A Simple Standard Lamp

Some years ago we bought and transported home a standard lamp from Holland that had magic in its makeup, inasmuch as near to its bulb was a small stem that by touching it with one's fingers it would change the volume of light from degrees of dull to brightness.

As with all electrical goods, planned obsolescence or not, it came to the end of its life. We had to find a replacement.

This replacement had to be simple, unobtrusive, and to spread light around generally and in particular upwards and downwards.

To find one should have been simple. But somehow standard lamps are generally "feature" items, with fancy mouldings, tassels, voluptuous shaped shades and all the rest. So to find a simple and practical design turned out to be extremely difficult. 

That was, until, when browsing around a Scandinavian shop when looking for A4 picture frames, I spied on a shelf just the kind of lamp that I had been looking for - but was unavailable at the time. The                price? £7.

I persevered. And on another occasion I spoke to a supervisor, who found the last one in the shop. I thought it was a mistake when a smallish cardboard box was handed over in exchange for £7. "Is that really it?" I queried. "You have to make it up yourself." came the reply. 

For that price one doesn't expect precision engineering. So to make it up would require patience and imagination. 

The pictorial instructions were cursory. And the manufacturer had difficulty in describing how a springy bit of material in a paper tube could be converted into a circular lampshade.

Much later and with the help of four hands, two clamps and superglue, the shade took shape. Bits that parted from the construction too easily were superglued in place. Finally plugged in, the lamp was in one piece and just what was wanted.

Then when I was turning the Dutch one into small pieces for the dustmen to cart away, I found that its shade was not only well made, but fitted over the Scandinavian one as if they were meant to be together. Again, with the invaluable superglue, the old shade was used to partially cover the smaller new one and the result was not unlike lights of the 1960s that had louvers to direct their beams of light.

It is unique, charming and, well, all for £7. 

As this will be the last blog of the year 2022, we would like to wish all our loyal readers a very happy, healthy and prosperous New Year. 

Smoke, Fog, Lung, and Work or Peasouper

 The war had ended. There was no further a need for pilots, so I was grounded and became an RAF Photographic Intelligence Officer.

Having missed the years I should have been at school because of the war, I used the "grounded" time to acquire enough qualifications to become a medical student at St Thomas's Hospital.

Having joined the RAF when I was old enough in 1942, I had to await my turn to be demobilised after the war had ended (first in first out).

Just before that date I was found to have contracted TB in the lung. There was no cure at that time. I must have acquired the affliction in 1947 when the winter was exceptionally cold and both fuel and food were rationed (even for those in services).

So, after being invalided out of the RAF, I started to become a medical student. But after more spitting of blood, it had to be the conclusion of my medical ambitions.

Then came the start of what turned out to be a seven-year process of being screened every week or so, and having a thick needle shoved between my ribs to allow air to enter an induced gap between my ribs and lung. This was thought to "rest" the lung, and was as unpleasant to put up with as it sounds.

Being invalided out of the RAF entitled me to a Council flat. This consisted of two minuscule rooms above the railway lines outside Victoria Station.

It was still the age of steam trains, coal burning, smoke and dense fogs. Below my window, steam engine drivers kept their engines boilers in readiness by the continuous burning coal. This meant more smoke. From my abode, the general noise of railways was punctuated by the occasional shock-inducing blast from the release of excess steam. 

Inside my studio room I kept warm by burning coal in a small grate, thus adding to the atmosphere that could become thick fog. One of these "peasoupers" as they were called, was so thick that the only way of navigation outside was to walk with one foot on the pavement and the other in the road.

I needed to move to cleaner air, and did so by buying a bombed-out house in the Fulham Road and restoring it (less the top floor, because of the cost) to become a comfortable place in which to live and work.

In the meantime I went to the Central School of Art to paint with Bernard Meninsky and then to the Old Vic School of theatre design. 

Now working as a scene painter at The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, and then designing and constructing sets for repertory theater and touring shows, and creating sets for television (black and white then - actually various greys). I still managed to paint landscape that sold well from several of the best London galleries.

It seems extraordinary that breathing in the dirty air of that period, and coping with the building work and food rationing, not to mention the almost weekly high dose of screening radiation involved with the chest pneumothorax, that far from killing me I seemed to have thrived on it. 

(A119 (A1)