Dulwich Park, or Why I Love South East London

It's rather pleasing that, while it takes me 30 minutes to get to work in busy ol' London Bridge from my front door of a morning, another 30 minutes' walk in another direction offers me the chance to take photos like this.

Dulwich Park, to the soundtrack of Wicked, really soothed my insomnia/hangover headache yesterday.

Hurrah for home. Hurrah for Peckham Rye.

Hot Tin Cats and Celebrity Stalkers

So, I was lucky enough to see and review the star-studded Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Novello on Wednesday.

It was very good, but never really pitched over into great: at least, that's what I tried to get across in my londonist review.

I rather wished they'd cut it, to be honest. It's not easy for anyone (the stars involved included) to keep the level of excellence / tension / interest / sparkle up for that length of time.

On the other hand, that Tennessee Williams knows a thing or two about writing plays, doesn't he?! They don't hand out those Pulitzer Prizes for peanuts. (Once again I'm aghast at the narrow-but-deep structure to Eng Lit at school / uni which means I can tell you about the different ways ol' MacB can say "Is this a dagger I see before me" and the suggestions behind Sir Toby's "A plague o' these pickled-herring..." but doesn't know the plot of any single Tennessee Williams play. And don't get me started on Chekhov, Brecht or any of the others...)

As well as an amazing front-row-of-the-circle seat, there was other excitement for the evening.

Leaning out over the stalls (no vertigo for me here), I spotted a familiar cream puffa jacket. Yes, Miranda Sawyer is stalking me. She might've come in a long time after me to distract attention from the fact that she is following me to the same cultural engagements, but it's no use. She clearly wants to *be* me. (Ahem.)

Alongside the celebs on stage (Richard Blackwood?!), and the celebs in the audience (there was someone else on my row I really should've recognised, but can't work out who it was: singer? presenter? Ah, well), I rather thought I'd had enough "spotting" for one night.

Then, at London Bridge, who should appear but the lovely Clive Rowe! With a soft black hat pulled firmly down over his eyes (and ears), and his collar up against the rain, he looked a million miles away from the character he must've finished prancing around as in the Hackney Empire just an hour earlier: Widow Twanky.

Poor Clive really wasn't sure which train he needed to get on. Everyone was rushing about in that "last train of the evening" kind of way. I was very close to going to help him out. On the other hand, I was impressed / couldn't believe that London's finest Dame is taking public transport all the way across London every night. I wanted to help... But the Londoner in me took over, and I just watched rather than going to say hello. I tell you, they're all stalking me ;-)

I wonder what he would've made of Cat. He would certainly have made a great Big Daddy, I'm sure.

London Moment: London Bridge Station

At about 9.35 this morning, in the middle of rush hour, a photographer chats to a policeman at London Bridge station, towards the Tooley Street exit.

People dart everywhere, weaving their interesting mixture of good-naturedness, haste, anger, frustration, tiredness, nonchalance and confusion. It's busy, busy, busy.

The skinny photographer walks into a momentary space and plants a small inflatable globe, about the size of a honeydew melon, on the ground. He retreats and surveys the scene, bringing his viewfinder up to his eye. Commuters dodge around the mini world, confused. One guy accidentally kicks it off its spot on the floor.

The photographer jogs back to the toy, replacing it carefully in the centre of the melee. Turning, he jogs back to get a sense of perspective on the planned shot. The policeman looks on in amused silence.

Suddenly, a TfL man appears from nowhere, and whips the ball up from the floor, thrusting it in the photographer's chest. "I'm sorry, you can't just go putting that there," he says in classic jobsworth tones.

Moment, fun, photo, ruined.

I'd love to have stayed to see what happened. But I was running characteristically late for work.

Spotted: Robert Glenister

When: 9.35am
Where: On the down escalator in London Bridge Station

Yes, Hustle's ugliest swindler was using the same tube station as me this morning.

I wasn't sure if he was Philip or Robert, but a little googling revealed he was the latter.

Head down, clutching what I would describe as an "attache case", but is probably one of those leather pocket document holder thingys without handles, just perfect for scripts, CVs and keeping your chest warm, with a "I'm going somewhere important, don't recognise me" expression on his face.

LK, owner of many a random crush, was jealous.