FLETCHER FETCHES FLETCHERS IN LONDONThank goodness I chose such a good day for this excursion, with so much travelling to do! After two train journeys, first to Clapham Junction and then to Syon Lane, I made my way, on foot, to Gillette Corner and received my first view of Sir Banister Fletcher's monolithic structure, the Gillette Building. Arriving at 11.07am, I was saddened to see the edifice in such an empty and unloved condition, although it seemed that work may be underway to somewhat restore its former glory. Surprisingly, there was no recognition, in the form of plaque or
monument, of Sir Banister's efforts, in 1936/37, in creating this enduringly impressive facade, and so I had to content myself with photographing the clock-tower and wishing that it might still be climbed. I then set out in gloriously warm sunshine along the busy Great West Road, in search of Osterley tube station. Passing the gated manses redolent of 30s London suburbia as reinterpreted by footballers' wives, I chanced upon a male counterpart to the unexpectedly thrusting femininity of the Gillette Building, in the form of an advertising hoarding blazoned upon an otherwise nondescript bus stop.
Surely this rather bizarre conjunction of words and images had not escaped the attention of other travellers along this most historic of thoroughfares? Onward I proceeded until I reached a charmingly original station building where, after a brief wait, I was able to take the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, thence on foot through the tourist throng to Haymarket and the grandeur of Herbert Beerbohm Tree's Her Majesty's Theatre, arriving at 12.37pm. Here I was forced to linger, searching high and low, inside and out, for evidence of the stalwart service given by composer Percy Fletcher in his capacity as Musical Director between 1915 and 1932. 
Desperation (and disbelief that there was no memorial clearly on show) eventually led me to join the queue of people seeking tickets for Phantom of the Opera, so that I might quiz the girl in the ticket office. Her undisguised ignorance of the man in question was not encouraging, but she directed me to the Stage Door whose guardian, she suggested, may know more. He, it turned out, was equally ignorant of the great figure of this Theatre's past but, despite it being rush hour past his tiny office, was keen to help in any way possible and gave me the contact details of a Mark Fox, apparently the Theatre's archivist, who he said I might find at the 
Palladium! I decided that further enquiry would have to wait for another day and, instead, walked from Haymarket into Pall Mall East and beyond to Trafalgar Square, where I was just in time to witness a change of personnel on the Fourth Plinth. From there, I descended into Charing Cross tube station and boarded the Northern Line for the long haul to East Finchley where, upon exiting the station, I stopped for a well-earned Full English and cuppa for lunch, sitting outside in the sunshine, now on the Great North Road. Suitably refreshed, I continued on foot, turning into Fortis Green and fo
llowing the road into a most pleasantly leafy and salubrious neighbourhood, dotted with delightfully down-at-heel early Nineteenth Century villas and cottages. These led eventually to a building which called itself Muswell Hill Police Station, an Edwardian pile at which I arrived at 2.27pm. This, of course, was the site of Norman Stanley Fletcher's home visit during Episode Six of the classic situation comedy Porridge, and I could not resist retracing the steps which the great man took around the corner into Fortis Green Avenue back in 1974. I then needed to retrace my own steps, back to East Finchley tube station in order to await a south-bound train to Old Street. 
While waiting, nose deep in a London street map, I suddenly heard my name called and, looking up, saw a man in motorcycle leathers gesticulating from the opposite platform. It seems that M.S., the last person whom I would have expected to see at East Finchley, had been passing through the station on his way to Barnet and had spotted me through the window of his train. Upon short deliberation, he had decided to disembark in order to speak to me, reminding me of a similar occurence nine years ago on Anglesey, when I had rushed off a bus for the same reason. I still had ten minutes to wait for my train, so we were able swiftly to ca
tch up, having not seen each other since his father's birthday party, before just as swiftly bidding farewell to each other as my train pulled into the station. Then I suffered another interminable journey along the Northern Line, confirming me in the view that I do not like underground travel, before emerging again at Old Street, there to witness a rather brief but unpleasant incident of road rage, with baseball bat and the whole nine yards! I quickly moved on, following my nose along Old Street and Whitecross Street. Although tempted to make a small diversion to visit the site of my paternal grandfather's birth, I perservered along Fortune Street, through a 
community fete, into Golden Lane and Beech Street, beneath the Barbican complex. Crossing into West Long Lane, I turned left for Cloth Street and found myself at 3.55pm outside the Farmers' and Fletchers' Hall, housed in a remarkably modern building considering that the Worshipful Company of Fletchers has been around since 1371. The Hall was unfortunately not open, but there was a window that could be peered through to admire the custom-made corn and arrow themed carpet, as well as prominently displayed coats of arms, with the Fletcher motto 'True and Sure'. But there was little time to linger, so I nipped around the corner 
into Aldersgate Street and headed relentlessly south along St. Martin's Le Grand until I reached the domed splendour of St. Paul's Cathedral, where I imbibed a peach green tea before receiving my first sight of the River Thames since crossing it by train at Barnes Bridge. I was disappointed to see that the tide was in, rendering the idea of a bit of beachcombing out of the question. Strains of music also alerted me to the festival taking place on the South Bank, which seemed to be teeming with people, as did the Wobbly Bridge. I therefore decided to walk along the north bank until I could cross at Southwark Bridge which, as it happens, had been closed to traffic and turned into a vibrant food 
market, with long tables reminiscent of VE Day street parties. I tried on a range of salad hats - some rather fetchingly fashioned from lampshades - before meeting the lovely M.C. in the shadow of the bridge and proceeding with her along the embankment to Southwark Cathedral, formerly the Church of St. Saviour and St. Mary Overie, and the place where playwright John Fletcher was buried on August 29th 1625, after contracting the plague. Arriving at the Cathedral at 5.08pm, I enquired of a steward and was led to a memorial tablet laid into the floor of the choir, the first such Fletcher relic that I had managed to locate all da
y. The steward was quick to point out that John Fletcher's exact burial spot was unknown, but that he was definitely laid to rest with fellow playwright Philip Massinger, with whom he shared a 'special friendship'. I and my special friend circumnavigated the Cathedral and watched a squirrel voraciously devouring peaches or apricots on a tree, before making our way to our own delightful repast in the lee of the Globe Theatre. As night drew in, we wandered once more to the embankment for the most enchanting son et lumiere of music and fire, shared with gentle thousands of other sitters, promenaders and photographers, among them S.P., whose path we amazingly crossed, considering the throng. The day was completed with a gentle stroll through stalls of food, clothes and crafts, wending my way back along the river to Waterloo Station and the weary train home.
Surely this rather bizarre conjunction of words and images had not escaped the attention of other travellers along this most historic of thoroughfares? Onward I proceeded until I reached a charmingly original station building where, after a brief wait, I was able to take the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, thence on foot through the tourist throng to Haymarket and the grandeur of Herbert Beerbohm Tree's Her Majesty's Theatre, arriving at 12.37pm. Here I was forced to linger, searching high and low, inside and out, for evidence of the stalwart service given by composer Percy Fletcher in his capacity as Musical Director between 1915 and 1932. 
Desperation (and disbelief that there was no memorial clearly on show) eventually led me to join the queue of people seeking tickets for Phantom of the Opera, so that I might quiz the girl in the ticket office. Her undisguised ignorance of the man in question was not encouraging, but she directed me to the Stage Door whose guardian, she suggested, may know more. He, it turned out, was equally ignorant of the great figure of this Theatre's past but, despite it being rush hour past his tiny office, was keen to help in any way possible and gave me the contact details of a Mark Fox, apparently the Theatre's archivist, who he said I might find at the 
Palladium! I decided that further enquiry would have to wait for another day and, instead, walked from Haymarket into Pall Mall East and beyond to Trafalgar Square, where I was just in time to witness a change of personnel on the Fourth Plinth. From there, I descended into Charing Cross tube station and boarded the Northern Line for the long haul to East Finchley where, upon exiting the station, I stopped for a well-earned Full English and cuppa for lunch, sitting outside in the sunshine, now on the Great North Road. Suitably refreshed, I continued on foot, turning into Fortis Green and fo
llowing the road into a most pleasantly leafy and salubrious neighbourhood, dotted with delightfully down-at-heel early Nineteenth Century villas and cottages. These led eventually to a building which called itself Muswell Hill Police Station, an Edwardian pile at which I arrived at 2.27pm. This, of course, was the site of Norman Stanley Fletcher's home visit during Episode Six of the classic situation comedy Porridge, and I could not resist retracing the steps which the great man took around the corner into Fortis Green Avenue back in 1974. I then needed to retrace my own steps, back to East Finchley tube station in order to await a south-bound train to Old Street. 
While waiting, nose deep in a London street map, I suddenly heard my name called and, looking up, saw a man in motorcycle leathers gesticulating from the opposite platform. It seems that M.S., the last person whom I would have expected to see at East Finchley, had been passing through the station on his way to Barnet and had spotted me through the window of his train. Upon short deliberation, he had decided to disembark in order to speak to me, reminding me of a similar occurence nine years ago on Anglesey, when I had rushed off a bus for the same reason. I still had ten minutes to wait for my train, so we were able swiftly to ca
tch up, having not seen each other since his father's birthday party, before just as swiftly bidding farewell to each other as my train pulled into the station. Then I suffered another interminable journey along the Northern Line, confirming me in the view that I do not like underground travel, before emerging again at Old Street, there to witness a rather brief but unpleasant incident of road rage, with baseball bat and the whole nine yards! I quickly moved on, following my nose along Old Street and Whitecross Street. Although tempted to make a small diversion to visit the site of my paternal grandfather's birth, I perservered along Fortune Street, through a 
community fete, into Golden Lane and Beech Street, beneath the Barbican complex. Crossing into West Long Lane, I turned left for Cloth Street and found myself at 3.55pm outside the Farmers' and Fletchers' Hall, housed in a remarkably modern building considering that the Worshipful Company of Fletchers has been around since 1371. The Hall was unfortunately not open, but there was a window that could be peered through to admire the custom-made corn and arrow themed carpet, as well as prominently displayed coats of arms, with the Fletcher motto 'True and Sure'. But there was little time to linger, so I nipped around the corner 
into Aldersgate Street and headed relentlessly south along St. Martin's Le Grand until I reached the domed splendour of St. Paul's Cathedral, where I imbibed a peach green tea before receiving my first sight of the River Thames since crossing it by train at Barnes Bridge. I was disappointed to see that the tide was in, rendering the idea of a bit of beachcombing out of the question. Strains of music also alerted me to the festival taking place on the South Bank, which seemed to be teeming with people, as did the Wobbly Bridge. I therefore decided to walk along the north bank until I could cross at Southwark Bridge which, as it happens, had been closed to traffic and turned into a vibrant food 
market, with long tables reminiscent of VE Day street parties. I tried on a range of salad hats - some rather fetchingly fashioned from lampshades - before meeting the lovely M.C. in the shadow of the bridge and proceeding with her along the embankment to Southwark Cathedral, formerly the Church of St. Saviour and St. Mary Overie, and the place where playwright John Fletcher was buried on August 29th 1625, after contracting the plague. Arriving at the Cathedral at 5.08pm, I enquired of a steward and was led to a memorial tablet laid into the floor of the choir, the first such Fletcher relic that I had managed to locate all da
y. The steward was quick to point out that John Fletcher's exact burial spot was unknown, but that he was definitely laid to rest with fellow playwright Philip Massinger, with whom he shared a 'special friendship'. I and my special friend circumnavigated the Cathedral and watched a squirrel voraciously devouring peaches or apricots on a tree, before making our way to our own delightful repast in the lee of the Globe Theatre. As night drew in, we wandered once more to the embankment for the most enchanting son et lumiere of music and fire, shared with gentle thousands of other sitters, promenaders and photographers, among them S.P., whose path we amazingly crossed, considering the throng. The day was completed with a gentle stroll through stalls of food, clothes and crafts, wending my way back along the river to Waterloo Station and the weary train home.
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