St Mary’s Church, Wyndham Place, York Street London W1.
St Mary's, Bryanston Square was built as one of the Commissioners' churches in 1823–1824 and was designed by Robert Smirke to seal the vista from the lower end of Bryanston Square.[3] It is a brick building, with a rounded stone portico, round tower and small dome, topped by cross. It is listed in the top protective and recognition category, grade I. [Wikipedia]
Tuesday 17th December 2017: 1400 hours. Colin is in St Mary’s Church basement, a large open space divided into six areas, each with two firm and upright sofas, more like a bench chair. wood parquet floor, white satinwood walls, all very clean and disinfected.
Autumn 1985. Colin had changed jobs two years earlier; he had been working for Donaldson’s Chartered Surveyors in their Jermyn Street offices, Fortnum & Masons for lunch, RAC (Royal Automobile Club) gym three lunchtimes per week and the late night snooker that followed. He specialised in managing retail property throughout the UK, his main client Hammersons, owners of Brent Cross etc had him managing stuff in, Kingston-upon-Thames, Southend-on-sea, Wolverhampton and Kidderminster. It was fun and exiting but he wanted more.
My father-in-law Lawrie Norman and one of six partners in a six office North London residential estate agency asked I would be interested in joining them. He said to me one evening, over a pint, “Our management partner Phil Baker is retiring, and we are looking for a new energetic, trainee -one day if your good enough- partner. The portfolio has lots of residential properties, a few local shops and six shops somewhere near Birmingham. The offices, which employ fourteen staff including a rent collector, a separate rent payment building, connected at the back just in case, but we don’t seem to get much trouble. The management is run by a tough old bird, Shirley Anderson, she’s good but smokes a lot and eats cheese and onion crisps for breakfast. Oh, and the office is in Tottenham High road, about a mile further up than last year’s riots, but the office is only two minutes’ walk from Spurs ground. The pay will be slightly less than West End rates and you would only get three weeks holiday in the first year. Would you be interested?”
“No, but I would like to know more”. I joined Normans six months later. Two years later, just as my partner review was due, the company was sold. Folkard & Hayward, head office Baker Street W1 bought us. I had been a pain throughout the negotiation to the extent I refused to sign my contract unless I received a £30,000 golden handshake -half the value of my promised shares if I had become a partner- to sign. It worked. At this stage I cut a very lonely figure; running my tape measure along the basement floor of a kebab shop in Tottenham, as opposed to a lingerie dressing room in Top Shop was not good for my soul or my desire to build something. The week after the buy-out completed, we had a visitation from head office; we were told to clear the place up clear our desks and stand when the Senior Partner came in the building to greet him. “what the fuck have I, Shirl, her girls and the rest of us just been asked to do?” left my lips at some wretched soul who had been sent to deliver the message. “tell him to fuck off and call me to make an appointment”. Harvey Marshall didn’t like me, at least we had mutual respect in that regard, he arrived in a full three-piece double-breasted suite, Crombie probably some fancy sheepskin, light tan. He did not like it when I said, “I wouldn’t walk too far down the High Road looking like that if I was you”. He was head of Commercial Valuation & Investment department handling millions of pounds for clients, he also distrusted me and devised a plan. The daft bugger only went and moved me to the Crawford Street head office and placed me in an office next door to his. I was to take over the commercial rent reviews and under his tutelage, in his exact words, “so I can keep an eye on you” and ease his valuation workload. The guy really was a dipstick, he told all the staff he worked as an undercover MI5 agent in his spare time. The MD and majority shareholder of Folkard & Hayward was John Gorst, wheeler dealer in property and horses. He never wore shoes in his large office -we occupied three Georgian terraced houses extended to the rear- and had a collection of Matchbox cars on his shelves. In December 1985, I was given a job to provide a second valuation on the Rotunda Building, Camden Town for a client. Harvey Marshal had provided the first some nine months earlier at £1.75m but was too busy with Xmas parties so handed it to me. I valued the building at £2.5m. The client askes me to sell it, I achieve £2.6m. Two weeks later John Gorst invites me to a pub lunch. We leave the office turn right along Crawford Street an intriguing terrace, a mix office, retail and residential facades to an imposing Georgian terrace. We turn right, into Wyndham Place; parallel terraces of Georgian splendour lead onto Bryanston Square St Mary’s Church in all its glory, the Royal Oak pub our destination sits beyond in York Street. John tells me the history of the Church, with its huge open basement that had used as an emergency hospital in the past. It’s a stunning building, surrounded by amazing architecture, we pass the entrance to the church, large timber doors, they are open. An upside down V sign reads, COVID-19: COMBINED PCR AND ANTIBODY TEST - IN-CLINIC TEST (MARYLEBONE)
I am in the basement of St Mary's Church, mask on and standing on the correct spot, I am asked to hand over £350 -card only- and my passport, it is checked and handed back. She gives Lambo a funny look, and so she should; yesterday he went into Boots Sherborne and purchase some beards die stuff, once home he trimmed everything, followed the instructions and waited five minutes. Waste of money, he gives it another go and leaves the die on for 20 minutes. Oh dear, no wonder folk are giving him funny looks. Colin is then asked to fill in a form by scanning a barcode, which he has no idea how to do, but no-one can help him because of social distancing. It gets sorted.
A woman, late twenties, slim, round face, lovely smile and not Viking genes, more Asian takes my temperature - 36.7 -then places the biggest ear wax poker I have ever seen halfway down my throat, wiggles it about and then, without cleaning it, shoves it up my left nostril and just when my sinuses started screaming, she wiggled it loads more. A bit unpleasant, but as we say in sport, ‘no pain no gain’. I roll my left sleeve up and she places a tourniquet just above my elbow. She asked me to clench my fist and pump it. I’ve seen this on telly when addicts need to shoot up. A large package is opened; a tube, a 10ml bottle attached to a short pink looking 4mm pipe and something looking remarkably like Jesus on the cross, only his legs are very thin and pointy, and his head is attached to the pink pipe, which in turn is attached to 10ml bottle.
Lambo, ever wanting to be the clever one, chirps up, “That’s an IV Canula, I think”. She gives him a interesting look, which could be due to his mask dropping below his chin and exposing a dark brown stain. “Are you in the medical profession, a doctor perhaps” she responds. “Sort of” Lambo replies, “I spent ten days piercing plastic veins and being rubbish at it, during my ships medical training”. Ouch, as the needle went in, “Oh my you’re a gusher” she blurted -my mind went elsewhere- “Yes I have good Viking blood” his response. He never changes, but I love him.
Over lunch John said, "Are you capable of doing Harvey's job?" My response was, "yes providing you find something for me to do after lunch". Mr Marshall was sacked two weeks later, I became head of the Valuation and Investment departments, my father-in-law Laurie became Senior Partner. Good work Lambo. More to the point I was back in the West End. Om Harvey, thank you so much.
Phew, that was close!
Meanwhile I have up-to twenty-four hours to wait for the results of my pain. The results are released from 1400 onward, but those in the posh seats get their results first, anytime up to 10 pm I am told. I am currently in Sheila’s flat and move to a hotel at Gatwick Airport tomorrow afternoon, to await the results. I won’t be as anxious as my AIDS test fifteen years ago, but the nerves will still be present.
Here we go ...
Notes:
A massive thank you to my doctor Charlie Middle for not only giving me a list of just in time (the tests have to be carried within 72 hours of flying) private medical practices that keep the business world in the skies, but also for the two steroid -cortisone- injections that will hopefully give my knees a chance to dance for a while longer. Om Charlie
I also remembered to pay the congestion charge, just in time.
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