History and buns, creativity and nostalgia.

I have succombed to two sticky buns, a reaction to anti Muslim comments at the pottery group I have just rejoined.  We all tried to navigate the tension to something manageable, and I was able to make a couple of comments that may have impacted from my experiences in Senegal and Kyrgyzstan,  and because even 30 years ago Broxbourne school had Muslim students, but is painful, for all. There they were happy in their ignorance and along comes this newcomer, who challenges them, but then hates, the tension it causes.  Same on the allotment,  challenging them there about digging.   Anyway I have succombed to two buns to cope but am now buried in an exploration of food in Wormley in the 17th Century, to distract myself.    I have it in mind to explore our local food culture from the Abbey to the plethora of excellent Turkish cafes in the area. 

The other day I was in woke heaven.  The new V and A is testament to what blending cultures can do for creativity.  There was a queue to get in it has proved so popular and in the lobby there were young people playing reggae.  30 years ago similar youths would have been on tower blocks in Hackney champtioning pirate radio. Today they are part of the establishment.  Reform would hate it.  

But things both move forward and backwards.    Stratford Royal Theatre, opened in 1884.  The area wasn't rich, but with the support of a coal merchant got a small theatre.  Electricity arrived in 1902.  Nearby Hackney built its theatre around the same time, also with electricity.   Having just been to both of them, they are glorious reminders of the past,  and how theatres can attract diverse audiences.

  

The musical The Harder They Come, based on the Jimmy Cliff film was first devised at the theatre at the beginning of this century,  and we went to the opening night of its 2026 revival.   I loved it.  My brother had been into ska and I heard and enjoyed standard singles from Bob Marley, but I didn't and don't think of it as my kind of genre particularly, but listening to all those tunes again, embedded in the story, brought out the lyrics, making me realise that whilst R, my partner,  as someone of Jamaican heritage, understands those beats, much more than a white kid in Kent, something about them had entered my story, much more than I had realised.  And of course when N was little I introduced him to the story and the music too.   

Black people have lived on these shores since at least Roman times, the first followers of Islam came to live in the UK in the 16th century,  as Elizabeth sought to benefit from trade relations with places like Morocco.  Yet in small town England, people can still say, why should local Muslims have a mosque!  And my waistline, suffers in protest.