Some South Woodford scribbles from DD, our resident diarist and observer of all things local. Illustrated by Evelyn Rowland
We have a word ‘sight-seeing’. Why isn’t there a word ‘sound-hearing?’ What are the sounds of South Woodford? My list would include the warnings to ‘mind the gap’ and ‘stand behind the yellow lines’ as the next train to West Ruislip approaches; the celebratory Sunday morning bells of St Mary’s; the shrieks of excited laughter from the children in Elmhurst Gardens.
Moving further afield and even back in time, some of you I met in George Lane helped me begin to amass a whole heap of memorable sounds: the sea lapping over pebbles on the beach, the wind rattling through the rigging of yachts in a boatyard, the thrill of rolling thunder, the lawnmower in a summer garden, the solemn ‘Remembrance music’ at the Cenotaph. Some of you recalled sounds you will never ever, ever, forget: the air-raid warning siren and the all-clear.
“What is your favourite sound?” I asked Joseph, fresh from his shopping. “The sound of silence!” he replied without hesitation. “London is full of noise from helicopters and traffic of all kinds.” His partner, Maeve, admitted she found seriously loud noise overstimulated her, made her anxious. Sarah, interestingly, came up with very contradictory sounds: “I love listening to the birdsong in my garden. And I love loud music, rock, pop, RnB, dance, the louder the better.” Her partner, John, was equally responsive: “I hate beeping car horns, train journeys with people speaking loudly on their phones, organ music and, even worse, the sound of bagpipes!” (One of my absolute favourites, in fact). Ann also liked to play music all the time, a companionable background to her daily routine. Music from her teenage years in the 80s and 90s. Her ‘bugbear’, she said, was all the pinging in the kitchen, the dishwasher, the clothes washer, all reminding her that she had a job to do. Stacking the crockery and cutlery away, getting out the ironing board.
Janet and Denise were enjoying an afternoon tea at Bread and Oregano. “Oh, I love the sound of peace and quiet. I love Radio 4; I’m only too happy to go to Ambridge with the Archers. I love the sound of the Sunday cricket match on Woodford Green, the ball on bat, the occasional polite ripple of applause.” They certainly both agreed: “There’s nothing to match the sound of the cork popping out of the prosecco!”
Mia quite surprised me. She loved the sound of rivers in the Peak District, but when she was at university and studying hard, she would find the noisiest place available, the sound of lots of chatting, “chaotic energy” she called it. It was there that she could concentrate best of all. Her friend Montbretia (her mother was passionate about flowers) had some “obnoxious sounds” to share: “It’s cars being deliberately revved, typically by men! Oh, and by the way, cutlery scraping on a plate makes my skin crawl.”
Four teenage boys, obviously pals. Would they want to play ball? How could I have doubted? Answers toppled out: “The distant echoey sound of the train approaching from Woodford. The rustling of the wind in the trees. Even their various branded sports shoes evidently had their own individual sound. One found the screaming alarm of a speeding police car quite threatening. Another felt it made him feel more secure. One felt the urgent blaring of an ambulance disturbing, another that it conveyed a sense of hope. Things got more personal: they all enjoyed the sound of their laughter when teasing each other, their string of jokes and anecdotes, their confidings about girl friends and parents. Really, I suppose, the sounds of a long-term, cherished friendship.
My own treasury of sounds spans decades, from the signature tune for Dick Barton, Special Agent, to dear, helpful satnav. From “Climb every mountain,” to Rachmaninov’s second piano concerto. And as always, reliable Big Ben. But roughly 10 years ago – I can’t remember if I ever told you this – I realised I was going deaf. I felt less confident. Less connected. Let’s cut a long story short: I placed myself under the regular and expert and welcoming and ongoing care of Whipps Cross Audiology Department. Don’t dare talk to me about the horror, the stigma even, of hearing aids! No one minds wearing glasses when their eyes need help! I won’t ever forget the day I emerged from the hospital all geared up for the first time. I had to stop myself from skipping with joy, not to mention laughing aloud when I could hear everybody’s secrets on the bus.
You can’t help hearing loudly delivered conversations at a nearby table in a restaurant. Recently, at the Wood Oven, a foursome awaiting their starters were ‘at it, hammer and tongs’: “Janet, you knew I wanted you to lead a club! But you didn’t. I knew you had one.” “How was I supposed to know, John?” “You don’t seem to understand each other very well!” (a third voice). “Come off it, Mary. Of course, it was obvious from his play.” “Possibly to you, Matthew, not to me.” Janet huffed and puffed a bit, then picked up the drinks menu: “You lot are far too clever for me!”
Returning home on the W12 last week I eavesdropped shamelessly: what a tale this young man had to tell: “I was on holiday in Crete last week and this young chap comes up to me and asks me to take a photo of him with his girlfriend. ‘Fine,’ I said. Then he whispers in my ear: ‘Actually, it’s a video I need. The thing is, I’m just going to propose to her’. Wow! Somehow, I managed to avoid the shakes. The drama unfolded: he was down on his knee, gazing up at her, opening the little box, presenting the ring. She was so excited. It was definitely a ‘Yes!’ They hugged to seal the bargain. My video was a huge success.”
To contact DD with your thoughts or feedback, email dd@swvg.co.uk
