Some days just don’t turn out the way they were planned. Saturday was one of those. I was going to collect my older son, Joseph, at Heathrow early in the morning, back from 3 weeks of surfing and climbing in California. After some suitable home comfort spoiling, I would leave him to sleep, no doubt he would be in desperate need, and I would still have plenty of time to get to the roof garden of One New Change, the shiny, retail complex across from St Paul’s, and watch Venus Williams, a player I have adored for close to two decades, win her 6th Wimbledon title. Well that was the plan, anyway. Things took at turn at 4 am. Joseph called to say his flight had been cancelled and as he is underage the airline (yes, that same one that has gotten such bad press recently) weren’t at all interested in finding him somewhere to stay until a new flight could be found. They weren’t too concerned about finding him a new flight either, actually asked him to leave the queue as “the line is too long to help 
you.” Nice. We found him a hotel room and a few stand by options. “Don’t worry,” he told us. “I will be fine here in San Francisco. I don’t mind staying a few more days.” Yeah, I have no doubt about that. Very exciting end to what had been a very happy adventure.
A few hours later, bleary eyed, I walked downstairs to hear a cheeping sound coming from the basement. “For heavens sake,” I snapped at my younger son “turn off that damn play station.” “It isn’t the play station, Mum. There is a bird in the basement.” WTF? A bird in the basement? How in the hell did a bird get in the basement? It has been very hot and the skylights in the kitchen had been left open…so maybe? But there it was. Cheeping away. Huddled near the door to the outside, a door that is never opened. Cheeping and hopping, because one of its wing was broken. I managed to get the door open and move the bird outside, into the stairwell. And then the rest of my family disappeared. Out for the day. This poor little creature left in the care of a woman well known for her general disinterest in animal welfare. Unlikely and unlucky for this bird.
I went next door to ask the neighbour’s opinion. “I’ll wring its neck,” Paul offered. But isn’t a pigeon, I told them. If it were a pigeon, no problem. But it is a cute little thing. They rushed over to see. Oh, its a blackbird, a baby blackbird, they told me. Which made sense as an adult blackbird often suns herself on our astroturf in the garden. So that must be the mother bird and this must be her chick. No more talk of neck wringing. I called London Wildlife. “Yes, we can come get it, but it might take a while,” they responded. “But you will need to protect it ’til we get there.” I went back outside and the sweet thing had hopped up all the steps and was making a break for freedom, towards the Common. “Don’t worry,” I texted back “he has run away.” Phew, I thought. That is the end of that. Lucky escape. For me, anyway.
“No” came the immediate response. “He won’t survive the hour. Go get him.” Suddenly feeling the weight of my responsibility, I dashed back out the front door with a shoebox in hand. A delivery van came to a screeching halt. The driver jumped out. “Are you looking for the bird? He went that way.” And the chase began. Clamoring over fences and rubbish bins. The lovely driver finally caught him up in his hi-viz jacket. And into the box the bird went. I took him back inside. The poor little thing kept opening his beak for me. “Please try to feed him,” London Wildlife told me. “Go down to Tesco and get some wet cat food and put little morsels into his beak.” This was beginning to get farce-like. But of course I obeyed, I was in too deep now. I was pretty bad at it. Not sure how much of that disgusting paste actually made it into his mouth. But I tried at least. “We aren’t going to be able to get to you anytime soon,” was the next message. “Could you get him to us?” This is London. Of course I can get him to you. “Can I put him in a cab?” I asked. Of course I could. This is a London bird, after all. Cabs are a way of life. Taxi called, driver slightly nervous, but willing. And off he went. “Thank you,” was the text I received 35 minutes later. ” Thank you for rescuing this baby blackbird. He arrived in a fine and lively state.” So that was job done. And 3 hours gone. The tennis!
I rushed off to One New Change. Venus had to win now. I had saved a bird!!! Me! Yes, so unlikely. But I had done it. Now to the tennis! At One New Change. This marvel of glass and steel, designed by French architect, Jean Nouvel opened in 2010. It was constructed as an homage to Christopher Wren, the genius behind St Paul’s Cathedral, my favourite place on earth. One New Change affords a perfect view of the Cathedral from many angles, but because it is a structure more of space and light than form, it doesn’t loom, it shimmers, almost blending into the sky. It is sometimes referred to as the “stealth bomber,” you can’t see it, but from it you can see everything.
The 6th floor roof terrace stretches outwards for stunning views over the city, the Old Bailey and Grey Friars in the foreground. But it is the dome of the Cathedral that takes center stage. Breathtaking. Accessible by a great glass elevator to make Roald Dahl fans swoon. Many years ago, I went along on a Sunday to take some photos of the view. In the elevator with me was a woman and her disabled son. As the elevator began to rise the boy got more and more excited. “I am Charlie, I am Charlie.” he shouted. When we reached the top they didn’t get out. “We will ride up and down being Charlie for a while now,” the mother told me. Never mind the view, the joy of that little boy makes this the loveliest building ever. And since at least 2012, the terrace has played host to Wimbledon lovers. A big screen television is put up, with the dome of St Paul’s floating in the background. Giant Union Jack cushions and deck chairs are scattered about for viewing comfort. All free. Food and drink from other venues encouraged, though in more recent years a little bar has been set up. Often I would have the place almost to myself. But word has gotten out. And this was the women’s final. By the time I got there the place was packed. And Nandos was doing a delivery service. The queue for the bar was sizeable. I manage to find a little patch on the ground quite near the front and settled in for what I hoped was a triumph for my Venus.
Muguruza and Williams traded games, each holding their serve. Williams had two set
points. And then she didn’t. The set slipped away. Then the match evaporated. She lost the second and final set 6-0. Yikes. Certainly not how I had envisioned it. Not how she had either, I am quite sure. But there it was. A rescued bird in a taxi, tennis overlooking St Paul’s, and a son extending his holiday in another great city. Unlikely, but true. Such is life, especially life in London. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The weather in London has been glorious, beautiful for weeks now. What better way to enjoy it than a spot of jousting at Hampton Court Palace. As one does.
properly, become infected and torture him for the rest of his days. It is a dangerous sport, still so today. I had a nice chat with one of the competitors at the end. Last year, at this same event, he “was so broken,” (his words) that he was out of action of the rest of the year. Dangerous, but great fun to watch.
could marry Anne Boleyn. Anne was there today as well. In fact, a whole host of worthies filled the Royal Box. Wimbledon has their Royal Box, and a few favourites filled the one at Hampton Court for the tournament, including Thomas Cromwell, my great historical crush. He is a very good looking man indeed. And speaking of tennis, when the jousting was over (and I may or may not have been lurking about in a stalkerish manner) I overheard Henry invite Thomas to play some tennis, a game Henry frequently 
played on the grass courts he had built, (still in use today, refurbished, obviously) at the Palace. He also installed two bowling alleys. His jousting days were behind him by the time he occupied Hampton Court, but his competitive nature was not. Sport, in a gentler fashion, was still necessary. But I digress. Jousting.
The jousting took the form of 2 runs between each competitor, for a total of 6 runs. Except Francis Weston insisted he get an extra go at George Boleyn and the Knight Marshal let him have it, twice actually. So it ended up two versus two, four times each. Misses, hits, points scored, lances shattered. That is a modern thing, the shattering. Back in the day, lances were solid. Spectators were familiar enough to see what touched where, at top speed, but no longer. We need things to blow up. So the lances are hollow and breakable and what a satisfying smacking sound they make when they clash. 
The finalists on the day were George Boleyn and Henry Radcliffe. They had two passes. The first was a stunning lance to lance touch, a thing of rare beauty, so the commentator told us. 5 points each. But the next pass was a total miss. From one extreme to the other. Such is the nature of sport.
started up. We wandered over to a tent to find our merry Royals dancing. We stayed and watched. Thomas Cromwell may have smiled at me. Oh Thomas, 500 years is but a moment in time when in your presence. And jousting is a perfectly reasonable way to spend an sunny July afternoon in 2017.
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