Sauntering Vaguely Downward

I visited the Zentralfriedhof last year, but never got round to uploading the photos. The Zentralfriedhof is Vienna's cemetery, and its 3 million inhabitants make the vast grounds more populous than the city it serves. Today, May Day, is a public holiday in Austria and so there were many visitors, freshening up the family plots and laying flowers everywhere.

Humuhumu was just five months old during our last visit, and I carried her around the cemetery in her sling. I fed her near the Sisters' graves (I like to think they would not have minded) and then she went to sleep. This time we went with Granny and the pushchair. Humuhumu was awake throughout until we got back on the 71 tram to take us home.

The church dominates the grounds, its oxidized copper dome visible from just about everywhere. It would take hours simply to walk all the paths, let alone explore the graves, so even after two visits I've only seen a fraction of what is here.


Dr. Karl Lueger-Gedächtniskirche

( Mausoleums, headstones and cenotaphs - oh my )


This one was with the upmarket lot, but was unusually unkempt. Outside the cut because I absolutely loved how this came out in black and white.

This was the cemetery that was furthest afield for me, since I typically arrive into north-central London from Cambridge. Getting there was no mean feat, not least because it required the use of Southern trains, proudly providing the fourth-worst service in the country. To be fair, it is easier to leave West Norwood than it was to leave Nunhead. Trains run to London Victoria every 15 minutes, as opposed to every 30 from Nunhead. This was good for me because I was more anxious to get away from West Norwood than I was from Nunhead.

West Norwood has a crematorium and is still in use as a burial ground. It is very well kept. Ivy has been severely cut back and few graves are inaccessible or invisible. The modern graves are interspersed everywhere with the Victorian monuments of which I’m particularly fond. This is a sharp contrast to the other Magnificent Seven, which are either no longer in use (e.g. Abney Park and Tower Hamlets) or have areas sectioned off for new burials (e.g. Highgate and Nunhead). Many of the new graves at West Norwood seem to be for babies or children and are clearly being regularly visited. In the other cemeteries, it is possible to walk around the old, overgrown and forgotten graves without experiencing the raw pain of recent loss unsoftened by the passage of time. In West Norwood, you cannot do this. I wouldn’t recommend visiting if you are in an emotionally fragile state.



( +9 )

Kensal Green Cemetery is the oldest and definitely the best kept of the Magnificent Seven. It makes photographing grave markers easier, but there's less of the haunting otherworldly atmosphere of the rest. You don't feel isolated from the city because there's no overgrowth to shield it from the sights and sounds of the surrounding area. Oddly, though, I didn't see another person aside from the rather morose chap in the tiny guard hut at the entrance while I was there. Most of the Magnificent Seven seem to be treated by the locals as parks, but this one feels more formal, possibly because it's still heavily used as a burial ground.



( Lots more. )

Next on my list of Magnificent Seven cemeteries was the youngest of them, Tower Hamlets (established 1841). Unlike most of the others, it's been closed to new burials for several decades. The large blocks of empty plots at the far end are a haven for wildlife, and it teems with birds and squirrels in daylight.

The prevailing fashion in burial statuary seemed to be for urns, often encircled by inscribed stone hearts, rather than for the angels that inhabit Brompton Cemetery.

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The bloke & I went to the Lickey Hills (oh, English place names. I never grow tired of you.) just south of Birmingham this weekend. Naturally, I managed to find a cemetery during the course of our walk.

( Six squared )

I've become accustomed to being mistaken for famous people occasionally. When I was a postgraduate, the chaps in the machine shop called me Dark Angel, after Jessica Alba in said television show. Since I moved to England, however, it's been all about a certain singer and pianist with approximately the same ethnic background. A few weeks ago, I was on a train home from Wolverhampton when the following exchange occurred.

Me: *snuggles down in seat, is almost asleep*
Chap: *shakes my shoulder*
Me: Whahuh?!
Chap: Do you sing?
Me: *blinks owlishly in total lack of comprehension*
Chap: Are you a singer?
Me: No, no I'm not.
Chap: You are. You're a singer.
Me: What?
Chap: Your dad was Filipino.
Me: How...how could you possibly know that?
Chap: Because you're Myleene Klass.
Me: *groans* No, I was trying to sleep.
Chap: I'm sorry. Would you like some crisps? Or a banana?
Me: No, thank you.
Chap: *gets up, starts to walk away* I'll be back for an autograph later.

Last week, I was walking down the street in Chelsea and I passed a pub full of very posh, very pissed young people. I was about twenty feet beyond the entrance when I heard a man roar, "Did you see who just went by?"

I picked up the pace. "Myleene!" he called. "MYLEENE!" (Side note: Does screaming at celebrities ever cause them to turn round and have a conversation with you?)

Last night, the bloke & I spent some time exploring Birmingham. Naturally, this included "exploring" the inside of a few pubs. In the first one, we were conversing quietly in a corner when I felt the effect of several pairs of eyes burning into the side of my face. I turned and saw a group of men in their thirties, and suddenly I knew. I didn't need to lip-read to be certain that they were having the Myleene Klass conversation, but I did anyway. They were.

In the last pub, another chap leaned over and said, "You're a dead ringer for that woman off the telly in those adverts. You know who I mean?"

I did, but I pretended I didn't. He struggled for a moment and then shouted, "Myleene Klass!"

The bloke returned with a couple of pints. The chap said, "Your lady here looks just like Myleene Klass."

The bloke replied, "She doesn't look like her."

I gave him a warning glare. He sat down. The chap smiled and went back to his conversation. Several minutes passed.

"That man keeps looking over here," said the bloke, highly amused. "He's still not sure you aren't actually Myleene Klass."

"We are so leaving after this drink," I replied.