An Old Vic

I’m halfway through lighting a ten-day poker tournament in the east end of London. We’re not at the usual venue, a poky little broom cupboard underneath a football grandstand. Instead we’re using a film sound stage. The facilities are so much more salubrious, as long as I stay within the secured confines of the lot; outside, on the mean streets of Bow, it can be scary.

I’m without Niki and Tracy, my harem (that’s how they describe themselves – I wouldn’t dare use such a term) so there’s a lot less laughing and chocolate than usual. Still I’m getting by, soldiering on against the odds.

By way of an image I’ve returned to the Victorians. The columns and girders of this defunct gasometer could have been merely functional, a simple framework to support the moveable cylinder that stored the coal gas generated nearby. However no engineer of the nineteenth century would have settled for that. If you have columns, they need capitals and flourishing brackets. If you have girders, they need piercing to reduce weight, not crudely but with style, a filigree of interlinking circles.

I’m not sure how much longer these masterpieces of the iron founders’ art will last. They stand in the area of London that is destined to host the 2012 Olympic Games, a feast of hype, extravagance and, no doubt, wasted opportunity. I may be wrong, perhaps the local population will benefit. However history suggests otherwise.

On that cynical note, I will close. The current game has been running for nearly three hours and all six players are still in; it’s going to be a long, tedious day. Where is the lemon sherbet or the Turkish delight when you need it most?