Nov/Dec 2023

40
South Woodford Village Gazette
DD’s 62 nd Woodford Diary
Some South Woodford scribbles from DD,
our resident diarist and observer of all things
local. Illustrated by Evelyn Rowland
Doris took me to The King and I. At
the London Palladium. Doris is 90,
only I’m not supposed to mention it
to anyone. She usually wears a velvet hat.
I met her in the butcher’s last month. At
least, I was in the butcher’s and she was
heading past the butcher’s at purposeful
high speed in the direction of Woolworths.
Doris uses a stick to good effect. Not so
much to lean on or to steady herself. More
for brandishing. Other pedestrians tend to
clear a path. I called out. She changed course
instantly and lurched in amongst the steaks
and sausages. Dave had already weighed
up my kidneys but he sensed an imminent
hiatus and moved on temporarily to the next
customer. “Thanks so much for shouting at
me,” says Doris, a bit out of breath. “I don’t hear
too well these days. People have to shout. Do
you ever manage to get out to the theatre? I’d
like to take you. Not next week. In about three
weeks. Give me time to book. I’ll write to you.
Then you can let me know what you want to
see.” Doris shouts too. Her normal voice might
strike others as a touch dramatic. A wonderful
reader in her day, with carrying power even in
the open air. So, there we were, the two of us,
shouting at each other in the butcher’s. And
everyone knows we are going to the theatre.
At this point, observant and in particular, any
long-standing readers will have realised that I
have gone back down Memory Lane. George
Lane still, of course, but in the days of Dave
the Butcher and Peter the Greengrocer, the
Pet Shop and the Gift Shop and Woolworths.
Before the arrival of the International
Supermarket or the tattooists or Creative
Biscuit or glorious Greggs or ‘Our M&S Food’.
Surely, it’s OK in this Christmas edition to
indulge in some shameless nostalgia? Doris
was, after all, a South Woodford phenomenon.
A successful businesswoman. Worked in the
City in her younger days. She lived in Pulteney
Road, I seem to remember. She was the
treasurer of a charity I helped with. It was she
who handled all our connections
with the Charities Commission.
At one point, she told us, they
informed her that from
then on she would have
to submit all our financial
statements in a different
format and ‘online.’ She let
them know immediately, and
I’m sure politely, that she was
90 and would continue to
submit her figures on paper
and in the usual way. I don’t
think we heard any more
about it. I’ll never know really
how it happened that she
invited me to the theatre.
Perhaps she recognised my
situation in my long-term
carer role and wanted to
give me a treat.
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