Liz would often come and stay in Clapham but as her work was in Collindale the commute was not practical. Life in Elms Crescent was so much fun. We often had parties, a black tie champagne do being the most memorable. A South African man joined the house, Donavan Neale May. He had fled the politics of Apartheid but he was a top athlete, on the verge of the Springboks Rugby team. He was very serious minded and he bought a set of weights and would rise at 6 every day for a circuit around Clapham Common. Various exercises coupled with sprinting. Liz and I would join him on occasion and Liz took to serious exercise like a duck to water. She was a fast runner but also very strong. Donavan nodded approvingly as Liz performed press ups on the bandstand steps. Straight back no half measures! Donavan’s girlfriend came to stay too. She was a Californian and absolutely beautiful in that all American perfect teeth and figure way. She nearly killed us all as she assumed that American technology was a global thing. She turned the stove on and wandered off. Unfortunately an automatic gas lighter was not in place and the explosion that occurred some ten minutes later was quite a thing. She left soon after this event as clearly the UK was not for her. Donavan moved to the USA a year or two later and as far as I know they are still together.
Over time Liz and I sort of assumed we would be ‘together’ I think. After perhaps 9 months we found ourselves in North London. I did not know the area at all but soon we found ourselves looking at flats. Coolhurst Lodge was in fact right on the Crouch End/Highgate borders. Of course we adopted the latter address. It overlooked some public shall playing fields. For the princely sum of £13,995 we bought a one bedroomed flat. It had dark blue carpets and a large glass window overlooking the field in its sitting room. The electric blow heaters did not work I remember but other wise the 1960’s built block was fine and we also had a cellar room and a garage no less.
Liz had to sell her precious mini which was bought courtesy of her much loved Papa Jock’s inheritance. We had no furniture at all, literally none, no stove and no bed. I scoured local skips and came back with a table and chairs which we painted white. We bought a mattress for £3 I remember from some friends parents. We got a stove courtesy of the local paper classifieds with the blessing of a Jewish couple who were delighted to send us on our way. It was very heavy and cream coloured. We bought some other bits and bobs and set to work on home brewing. Most of the produce was filthy but one day I made a memorable discovery. Mix the sweet and dry white wines together and bingo, well almost, at least it was vaguely drinkable.
For some reason, I cannot think why, maybe it was the cost, we bought a left hand drive Citroen 2 CV. It was amazing. Amazing because we went miles in it. It had a washing line as a starter the igninion process was via a screw driver. No door locks and a heater that only gave out heat if you covered the radiator with tin foil. We would go to Liverpool in it up the M1 albeit having to change down on the ‘hills’, yes there are plenty on the motorway if you have a 2CV. In the end this car developed some electrical issues. Liz had brilliantly joined the RAC but after two or three visits by the same patrolman in places like the the main Highgate Road into London the man informed us that despite our right to do ask for help he would refuse to answer any further calls as the car was a ‘death trap’ and should be sold. Ironically we sold the car for the same price we had paid for it to a couple who were off to ‘explore Europe’. Two days later they were back at our flat, the car had expired! We came to some arrangement financially and moved on. Our next car was a British Racing Green MGB GT. We were moving up in the world.
Life in ‘Highgate’ was fun. I was working hard, as was Liz, and we were determined to save some money. Our social life was centred around a couple who had a beautiful daughter who was called Sara. Keith Bellingham was, by his own admission, ‘a legend in his own lunchtime’. He worked on the Stock Exchange and we had met on the Northern line one night where I swear I sam him sleeping standing up hanging on to the straps. After a few chats Keith invited me for a pint and we met up in Highgate Village. It was literally the first of ‘many’. many many pints!. His wife was Swedish, Madeleine, she was very beautiful with a delightful personality. Liz and Maddy really hit it off and Keith and I focussed on the various real ale pubs in the area. The Bellingham’s flat was spectacular as Madeleine had used all her native ‘homemaking skills’ to create a look and feel that was exceptional and which motivated Liz and I to maximise our own home.
Our desire to make money and enjoy life resulted in a great adventure. Peter Boriello works with Liz. He was of Italian routes with red hair and a real drive and a quirky sense of humour. He later became an eminent professor specialising in tropical disease but at this stage he and his wife Karen lived in a flat in Collindale.
Any way on Saturday trip into London the four of us found ourselves in a ‘bric a brac’ street market in London. Peter suggested we start our own stall and so it began. Over the next 6 months or so we built a business. We sold all sorts of things. Wait for this. I made plywood rocking horses that Liz painted. Liz made beautiful baby quilts- extra for a bespoke job.. Peter would source all sorts of stuff from junk shops, like silk screen printing presses and pendulum lights which we turned into colourful hanging baskets. Karen painted glassware to serve as stylish storage jars. The list of stuff we sold went on and on. One day a van arrived at the market and from the back door a man sold plants. Everyone loved rubber plants and cheese plants back in the day and the van was full of them. Peter was very self confident and he approached the man and established that the plants were in fact Marks and Spencer seconds that maybe had a browned leaf or similar and as such had not past inspection. The man would spend the next few hours unloading his stock as with a small amount of care the plants could be returned to looking good. Peter came up with a plan. The following week he waited for the man to arrive and approached him with a ‘knock out bid’ for the van load. The man, delighted to have free morning, readily agreed. Liz and Karen tended to the plants and put some of them in containers and bingo we were in the house plant. I seem to remember we comfortably doubled our money each week on that venture. I would wear a peaked fat cap as a disguise in case, as would happen, someone from the Stock exchange turned up. Don’t know why but I preferred to keep my two jobs separate. Incredibly after a while each couple would take home over a hundred pounds for a days work which was a lot of money tax free in those days. It paid for some holidays some great nights out and best of all gave us another focus in our lives. Interestingly it also taught me a lot about market psychology, why a small change in price with effective promotion creates demand and the like. The lessons proved valuable to me in my ‘day job’ as I understood how much emotion is involved in any purchase or sale decision.
My rugby had taken a distinct backward step. I had played a bit for The Richmond Heavies who were one of the countries leading Rugby Clubs veteran side. I was 24 or so and somehow a mate persuaded me to have a game for them as they needed some young legs. It was beyond funny. The team had Tony Bucknell in it. Now in his early thirties but as a former national team captain an amazing Vets player. There was a former England second row too called Dennis Ralston. The team in fact went years unbeaten despite their own fixture secretaries attempt to undo them by inviting younger teams to take them on. Now the thing that made this lot unbelievable was as follows. They drank beer BEFORE the match. Not one pint but three of four. They had a double decker bus with inbuilt stereo and a bar to take them around. I well remember turning up at Blackheath to take on their veterans, The Blades. The referee was a pompous little man and he walked into our changing room in order to give us a blocking for our tardy arrival-truth was we had been ‘training’ in the Antelope in Sloane Square. The blocking was such that our whole team broke down into uncontrollable laughter. We were literally rolling about the place. I begged the ref to stop his tirade but the thing went on for about five minutes. Despite the refs antagonism towards in the match The Blades were dispatched. After a number of months of this madness I joined Finchley Rugby club, the worst Rugby Club on planet earth. It was there in a Middlesex Cup match I dislocated my shoulder and my Rugby career was put on hold.
Tales of a Life Well Lived 