Category: London Behaviour

Hold the phone: Rusty is a Patterjack

Crossbreed dogs are incredibly popular these days and cost thousands of pounds, but you can keep your cockerpoos, your spandoodles, labradoodles, puggles and schnoodles because our dog Rusty is a PATTERJACK!

Sometimes when out walking, fellow dog owners ask what sort of breed she is. I just laugh and say she’s a Heinz 57 rescue mutt from Battersea Dogs and Cats. But not any more I won’t.

Mrs Preen was at the local farmers market which does contain actual farmers and not just hipsters selling artisan yogurt. The lady from Marsh Farm (they’re from Essex and sell delicious meat and eggs) took one look at Rusty and said that’s a nice Patterjack you’ve got there. Cue an astonished wife. Apparently Patterjacks are a cross between a Patterdale Terrier and a Jack Russell and are bred by farmers to go after rats.

We all know Jack Russells, but I’d never heard of a Patterdale, so I did some in-depth research lasting minutes and found out the Patterdale originated from the North of England and is a descendent of the Fell Terrier (never heard of that one either). They were used to hunt and control foxes and eliminate vermin in homes and stables. The Patterdale was recognised as a breed in 1995, but are very small so were mixed with a JR to make them slightly bigger and the Patterjack was born.

One website describes the Patterjack as a ‘handsome dog, small yet muscular and stocky’ that’s Bucket to a tee. The only thing we knew about Rusty for sure was that she was brought up on a farm and there’s nothing she likes better than burrowing, Patterjack-style, into the sofa.

We’ve often wondered what ingredients went into making Rusty and even considered getting one of those dog DNA tests, but not anymore, because, let’s face it, if you own a Patterjack life can’t get any better.

New London Scam

I may be naive or just stupid, but I’m damned if I can figure this out. It’s obviously a scam, but what’s going on?

Mrs Preen took the mutt for a walk last Saturday at around 7.30am. Realising she needed some cash to go to the farmer’s market she went to Vauxhall overground station which has a cash machine conveniently located inside the station.

She withdrew the cash and turned to leave the station.

Now pay attention as this is where it gets interesting. A reasonably well-dressed young man then approached her and said: “I need some help counting this money.”

Mrs Preen looked down and saw he had a large sum of cash in his hands, mostly in twenty-pound notes.

Not knowing what’s going on but sensing something iffy Mrs P. says, “I’m sure you don’t need my help.”

At that point a middle-aged woman took my wife by the elbow and said, ‘you don’t want to get involved with that’ and led her away.

The woman left and said no more, but it certainly appeared as if she’d seen this little slice of London life before.

Now I know what you’re thinking but no, my wife did not get her pocket picked or have her purse stolen. And of course the money was probably fake.

But what was the scam that seems to have been interrupted?

Was the guy hoping my wife would become flustered and put her bag down so he could nick it? Perhaps I’ve been watching too much ‘Line of Duty’ but was he trying to get my wife’s fingerprints on the money?

Can anybody help me out and explain what was going on?

The Hard Yard

This is why I love London and perhaps it’s one of the reasons you do too. To be fair you may not even like going to the theatre and do you really want to watch a play written in 1953 that dramatizes the Salem Witch trials that took place in 1692 which is an allegory on the McCarthyism that was plaquing the US at the time the play was written? The answer to that tangled list of questions is actually yes, but let me explain.

Arthur Miller’s The Crucible is currently playing at The Yard Theatre in Stratford and while I’m loath to do reviews on this blog, I leave that to others, I’ll just say this an extraordinary production that left the audience breathless the night I went. If anything, the director, Jay Miller packs too much into the show, hardly allowing the play to settle, but let’s not carp. The play starts with the cast sitting in chairs with their names on the seat-back. They start talking in British accents and I thought well OK, most would have just arrived in America and perhaps would retain their original accent whatever that sounded like in the 17^th century. But gradually as the action gets under way their accents change to American and modern dress is replaced by period costumes. This is just one of the striking aspects of this production.

So why does this make me love London? Well it’s fairly obvious. This is a stellar production with a stellar cast, and everyone complains how expensive London is, but here in Stratford an evening at The Yard will cost you, top price £21. If you’re under 25 and turn up on the night and there are tickets available, then it’s yours for a fiver. I go to The National Theatre and the West End quite a bit and inevitably it’s full of middle aged, middle class people like me. Who else can afford it? Here at the Yard it’s stuffed with young people eager for a theatrical treat. And that is exactly what they get.

The theatre seats may be hard and made from plastic stacking chairs that have been torn apart and screwed into a wooden amphitheatre. The whole place was built out of salvaged material and has the feel of make do and mend, but don’t let that put you off. Twenty-one quid for a world class show; well you’d be foolish not to.

The Yard Theatre, it’s another London wonder.

Street Junk

If I ever need to buy heroin or presumably just about any other drug of choice, I now know my local dealer. I’ve yet to approach him but most days he can be seen dressed in a hoodie with a promising looking backpack slung from his shoulder often with a couple of sad-sack junkies trailing in his wake. He’s always in the same place hanging out, taking care of business, at our local BT InLink digital kiosk.

InLink allows you to make free calls, jump on wifi and charge your phone. It’s a hi-tech version of a phone booth and has proved a huge boon to the drug dealing fraternity.

Occasionally backpackers, slumped on their luggage, can be seen topping up their mobiles which must be deeply irritating to the dealers who feel that this is rightfully their territory.

BT must have thought they were on to a winner: A free public service that comes with a sleek electronic advertising hoarding that puts other street furniture to shame.

I suppose it’s an example of unintended consequences with crims using a service most people don’t need now most have smart phones. But bad news Mr Drug-Juggler, apparently police and councils are stopping further installations.

Dealers are big fans of this service as calls can’t be traced, but, wait a minute, there’s a CCTV camera hanging right above our kiosk. Perhaps the hoodie is obscuring his view.