Consuming Interest

Coming Up For Air

By LESLIE ADRIAN

WITH warmer weather and school holidays comes an annual problem for Lon- don parents—where can their children play in the open air without risk to life and limb?

A look at the map of the metropolis shows that it is . surprisingly well supplied with open spaces and Lon- don is justifiably proud of the extent of her green acres. (In addition to the eight Royal parks and some fine stretches of heath in the classier suburbs, the LCC preside over 148 parks and open spaces, of which all but fifteen have some special provision for children.) Yet although at first sight the acreage is impressive, it is far from evenly distributed. While Hackney has twelve open spaces and Lambeth thirteen, Poplar has only the scanty greenery of Millwall Park, Bartlett Park and Trinity Gardens, and in the whole of the grubby concrete desert of Islington there are only Highbury Fields and a couple of green pocket handkerchiefs—Rose- mary Gardens and Whittington Park. (Parks and Open Spaces, a leaflet listing all 148, describing their facilities and including a transport guide as Well as a map pinpointing each park, can be obtained free from County Hall.) London land values being what they are, it would be unrealistic to expect property owners to turn into philanthropists and start sowing their building sites with grass seed instead of concrete and asphalt.

But even asphalt playgrounds (in other words, Play streets) are better than none, and their creation is a relatively simple matter of borough bye-laws.

But whatever is done in the way of providing new/ playgrounds and legislating for more play streets, in over-pressed cities like London children are always going to have to struggle for their fresh air. But it would greatly help harassed parents if the prevailing attitude of the English towards children could more nearly approach that of the fond continentals.

For instance, it is a sad commentary on our Priorities that Russell Square, whose stretches of grass used to be a toddler's paradise, suddenly about two years ago sprouted 'Keep Off the Grass' notices—notices, incidentally, which apply to children but not to dogs. Toddlers march solemnly round the asphalt paths, while dogs race happily across the grass, as the only requirement is that they should be 'under control.' And for these purposes 'under control' is interpreted as coming when called. This would effectively ex- clude any dog my family has ever owned, but Bloomsbury dogs are obviously better disciplined as battalions of them foul the grass which is con- sidered too precious for children's feet. The same curious attitude manifests itself in a 13loomsbury backwater which has an attractive private garden belonging to the Bedford Trust. Tenants of the neighbouring block of flats have torn holes in the wire to allow their dogs to exercise' on the strip of grass. What should be a pleasant green spot of grass and trees now bears a close resemblance to a sewage farm, but no complaint is made. The day, however, that two small boys climbed through dog-made holes in

the wire to kick a ball around, the protests flowed in and the boys were thrown out.

So long as open and safe space is so precious, it seems not unreasonable to ask that people should take precedence over animals. Let the children have the grass and a la lanterne with the dogs.

The value of travelling first class,- for me, is the opportunity to get some work done. If work means writing, then a table is a minimum require- ment. And tables are there for the asking—to be supported by a pair of slots provided for the pur- pose, below the window. Just ask the guard . . .

This is the theory.

But British Railways employ an Emett-like character, a mad inventor housed in a ghost station on a line leading nowhere, whose sole function is to devise ever more varied versions of the railway table, some narrower, some wider, some with the fittings wider apart and some closer together. A sinister plot to prevent any table from fitting any pair of slots.

So that there shall be no risk of success in marrying table to slots, it seems to be carefully arranged (by computer, I dare say) that first-class carriages carry only second-class tables: because second-class carriages are narrower, their tables are too. Where the first-class tables go, no one knows. Perhaps the way some people collect British Railways teaspoons, others collect tables.

I shared a compartment recently •with a regular Newton Abbot-to-London traveller who is fight- ing a lone battle of the tables. He says there is a man at Exeter who really understands railway tables; and by dint of harassing the guard into getting the Teignmouth stationmaster to phone Exeter station, he has managed to get a fitting table put aboard there. But this is doing things the hard way, and small comfort if you happen to be going from Birmingham to Chester, say.

British Railways' only explanation was the ten- tative one that tables from old carriages are being used in new carriages, which are different. If BR can't get their tables standardised, one has an un- nerved feeling that one day they'll slip up over other sizes too-. . . trains coming to a grinding halt when unexpectedly faced with a change in the gauge of the lines!

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When Wilkinson Sword announced its inten- tion to 'go public' last week, the City column of The Tittles throbbed with emotion. It must have been the thought of an eighteenth-century armourer having to borrow money to finance the manufacture of nothing more romantic than razor blades that did it. But it set me wondering about the stainless-steel blade rumpus. Now that Gillette have begun making them again (they tried them in the 1930s, but nobody wanted to know) and Personna have decided to join in, a funny thing has happened. All three are selling at precisely the same price, 3s. 6d. for five.

There cannot be much intrinsic difference be- tween the Wilkinson and the Gillette blades, because they both use the same fluorocarbon coating process. In fact, Wilkinson have to pay Gillette a royalty for using it. Nevertheless, the British shaver goes madly in pursuit of the elusive Wilkinson product, spurred on no doubt by the twin images of swordmanship and happy gardening hours, hedge-clippers in hand.

But if it's scarcity that prompts desire, Perma- Sharp blades should be in great demand any minute now. Not only can you not buy them, a dozen chemists and barbers questioned in the London area last week had never even heard of them. At 3s. for five, 1 nominate them best unobtainable buy. Made by a small company in East Kilbride, near Glasgow, most of them are exported to the United States. They kindly sent me a batch of samples and three guinea-pig shavers report well of them, both for comfort and durability. One even said, 'As good as Wil- kinsons.' And even scarcer. Good hunting.