unlock the secretes of the universe. He sailed the seas to study the mysteries of the magnetic poles, and built diving bells to explore the bottom of the River Thames, to prove his theories of atmospheric pressure. His work changed the way we see the world.

In 1705 Halley put on a magic show at the Royal Observatory. It got off to a poor start when he failed to correctly guess which card the Lord Mayor – who was sitting in the front row –  had pulled from his deck of cards. But he quickly recovered by pulling a bunch of flowers out of his shirt sleeve, and presenting them to the Mayor’s lovely wife. Halley then pulled a rabbit out of his hat, sawed one of his assistants in half, and made a small red ball disappear in his hand, only to make it to reappear again behind the Mayor’s wife’s ear. He finished his show by predicting the return of a comet, saying…

 "In the year 1456 … a Comet was seen passing Retrograde between the Earth and the sun… Hence I dare venture to foretell, that it will return again in the year 1758.”

It had not been the big show stopper he’d hoped for, but never the less, everyone agreed it had still been a lovely evening.

53 years later when the comet returned as Halley had predicted, the people were amazed, and greater still, when the Mayor of London observed the passing comet through the giant telescope at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, he could quite clearly see his playing card, the 3 of Clubs, on the comets surface. The comet has been known as Halley’s Comet, ever since.

St Margaret's Church

St Margaret's Church Entrance

When Halley died, he was buried in St Margaret’s Church in Lee. It was my intention to end this blog by visiting his grave but, sadly, I’m far too drunk on larger and Woo Woo to stand up.

Halley was a great man, not because he was a genius, but because he had the courage to follow his dreams, and because there was no problem he was afraid to tackle, however complicated or mysterious. If I’m to get to the bottom of my own mystery, then I must be as courageous as he was. I will start by having another jug of Woo Woo, and then tomorrow; my work begins!

Till next time people, keep on exploring.

SE18 Shooters Hill

Previously on the 28 Districts…

One day, for no clear reason, I decided to begin an investigation into the 2007 fire attack on the Cutty Sark, which resulted in me accusing the manager of the HMS Belfast "Mr A Sailor" of starting the fire out of “boat envy.”

He denied any wrong doing, and told me he believed the fire was started by someone at the National Maritime Museum reasoning, “ 'Tis a scurvy bunch of sea dogs in that place.”

I asked him what proof he had, and he replied, “Argh, not a shred me shipmate, 'tis just a feeling in me gullet. But you mark these old sailors’ words, 'tis skulduggery afoot in thar museum.”

I took this information to the police, who told me they did not consider a general suspicion of skulduggery an adequate enough reason to start a criminal investigation. So I simply gave up.

But a few weeks later during a visit to Lesnes Abbey in SE2, I met a mysterious man who told me that I was in grave danger, and that if I wanted to know who burnt down the Cutty Sark, I should meet him at the birth place of Charlie Chaplin in SE17 the following week.

He never showed. Instead I was given a letter by an unknown cyclist telling me to, "Forget about the fire."

But I couldn’t forget, so I decided to stake out the Thames Cycle Path in the hope I would see the cyclist again, reasoning that no one that enjoyed cycling could resist a ride along the Thames from Woolwich to Erith on a fine sunny Saturday morning.

And it worked! She cycled passed me three Saturdays ago as I walked along the Erith Marshes. But I hadn’t thought the plan through properly as I was on foot, so I had no way of catching up with her.

I went back the next Saturday with my bike, and I saw her again! But I’d forgotten to set up a cycling playlist on my iPod, so I was forced to give chase while listening to the best of Simon and Garfunkel; which was never going to work. I lost sight of her before we’d even gone as far as Thamesmead.

The Saturday after that I waited on my bike with my playlist set up, and this time, when my nemesis passed me; I was ready.

I pedalled after her along the Thames to Woolwich, where she came off the path and headed to towards Charlton. She cycled so fast that I had to throw away my basket and handle bar streamers just to not lose sight of her. I managed to keep up till we got to Shooters Hill, then I collapsed with exhaustion.

But all was not lost. I reasoned that if I surprised her at the top of Shooters Hill, she might be too tired to cycle away, and then I could ask her who she was, and what the bloody hell was going on... and that readers, is why this entry is ridiculously long, and starts with me saying…

Hello People,

Today I’m at Shooters Hill SE18, and from here it feels like I can see the whole of London. To my right is The Bull, a pub which dates back to 1749, it used to be a popular stopping point for coaches travelling along the route between London and Dover. These days the only travellers they get is when the 486 bus breaks down before it can get over the hill, but it still gets its fair share of locals popping in for a pint.

View from Shooters Hill to SE London

The Bull Pub

In the early days of The Bull's life, Shooters Hill was not a place you would want to spend any length of time in. The area was notorious for highwaymen and criminality. To deter these bandits, large wooden structures called gibbets were built, and any highwayman caught would be hung from them. The famous diarist Samuel Peeps wrote about them in 1661:

"I rode under a man that hangs at Shooters Hill and a filthy sight it was to see how the flesh is shrunk from his bones.”

Some say Shooters Hill got its name from its notorious reputation for highwaymen. Others believe the name dates back to a period in our history known as the Dark Ages, when - so the legend goes - it was the site of an archers target range built by the English monarch King Madbstrd III.

King Madbstrd was something of a free spirit. He travelled a lot. He loved meeting new people and embracing new cultures and experiences. But the thing he loved most about travelling, was conquering all the places he visited, and declaring himself their new King.

Sadly for the King, this meant he got caught up in lots of expensive and long running wars with the Scots, the Welsh, the Irish, the French, the.... well everyone really.

Back then wars were fought and won by the different armies who lined up against each other - usually in a field. Then, on the word go, all the soldiers would run at each other while holding the biggest swords or axes they could carry, and shouting the word 'Freedom!' as loudly as they could. The army whose soldiers carried the heaviest weapons, and shouted the loudest, won.

These battles could last for weeks, as often the weapons were so big, soldiers had to drag them inch by inch across the field towards the opposition. Victories came at a heavy price. By the end of a battle a soldiers throat could be so sore with shouting that he couldn't speak for days afterwards.

King Madbstrd desperately wanted to find a way to win battles more efficiently. He really wanted to wrap-up his war with France so he could spend a few months travelling around Asia, chilling out, and getting to know himself.

So he trained an army of bowmen in Shooters Hill, who he named The Archers (after his favourite radio show) to fire arrows at the opposition. This was technically considered cheating, and the French tried to get the English army permanently suspended from competing in any wars. Luckily for King Madbstrd, his army were let off with a small fine and a 3 match suspension. After that the English were able to shoot down as many foreigners as they liked, and pretty quickly, the other nations followed suit.

You won't need to dodge any stray arrows or hanging highwaymen around here nowadays, but there is still lots to see for the southeast London explorer. There's a beautiful Victorian Gothic water tower at the top of the hill. Nearby is the ancient Oxleas Woods. Or you can take a tour of Severndroog Castle, built to commemorate Commodore Sir William James who, while commanding the Bombay Marine Ship Protector in 1755, attacked and destroyed a pirate fortress at Suvarnadurg along the western coast of India. After he died his wife had the castle built so that his brave deed would always be remembered, and that everyone would know that her husband William was well hard.

The Water Tower

Severndroog Castle

But what's most interesting are the things you can't see…

Ingeniously well disguised air raid shelters have been found in some of the gardens and woods that run along Shooters Hill, which some historians believe may have been put there to help the home troops defend London against the invading Nazis in WWII.

Small auxiliary units and sniper posts like the bunker shown above were put around the outskirts of London in 1940 under the orders of General Edmond Ironside, when the outlook for Britain looked very bleak. Most have been forgotten about or were buried beneath the M25. Their existence shows just how real the threat of invasion was to Churchill.

I looked out towards Welling and Kent and tried to imagine Hitler’s army marching past the quiet Victorian houses, the local pub, and up the hill towards me. It's a terrifying thought, and another reminder of all that we owe to that generation.

My thoughts were disturbed by the sound of pedalling, coming up behind me, I turned back round towards SE London, and I saw the mystery cyclist coming up the hill. By the time she reached me at the top she was almost at a standstill. I stepped out in front of her bike; she had no choice but to stop. We stood in silence for a moment, and the world around us seemed to become very still. It was she that spoke first.

"It’s you" she said.

To be continued...

Shooters Hill Looking towards Kent

Oxleas Woods

SE2 - Crossness Pumping Station

Hello people,

Today I'm at Crossness Pumping Station in SE2, one of the greatest Civil Engineering achievements of the Victorian era, and a Grade 1 listed building. Along with Deptford Pumping Station, it served the whole of South London, and could hold up to 27 million gallons of sewage. Admittedly, drainage isn’t the most glamourous subject to write about, but without great infrastructure projects like Crossness, the London we know and love could never have come to be, and I think that’s worth celebrating. Besides, London’s sewers play just as big a part in its history and folklore as anything above ground...

My favourite London sewer legend involves a group of people called the Toshers. Toshers were men who used to go scavenging in the sewers for anything that might fetch a few quid, most likely scrap metal. The Toshers believed that there was a queen rat who lived in the sewer, and she would secretly listen to their conversations as they worked, and try to figure out what each ones ideal woman would look like.

'If she fancied one, she would appear in the form of his dream girl and sleep with him. If she was pleased with him, she would bestow great luck on him, and he would be particularly successful in finding things in the sewers.' Steve Roud, 2010, London Lore.

This myth, I think you will agree, is absolutely disgusting. I would need to be pretty much as down on my luck as physically possible, before I would even consider having so much as a smooch with a rat.  Also, the idea of a rat appearing before me wearing nothing but a long curly wig, a pendant necklace, and asking me to draw her like one of my French girls seems a little bit seedy.

But who are we to judge? It's very easy for us to mock, but we must remember that down in the sewers, shit literally does happen. And if this arrangement made both the Toshers and her Majesty happy, then I say good luck to them.

However, this all changed in the summer of 1858, when conditions in the sewers – as well as the world above ground - became so bad that no self-respecting rat queen would so much as let you feel her up in the dark, let alone make unholy union before pointing you in the direction of some abandoned shopping trollies, with the pound coins still in them.

The reason? A combination of overcrowding, the dumping of human waste in the Thames, open cesspits, and unusually high temperatures led to a smell throughout London, which was so overwhelming that it became known as ‘The Great Stink’. Conditions were so bad that in the House of Commons, they soaked their curtains in chloride of lime, to try to counter the smell (potpourri was still years from being invented). But despite their best efforts the smell remained, and the MP’s, and the rest of London, could do nothing but hold their noses and dream of a world where the air was clean and fresh. A PooTopia if you like.

A Cartoon from Punch describing The Great Stink 1855

The great stink was eventually ended by heavy rain fall, but the MPs in Westminster - by now probably doped up to the eyeballs from inhaling so much chloride of lime - realised that London desperately needed an efficient sewage system. The man they hired for the job was the brilliant Engineer, Sir Joseph Bazalgette.

Sir Joseph Bazalgettes, C.V. is nothing short of extraordinary. He designed the Albert Embankment, Victoria Embankment, Putney Bridge, Hammersmith Bridge, Battersea Bridge, Charing Cross Road, Shaftsbury Avenue, the list goes on. Very importantly for us SE Londoners, he was responsible for the creation of the Woolwich Ferry, and was behind the early plans for the Blackwall Tunnel.

But without question his greatest achievement (other than growing that fantastic moustache) was in designing London’s Sewage system. A design so successful, that it still serves us today. Perhaps the key to Bazalgettes success was his work ethic, and incredible attention to detail. He insisted on personally checking every connection to the new sewer system. He also designed, and drew up the plans for the huge machines at Crossness that pumped the foul water out of the sewer, and into the sea.

Personally, I find all this difficult to believe. No one man could’ve done all the things attributed to Bazalgette. I think it's more likely he either:

a) Only employed people called Sir Joseph Bazalgette, so it would appear like he was doing all the work. Or; 

b) He had an army of tiny little Engineers hidden in his moustache, who helped him, like Elves help Father Christmas.

You can still see the four engines, designed by Sir Joe and the moustache fairies at Crossness. They are thought to be the largest remaining rotative beam engines in the world. After the closure of Crossness in the 1950’s, the engines were left to rust and vandalism. In recent years the Crossness Trust has been working hard to restore them to their former glory, and you can now see one of these engines in action, if you visit on selected ‘steaming’ days.

However, I’m not here to visit the Crossness museum. I'm here because these last few months I've been on the trail of the criminals behind the 2013 fire attack on the Cutty Sark, and my journey - similar to the journey of a smelly brown Victorian sausage, has led me here. Regular readers will know that a few weeks ago, while visiting East Street Market, I received a letter warning me off my investigations. As I had no idea who the letter writer or the courier was, the trail seemed to have gone cold. That was until today, when I made a discovery that might just bust this case wide open! But more of that, next time.

http://www.crossness.org.uk/visit.html

East Street Market SE17

Hello people,

I'm writing this blog whilst standing beside a blue plaque in East Street Market SE17. In my pocket is an envelope with ‘28 Districts’ written on the front, inside the envelope, on expensive looking paper, and in long spidery writing is a message which simply says;

'Your involvement was a mistake. Forget about the fire, forget about me, forget everything.'

This letter was given to me just moments ago by a lady, maybe in her 30's, on a bike. I only got the briefest glance of her. She wore pink trainers, black leggings and a pink high-viz, over a running top. She pulled up right in front of me, pushed the envelope into my hand, and then shot off at great speed darting her way through the market with impressive skill.

As many of you know, I’ve recently become entangled in a conspiracy involving the 2007 arson attack on the Cutty Sark. And during my visit to Lesnes Abbey in Abbey Wood, things became even stranger, when a mysterious man, who described himself as 'a friend,' told me I was in 'grave danger', and that if I wanted his help, I should meet him at the birthplace of the most famous SE Londoner who ever lived.

This proved to be a problem, as I hadn't the faintest idea who he was on about. So I spent the last few weeks trying to find the birthplace of every famous SE Londoner I could think of; Daniel Day Lewis in Greenwich, the famous Scientist Michael Faraday in Southwark, Louise Redknapp in Eltham, but to no avail. The only clue the stranger gave me was;

"He was a man who spoke to millions, yet never said a word" but this was no help.

The answer finally came to me this Friday, when I was at work sitting by my computer. I was swivelling on my chair, staring at the 'to do’ pile on my desk. My firm has been busy lately and I've become so preoccupied with the Cutty Sark mystery, that the pile has grown so big it's taller than I am. Whenever a breeze blows through the office, it sways liked a tall tree in the wind. I find staring at it very therapeutic...

My peace was broken by a work mate of mine who asked me a question about reinforced concrete. I didn't know answer, so I did what I always do, I leant back in my chair, stroked my chin, and nodded my head knowingly while I tried to come up with something to fob him off with. Unfortunately I miscalculated how far I could safely lean back in my chair without toppling over, and I ended up crashing to the floor. To make matters worse one of my shoe laces had come undone, and as I kicked out at nothing to stop my fall, my left shoe flew off and lodged itself into the ceiling above me. It hung there for a moment, then fell to earth, and hit me straight in my old chopper. I let out a high pitched yelp in pain, and it was at that exact moment that a gentle breeze - perhaps caused by the beating wings of a nearby bird who had mistaken my shrill scream to be the noise of a mate - that caused my ‘to do’ pile to collapse on top of me. For a moment there was only silence, then a low chuckle, and finally roars of laughter from all my work mates. And it was then, that I finally figured out who the most famous SE Londoner who ever lived was.

I pushed the paper away, got to my feet, and told my boss I was leaving early, as I had go to Walworth, and solve one of the greatest crimes of our time. He was too busy laughing to respond, but I think he was cool with it. I ran out the door, and was in Walworth quicker than you can say ‘silent comedy,’ and from there I headed towards the market.

East Street Market Entrance

East Street Market appears in the title sequence of 'Only fools and horses, and I always get the song stuck in my head when I'm here. A market has been here since the 16th century, and it's still going strong.

But East Streets main claim to fame has got to be that it was the birthplace of Charlie Chaplin. At the height of his fame Charlie was one of the most famous people on Earth, and you would still struggle to find someone who'd never heard of him today. No official records exist, but the little fellow believed he was born in East Street, and there's a blue plaque next to the East Street market entrance to commemorate his birth.

Charlie's life in SE London was difficult, he was two years old when his father abandoned him, his brother Sydney, and his mother Hannah. Just like her son, Hannah had dreams of making it big on the stage, but her career never really took off. Unable to support her family, Hannah had to send Charlie and Sydney to the work house, which he later described as "a forlorn existence." Hannah struggled with her mental health, and was committed to Cain Mental Asylum twice during his childhood. She was permanently committed when he was 16 years old.

"There was nothing we could do but accept poor mother's fate." Charlie Chaplin.

But what Hannah was able to give her children was a passion for performing, and a belief they had talent. Charlie spent his childhood working hard, entertaining audiences in the music halls, and theatres. So that by the time he arrived in Hollywood in 1913 at the age of 24, he was already a master of his trade. The silent films he made during the first half of the 20th century made people laugh, and for a moment forget their troubles, in a world that must have been a very frightening place.

I waited by the blue plaque commemorating Charlie's life till the market closed. I did the same thing the next day, and the next. I got my letter at 3pm today, and to be honest, I'm cold, tired, my old chopper still hurts, and feel like giving up. But I won't, Charlie never did, and as Del Boy always said, you should never stop believing. Don't worry readers, it may seem like the trail has gone cold, but I have a very cunning plan!

SE2 - Lesnes Abbey

Hello people

Sorry there's been no new updates to the 28 Districts lately; me and Rosie have been having a bit of a nightmare. The upstairs neighbours flooded our bedroom - three times! Once from a leaky tap, once from a rotten seal around their bath, and once from a leak behind their washing machine, we’d have less trouble if our upstairs neighbour was Neptune the God of the sea. Their landlord assures me he’s doing all he can to fix the problems, but he mostly just complains how much it’s all costing him. We got some Builders round who said they couldn't do anything till we got a Plumber in. So a Plumber came, who said he needed a Tyler to help him. The Tyler came, but then the Plumber disappeared. Me and Rose are starting to think it’s all a conspiracy to stop us from being happy; and to turn our little flat into a lido.

And speaking of conspiracies, I'm still troubled by my recent visit to the SE10, when I stumbled upon a plot connecting someone, or maybe everyone, at the National Maritime Museum to the 2007 fire attack on the Cutty Sark. My head was spinning and I needed to go somewhere quiet where I could think. So I got in my canary yellow Fiat Panda Eleganza and headed to Abby Wood to take a look at Lesnes Abbey; a former monastery from the 12th century.

As I pulled up near the abbey I cursed my luck, it was pissing down, and there was no shelter to be found. Not to be beaten, I got out the panda, ran under the closest tree I could find, and I stood there for a moment, collecting my thoughts. I looked out at Lenses Abbey, the bad weather meant it was completely deserted, and clearly it had seen better days. It was nothing but a bunch of broken down walls, it could have been a B&Q in the 10th century for all I could tell. But it was peaceful, and I enjoyed watching the rain beat down on the site for a while. To my surprise the silence was broken by the sound of a voice.

"Glorious isn't it?"

I almost lept out of my skin. Standing next to me was a tall thin man in his fifties wearing a smart long black coat and black trilby hat. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed him before.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"The abbey" he replied and gestured towards it in quite a theatrical way, "Quite glorious is it not?"

I looked out at the ruins and the rain again, "It's very nice" I said.

"Is this your first visit?" He asked. I nodded, and he continued.

“It was founded by Richard De Luci in 1178; as I'm sure you’re aware. It's suspected by many that De Luci built the Abbey as a way of Penance for his complicity in the murder of Thomas Becket, as if this one good deed could in some way cancel out the evil ones of his past. In fact all it does is stand as a monument to his guilt. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I wasn't sure how to respond to this. There was something about the guy that made me uneasy. He had a smile across his face. But he didn’t seem friendly, he gave me the impression that he was in on a joke that I didn’t understand; and maybe I was the butt of. Now that I looked at him properly I could see he was very tall, maybe 6ft 8. He was an incredibly well-spoken man, he sounded like a stage actor rehearsing a play. He went on.

“De Luci, died just a year after the Abbey was finished, and is buried here. I wonder if the Abbey ever gave him the absolution he craved?”

I think this question was to himself, but I hadn’t spoken in a while so thought I had better say something; so I said, “The walls are nice"

His smile widened, "Are you still enjoying writing your blog?"

His question stunned me, "How do you know about the 28 Districts?"

He chuckled to himself, "Simple, you've written the address of Lenses Abbey on the back of your hand to help you find it; so you’re clearly not a local man out for a walk. You're here in the rain, that shows dedication to your task; so you're not here for a leisurely visit. Also you’re holding a notepad with the words 'My Secrete Blog' written on the front."

"Wow that's amazing! What else do you know about me?"

The smile left his face and his eyes seemed to darken, "That you’re in grave danger."

A chill ran down my spine, "Who are you?" I asked.

"Think of me as a friend."

"Ok."

We stood in silence for a moment, I think he was waiting for me to say something. Eventually he said, "And what is it friends do?"

I thought for a moment, "We could go bowling?"

He seemed disappointed then added, "I was thinking of something far more intimate."

Again an awkward silence fell between us, this time it was me that broke it, "I think maybe the yellow Fiat Panda Eleganza has given you the wrong impression about me. I'm very flattered but...."

He cut me off, "Friends confide in each other. They share their troubles. So tell me, freind. What troubles you?"

"The clutch pedal on the Panda keeps squeaking. I've taken it to the garage but..."

"I don't know why your clutch pedal squeaks, what else?"

"When the engine gets hot the pedal sticks to the floor..."

"I'm not a mechanic. What else?"

"I might have uncovered a crime but I'm not sure what to do about it?"

"Aha! Why not go to the police?"

"I'm not sure they would believe me"

"So you have no proof of this crime?"

"Nothing."

"Which is probably the reason you're still alive."

Now I was frightened, “What do you mean?”

“Your adventures through these 28 Districts have caused you to wander from the safe path, to the ones less travelled. Ones filled with dark shadows and darker secretes.”

“This is so fucking weird” I said, but he didn’t seem to hear me. His manner changed, and his eyes darted around the woods, something had spooked him. Perhaps it was the noise of leaves rustling in the wind, perhaps the song of a distant badger, who knows? When he did speak again he said simply,

“We are not alone, I must go”

“Wait!” I said, “You haven’t told me anything. What do you know about the fire to the Cutty Sark?”

“Shh” he hissed, “If you want answers you shall have them but not here.”

“Where?”

“Meet me next week at 3pm, at the Birth place of the most famous South East Londoner who ever lived.”

“Jools Holland?”

“Even more famous than him. He was a man who spoke to millions; yet never said a word.”

And with that he disappeared into the woods and left me alone. As I drove home my mind raced with questions. Who was this strange man I’d met? How did he know me? Should I trust him? And who was the famous SE Londoner he spoke of, an author maybe? If you have any ideas readers, I’d be grateful to hear them.

Till next week.

SE10 - The Cutty Sark

Hello people,

Today I have come to SE10, Greenwich. It’s no exaggeration to say I’m standing in one of the most famous places in the world. Whichever country you are in, or even if you’re travelling across sea, or through space, you set your watch according to Greenwich Mean Time. Before GMT was invented, the world lived by Paris Flamboyant Time. PFT was hugely impractical, lunch breaks would last for days, and time would stop whenever somebody fell in love, this annoyed the British as this made it impossible to know when last orders at the bar was. So we invented GMT, and it was internationally adopted at the International Meridian Conference of 1884. Another reason GMT is so important is that ships traveling all over the world rely on it to calculate their longitude while out at sea; ships like the Cutty Sark.

The Cutty Sark was a British Clipper Ship built in the Clyde in 1869. In her day she was the fastest ship in the world. She used to bring tea from China back to the UK to be sold, it’s estimated that in total, the Cutty Sark sailed the same distance as travelling to the moon and back twice. The ship is a museum now, where you can learn all about how it was built, where it travelled, and the people who sailed in her.

People love the Cutty Sark, mostly because people love tea. My Nan Bet lived for 77 years on a diet of nothing but milky tea with 2 sugars, rich tea biscuits, and occasionally, a nice slice of ham. And she was not unique - we in Britain consume 65 million cups of tea each day. Which probably explains why the Cutty Sark is loved by so many people, and why there was such sadness when in 2007 the ship was damaged by fire while undergoing conservation.

The fire was explained as an accident, but I’ve always suspected foul play. It seemed to me that some very influential people stood to gain an awful lot by the disappearance of the Cutty Sark. With it gone, it would free up space to build some 1 bedroom apartments, or maybe even a Tesco Express, right in the middle of some prime real estate. My suspicions were confirmed when there was another - this time less successful - fire in 2014. I’ve gone to the police with my suspicions, but they weren’t interested. I asked all the staff at the Tesco’s Express on Trafalgar Road if they were arsonist. They either denied it or had the security guard escort me from the premises. It seemed my investigation was destined to be fruitless. That was until last Saturday, whilst walking though Hays Galleria by London Bridge, I stopped off to have a pint in the Horniman Pub, and – it being a nice day – took my pint outside to sit by the Thames, and that’s when I saw it. The thing that stood to gain the most from the Cutty Sark’s disappearance, the HMS Belfast, another museum ship in SE London. With the Cutty gone, there would be no competition left.

I now had a lead, but I needed proof. I wrote a letter to the Curator of the HMS Belfast, a Mr A Sailor, pretending to be a journalist from the Maritime Journal. I told him I wanted to interview him for the magazine and asked him to meet me in the cabin quarters on the top deck of the Cutty Sark at noon on the 22nd of November. I hoped that by tricking him into returning to the scene of the crime, and confronting him there, he may slip up and confess to arson. I sat waiting in the cabin quarters for him to arrive. Eventually a man with a peg leg joined me in the room. He wore an eye patch, had a hook for a hand, a parrot resting on his shoulder, and was sucking on a pipe. Something told me, that this was my guy. I stood up and said.

“Are you Mr Sailor?”

“Ay” he replied “I guess you be the talented young writer from the magazine?”

“You won’t find any talented writers in here Mr Sailor.” I responded, “But what you will find, is a reckoning.”

“Shiver me timbers!” He yelled, “What is this, a trick?”

“No trick, just justice.”

“Blister me barnacles!”

“I know you set fire to the Cutty Sark, you resent the fact that it gets so many visitors. You thought with it gone. All big boat loving tourist would come to the HMS Belfast instead.”

“Crucify me cabin boys!”

“You had the perfect motive. And thanks to the pipe you smoke, you had the perfect means to carry a lit flame aboard the ship without creating suspicion.”

“Dangle me dinghy’s!”

“Do you deny it?”

“Ay, I deny it” he said, “I’d never harm a steadfast boat like the Cutty Sark. I’m a lover of large vessels such as this one.”

I sniggered.

“Plus I welcome the competition from the Cutty Sark. it keeps me on my toes, smooth waters never made a skilled sailor. And as for me pipe, tis just an E-Pipe, no flames needed. Just a stylish way to ingest poison.”

I was deflated. “So it wasn’t you?”

“No laddie” he replied. “You were wrong about me. But you’re not wrong in your suspicions. I too suspect foul play.”

“But from where?” I asked.

He removed the pipe from his mouth and pointed it towards a middle aged woman in a red duffel coat taking a photo of the ships sails on her i-pad mini. I looked at her and my blood ran cold.

“You bitch” I said. She looked surprised. Then she walked over to me, and hit me round the head with her i-pad mini. As she walked off Mr Sailor said.

“No, not her, look beyond boy.”

I looked up again, and that’s when I saw it.

“The National Maritime Museum, of course! With the Cutty Sark gone, they would get all the tourists for themselves!”

“Ay, tis a bunch of scurvy dogs that run that museum for sure.”

I shook his hand, and we departed friends. As I left the cutty Sark I made a vow to find out who in the National Maritime Museum started the Cutty Sark fire in 2007. Obviously I won’t find out who did it today, I’ve already gone way over my word count. And not in the next few weeks as I’ve already planned all the places I want to visit over December. But soon, early February at the latest. But I promise dear readers, I will find justice. This ship just got real.

The Cutty Sark is 145 years old today, and she’s still looking good, so why not give her a visit http://www.rmg.co.uk/cuttysark