Not quite a democracy...

Did you know that an election for a London public body will take place next month with just 160 voters from a resident population of over 100,000? I live in the area but am unable to vote, as this is one of the last remaining elections in which a property qualification applies. Not owning the requisite half acre of land, I am disenfranchised. If you lived round here, you probably would be too.

The election takes place on the 27^th February and is for the position of Verderer of Epping Forest.

Epping Forest is London’s largest open space. Misguided West Londoners tend to believe that this distinction belongs to Wimbledon Common, Richmond Park or Hampstead Heath but they are wrong. These spaces may be more famous for their wombles, deer and cruising gentlemen, but Epping Forest has more space, more trees and much, much more antiquity.

A direct descendent from the Forest of Essex (which, nine hundred years ago, covered the entire county), Epping Forest is one of only 5 sites in Britain with more than 2,000 ancient trees (containing a remarkable 50,000 trees over 400 years old).

Despite the impressive flora, the word forest, in this context, means a royal hunting ground, not a woodland. In order to protect the deer and boar prized by the monarch, a discrete legal code evolved known as forest law. Forest law was enforced through a dedicated network of courts (the Forest Eyre and the Swainmote), and built on the network of Verderers.

Verderers were the people who were responsible for maintaining the ‘vert’ (the vegetation of the forest; from which the name derives) and the ‘venison’ (the hunting animals which relied on the vert) for the King. They acted as a cross between magistrates (enforcing sanctions for infringement) and administrators (approving sale of timber and regulating enclosure). While elected by the local freemen, their duty was to the King.

Five hundred years have passed since forest law drifted into disuse and the role of Verderer is redundant through most of England. A handful of us, however, still get the right to elect four Verderers every seven years. Well, we do if we fulfil the legal requirements to be registered as a Commoner of the Forest. These are that you “you must own or occupy not less than half an acre of land not covered by buildings within the ancient boundary of Epping Forest… as set forth in the perambulation made by authority of Parliament in the 17th year of King Charles I.”

I’m OK on the boundary – the official map published by the City of London corporation may not include my house (and my road is marked as an unpaved track) but it’s clearly where I now live. However, my garden is about half an acre short of the required half acre. Bizarrely, I could stand - but wouldn't then be able to vote for myself.

In 1878, Epping Forest was disafforested. This meant that, legally, the forest was no longer a royal hunting ground and forest law (in practice, hardly ever enforced) no longer applied. Instead, the Epping Forest Act 1878 handed stewardship of the Forest (slightly surreally) to the City of London Corporation: the governing body of the square mile of the City of London; itself the world’s oldest continuously elected local Government with a Royal Charter dating back to 1327.

In 1971, all elements of forest law (by then, Britain's oldest statute) was abolished… with the exception of the appointment of verderers for the three remaining former royal forests (the New Forest, the Forest of Dean and Epping Forest). In these three forests, a tiny thread of Norman legislation remains.

So, should you have half an acre of land (not covered by buildings, remember) in this this area, then now is the time to register. As you can see, you've got until 29th January to get your name added and to become part of nine hundred years of forest history.

If, on the other hand, you would rather simply go for a walk in the woods, then you could do that instead.  Epping Forest is about a ten minute walk from Trainsofthought Towers and the reason I'm thinking about it this week is that, regardless of how it’s governed, it is stunning in the snow. On Sunday, I took my rather chilly three-year old daughter for a rather chilly walk. The trees were perfectly traced with snow and the entire landscape was monochrome. It was beautiful. Then we threw snowballs.

Tube Choo

It was the tourists at Paddington who looked most surprised. Fresh off the Heathrow Express, they were quietly waiting for a Circle line train on Sunday when we came puffing through in an authentic Metropolitan Railway steam train. "I'd heard about their deficit, but didn't realise things were this bad..." 

The train was the first steam train to run underground through the centre of London for 100 years and I was privileged to be onboard.

I was in third class in the final coach. The carriages, dating from 1898, were wonderfully opulent. The interior was wood, brass and leather. The windows, of course, opened allowing steam and smoke to filter through as we passed through the dark, enclosed tunnels. Looking out into the tunnels through an open window made the whole experience much more intimate (though it took me a while to work out how to open the window - it turns out old train windows use a leather strap with brass notches which is completely incomprehensible to those of us from the age of air-conditioning).

The train ran from Kensington (Olympia) to Moorgate, and the whole thing was over far too quickly. While intended to be, it didn't feel like a recreation of long-vanished Victorian London. Quite the opposite: the joy was the incongruity. Our maroon steam loco with her wooden carriages was running on the tube on a normal day past normal trains. We chugged through the newly rebuilt Kings Cross St Pancras, finished up at the 1960s utilitarianism of Moorgate and waved constantly at brand-new Metropolitan line trains, shining from the factory. It was gloriously absurd.

Being on the train had a downside: we didn't actually get to see it moving. It's running again this coming Sunday, though, and I may go and have a proper look. If you do want to get a sense of what the world's first underground railway was like, pop down to Baker Street after seven in the evening. Platforms 5 and 6 are the most perfectly preserved on the original 1863 line. Gloomy Victorian brickwork, gleaming wooden carriages and the tang of smoke; you'll get a much better sense of Victorian tube travel than I did last Sunday, and you'll be seeing something that no-one had previously seen for a century.

For everything you could possibly want to know about the tube's 150th birthday, see the legendary Diamond Geezer.

Top of the world

Have you been to the top of the Gherkin? Neither had I until last week. It's incredible. It's a building that I, like many of us, had long admired from afar but I was not prepared for just how magical it is inside. It provides an insight into how our ancestors must have felt visiting the temples and cathedrals that were the wonders of their age. 

The thing is, builders of truly incredible buildings have often tried to impress by creating a structure that appears to be impossible. Alongside admiring the grace and beauty of their creation, they want us to be astonished that it was possible to build at all. Unfortunately for us, the advent of computer aided design (combined with the impact of computing on structural engineering) means that once-imposssible buildings are now commonplace. As a result, we don't get the sense of awe that visitors to the Pantheon in Rome, the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul or even our very own St Paul's will have felt. Funny-shaped buildings are everywhere, and we now know that anything's possible.

However, the Gherkin is different. The top floor is suspended within the glazed dome formed by the top of the structure. That wonderful pattern of triangular glazing rises up around you, and then meets in the middle. The mezzanine-style top storey simply hangs there, enveloped in sky, with the dome floating above. As with all great buildings, the Gherkin is built on a very human scale. The fact that each small triangle is subtly different keeps the eye engaged and moving and keeps the building human. Standing in the sky, your eye dances around the constantly repeating, constantly changing pattern of the glazing towards the clouds beyond and you find yourself asking, like our forefathers, how on earth it's possible.

As you can tell, I was somewhat overawed.

As a result, I couldn't go straight back to work afterwards, so I popped into St Boltoph without Bishopsgate, one of the non-Wren City churches that I've never visited before.

It had a gentle peace and solidity that was the exact opposite of the beautiful, but very urban, Gherkin.

There were three people already there when I walked in. One was an Asian man. He was young and wearing headphones. He looked relaxed, and just sat in his pew listening to music. I wonder why he'd chosen a church to hang out in. On the opposite side of the chuch, sat a black woman. She had her head in her hands. Why? I don't know. She looked very tired but her face was uplifted. Something was very wrong in her life, but this place clearly gave her a spiritual solace.

As I looked around, a young east Asian (Chinese?) man came in. He looked intense but stopped only briefly. Not sure why he was there. Was it spiritual as well? He was clearly in a rush. I think it was spiritual, but in atmosphere it felt very transactional; a bit like grabbing a coffee in Starbucks.

I wandered round the church for a while, looked at the font in which a young John Keats (sadly, there was never any other kind...) was baptised and then returned to the noise of the City of London; leaving a handful of people in the stillness and tranquility of a church built for hundreds and now used by a tiny self-selecting minority.

Christmas 2012 (as it happened)

Saturday 22^nd December

Home all day

Sunday 23^rd December

Breakfast at Bill’s, Covent Garden: gosh, this place is getting popular. Walk in Seven Dials - they’ve done well with Christmas lights (one landowner for the area? Probably: always results in better Christmas lights). Three year old daughter invited to take part in performance art installation -  London’s cool. Walk to British Museum; what’s that spire over there? Oh, of course, St George’s Bloomsbury; wonderfully disorientating church; Nicholas Hawksmoor: genius. St George’s not appreciated enough. Why not? Overshadowed by British Museum? British Museum - wow, (wow!) those plates, that spoon, those cups are four thousand years old; daughter not bothered. Shame we can’t get into the Round Reading room any more (why not?); ah, so here’s the Great Court restaurant, have never found it before - glorious location but looks a bit bland (how much?! For that?). Bloomsbury Square playground; wonderful London terraces but such a shame Southampton House was demolished. Home.

That evening, carols in local parish church, St Mary’s, Walthamstow. Beautiful medieval building: funny how Christmas seems so tied to Anglicanism, holly, dark nights and Victorian street lamps, and not to Judaism, olive groves, bare mountains and the Roman Empire.

Monday 24^th December

Lunch in Borough market, not charged for food: “We’d made too much anyway, it wouldn’t have lasted over Christmas”. Aren’t people nice? Borough feels peaceful the day before Christmas; wish it was like this on Saturdays. Nice coffee. Home.

Tuesday 25^th and Wednesday 26^th December

Stockings, presents, a bit too much wine, turkey, roasties, stuffing, my wife’s family, bread sauce, mince pies, ham (on Boxing Day) Christmas carols (not this year – that’s a shame, why didn’t we?) and board games in the evening. The only two days of the year where I can be certain I’m doing more or less the same thing as more or less everyone else in this country. I like that. That’s why I eat sprouts.

But did you see the stats for Boxing Day shopping? Blimey, who knew? I wouldn’t go.

Thursday 27^th December

I went. Sales. Oxford Street. Could have been worse. Lunch in Apostrophe on Market Place was nice. Did most of the shopping in Debenhams. Walked back to tube via back streets. What’s that? Discovered St Peter’s Vere Street (hiding behind House of Fraser): charming. Another underappreciated church by James Gibbs. Small, understated but beautiful. Home.

Friday 28^th December

Working. It was fine.

Saturday 29^th December

At home with overexcited three year old playing with all her new toys. Gorgeous. This is why you have kids. Afternoon trip to Waterstones. Why are sci-fi and romance next to children’s? Have you seen the romance section recently? If not, you really must. Endless clones of Fifty Shades: very funny. Home.

Sunday 30^th December

Bus to Smithfield with sleepy daughter in the morning; I love this part of London, so quiet and understated but you can feel history leaching out of the stonework. Stoke Newington for lunch, this is posh! No, seriously posh! I grew up in London; Stoke Newington wasn’t like this - it’s got a Whole Foods Market! When did that happen? Clissold Park to play footie with daughter; OK, this is lovely, I see what they’re paying for. And some seriously nice Georgian houses on Church Street; never noticed those before, did the deprivation really blind me to this until it went upmarket, how shallow. Finsbury Park for coffee with friend (Bon Matin Boulangerie) – wonderful cakes; another part of London that’s so much more upmarket than I thought it used to be. What would Abu Hamza make of this? Home.

Monday 31^st December

Back to Finsbury Park to collect daughter’s football we’d left the day before: oops. More coffee and cake in Bon Matin Boulangerie; why not? Home. Friends round for New Year’s Eve. Hey, a decent New Year’s Eve; there’s a novelty. Should old acquaintance be forgot? On principle, no – but I’m rubbish at staying in touch. 

Tuesday 1^st January

Victoria Park: what a stunning day: blue sky, no clouds, how fresh. New year feels like it’s brought new air with it. 2013’s going to be ok after all, you know. Lunch in Fish House on Lauriston Road. Have you been? You should. Race against daughter round lake. She won. Playground (good quality kit – I notice these things now) then more football (she’s taken to this; that’s a surprise!) then to Hackney Wick for coffee and cake in Hackney Pearl. Very cool. Lots of very beautiful people with trendy beards. Friendly staff. Great cake. Cool’s ok you know – as long as you don’t take it seriously. Train and bus home. Daughter to bed. 

Wednesday 2^nd January

To work again tomorrow. It’s been good.

Like Gibbon

Oh dear, I seem to be on a declining trend. 

In October, my first full month as one of these new-fangled bloggers, I received 147 page views. In November, this fell to 118. So far this month, I’ve had 34.

I’m worried.

I’m not expecting to be the new Robert Peston, but it is only worth talking to the world if the world wants to listen.

I won’t be here next week (I’ll be cosily ensconced in the land of cold turkey) but what am I to do on my return? After all, there’s not much I can do to raise awareness of this blog myself. I don’t tweet (and, even if I did, I’d then have to find followers – which is the same job) and I’m too embarrassed to tell everyone I meet that “I have a blog”. It just sounds too postmodern.

So, perhaps, I need to accept a gradual descent into anonymity from the heights of 147 page views. On the current trend, I’ll be down to one view per month by April. That will be my mum.

However, there might be an alternative. If you, dear reader, could tell the world about my blog then, you never know, more of you might read it.

You see, while there aren’t many of you, I do know that there are a few. A couple of you have posted comments, a few more of you have mentioned it to me on the phone and I can see from my stats package that the 69 page views in the last month are not all the same person.

So, go on, tell the world! And while you’re doing it, wish it, as I wish you, a very merry Christmas and a joyful and prosperous new year.

Right place, right time

Do you recognise this church? Are you sure? Fair enough; it is a bit obscure. It is Dials Methodist Church, Gray Court, South Carolina. While you may not have known the name, the shape is probably familiar. A steeple rising from behind a pediment (that's the triangular bit) supported by columns and preceded by steps is a classic of American church design, repeated in thousands of small towns and big cities.

While these unremarkable churches are endlessly varied, they have one common ancestor; and it isn't American.

St Martin-in-the-Fields is one of London's finest buildings; and one of its most overlooked. Sitting in the corner of Trafalgar Square, it is the square's finest piece of architecture but without the celebrity sheen generated by lions, fountains, Nelson, the National Gallery and the fourth plinth. Goodness, even Admiralty Arch has acquired a certain grotesque glamour since becoming known for John Prescott doing the unthinkable with his secretary Tracey Temple.

While few Londoners now stop to admire St Martins (and very few could name James Gibbs as its architect), it was once the most talked about building in London. Gibbs combined the classic Italian temple front (columns and pediment) with an English baroque steeple. No-one had done this before, and Londoners (always conservative about church design) were sceptical anyone should have done.

However, if he had wanted architectural influence in what was to become the world's largest Christian country, he was building at right time. At the start of the 18th century, the population of the English colonies was 275,000 and the largest city, Boston, had a population of 7,000; a tenth the size of today's Walthamstow. St Martins was completed in 1724. By the end of that century, the newly-independent United States of America had a population of 4 million, and the radical design of Gibb's new church had spawned hundreds of imitations.

It's easy to take Trafalgar Square for granted, but don't. I was reminded of this on Sunday, at one of our family Christmas traditions. Every year, St Martins holds a blessing of the crib in the centre of the square. Standing in the cold and dark singing carols by lanternlight, surrounded by the noise and mundanity of the modern city, there is a magic in the layers of history to be found in the buildings of a square built for a long-lost empire. The names of some of the most prominent buildings speak directly to this history (South Africa House, Canada House, Uganda House) but so, much more subtly, does St Martin-in-the-Fields.

Money

Blimey, it's not easy being Chancellor, is it. No-one likes you, endless difficult decisions and everyone thinks they could do the job better. A bit like managing the England team but without a salary twenty-two times higher.

Having said that, I'm still not entirely convinced that George Osborne's got it right. The thing is that he seems to have misunderstood the nature of the problem he is trying to solve. Conventional wisdom is that "there's not enough money". But that's not right. Thanks to Sir Mervyn King's printing press, there's more money than there's ever been in history. The problem is that it's not moving about fast enough.

You see, "the economy" is simply a word we use to describe economic activity. The key word here is activity. If a pound is printed by the Bank, and promptly sits in the vaults of Barclays for a year then that pound has been worth a pound. However, if it is spent by an old lady on a bus fare which is used to pay a bus driver who uses it to buy some chips from a chippie who repaints her shop with paint from Homebase who pay it in corporation tax to the Chancellor who uses it to pay a teacher who uses it to pay his mortgage, then that pound has been worth seven pounds by the end of the year. Each time that pound changes hands, the great GDP-omiter clunks up another quid. The Chancellor's task, therefore, is to work out how to make Mervyn's millions move faster.

OK, so how do we do that? Well, if you want money to move faster, you need to get it into the hands of people who will spend it. A pound in a pocket is of no value to the economy: a pound in a palm is. By far the people most likely to spend all the money they're given are the poor. It's obvious when you think about it. Money given to the poor is valuable to the economy, money given to the rich stagnates; especially in a recession when confidence is low and everyone who can will hoard cash for a rainy day.

This is why "we're all in it together" isn't just about fairness, it's about economic necessity.

So how did George do? Well, despite the pain there were a few tax cuts in today's autumn statement. Increases to the personal allowance, tweaks to inheritance tax and a headline cut in corporation tax make sense. Companies now exist in a global marketplace, and it makes sense to attract firms to Britain. The reason Starbucks pay no tax in Britain is because they'd pay less by pretending their coffee shops are in Switzerland. Cut their taxes, and they might actually pay them.

There was also a cut in planned fuel duty. This seems a shame. 50% of the poorest fifth do not even own a car. The one tax cut we've got and 50% of the poor won't get a penny from it. Conversely, the continued squeeze on both benefits and tax credits will significantly reduce their real incomes. Taking money from the only group certain to spend it might not be the best idea for growing the economy.

So what is to be done? Well, perhaps instead of taking money from the people most likely to spend it, we should give them more. By all means make the structural changes to welfare that need to be made (and some do). But provide transitional support to get the poorest through the change. Good idea, but where will the money come from? Why, from Sir Mervyn, of course. 

Britain’s Quantitative Easing of £375 billion is worth £6,000 per head or £24,000 per family. Directed at the two-thirds of households with incomes below average (yes, most of us!) and that works out as a transitional payment of roughly £15,000 per household. Assume it's paid over three years, and that's an extra £5k per year to adjust to the pain of reduced public services.

That way, the Government gets to stick to its austerity plans while the poor kick start spending in the economy. Let's call it "trickle up". Unlike trickle down (the economic creed beloved of Thatcherites) it might even work.