How long do gourd’s live? This gourd lives the life of Riley by the looks of things. Hanging around in a hammock in the shade all day. Perhaps gourds are further up the evolutionary ladder. Or the incarnational spiral. This looks more like the life of a cat. Being warmed by the sun, fed religiously by an army of volunteer workers, allowed to grow fat and lush, supported generously into old age. Yes. A gourd’s life looks all right.

Apparently there are fox cubs in the garden next door. I got up for seven today, hoping to see them. We also have green parakeets in the horse chesnut tree. The squirrels have sown a small plantation of peanuts that are sprouting up all over the place. Our cat who already has a stalker is now receiving post. Yesterday we picked apples for our neighbour, went to the community greenhouses in the park, picked basil and wild rocket, said hello to the gourd again. Made apple and blackberry crumble from the proceeds. Hardly London’s urban jungle as one might expect it, but then I also called an ambulance for some bloke that had passed out, draped over a wall like one of Dali’s melting clocks. I then thought I’d been completely over the top, and some trashed partygoer was going to wake up with paramedic shining a torch in his face. Still, better safe than sorry.

Missed FruitStock in Regent’s Park, although the animal, vegetable or mineral count was high.

See also The Only Pub With a Pool.

I had to get out. So I went for a cycle in the park. I was following the little bluebell railway, when I noticed a clearing. Well, actually, no, not a clearing, a circle of chopped tree trunks. A man and a woman were limbering up by a small pink box. Curious, I cycled up. It was a little pink house. I took some photos. The weather forecast had said it would feel different because the wind was blowing in from the North. It did feel different. The trees were noisy and the clouds were moving fast. Summer was on the turn. The man and the woman were both friendly when I stepped in to their circle and started taking pictures. The man was sitting by the front door, and after I took his picture I said I might post it on the blog. He said I’d have to post it if he looked, so, voila, here it is:

The Man in the Park By the Little Pink House

London’s cycle lanes are full of young men pedalling as if their lives depended on it. Faster faster. That seems to be how it goes. Yesterday evening I had the rare pleasure of overtaking another cyclist, but generally, I travel at a snail’s pace. That way you get to gawk at the scenery and notice all sorts of odd and unusual places, which you may or may not choose to stop off at.

I’ve been commissioned to write about cabinets of curiosity for an exhibition called Repatriating the Ark at the Museum of Garden History, looking at the gardeners John Tradescant, The Elder and Younger, and their strange assortment of stuffed dodos and unicorn horns from the 17th Century. I went to a talk at the museum with lots of eclectic collectors (Picasso drawings, a beautiful old book about tulips owned by a very rich Dutchman, every original Penguin Paperback ever published, a child’s toy made from a black monkey skull with wheels, a hard drive…there are even collectors who collect collections and collectors). A bluebottle fell from the church roof and landed in my white wine when I wasn’t looking and I screamed when I nearly swallowed it. The panel were probably more alarmed than I was… as usual I’m rambling on or rather off track. The point is I’ve been thinking about collectors – who remind me of big game hunters: they like the chase, moving in for the kill (think jumble sale ++ here) and then the inevitable display – and about my own wunderkammer. What would I put in it?

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Last night I stopped off somewhere that has always intrigued me. Just before you hit Black Prince Road you will find what looks like a very funky retro shop called Urban Classic in the parade under the flats on your right. I chained my bike up and saw a sign that said piano lessons. A young girl was seated by the door with a Grade 1 song book having a piano lesson. Osho, the proprietor greeted me and we sat down for a chat.

Bingo! I had struck gold – or at least a book of Green Shield stamps – all the items are from his own collection, and each object has a resonance and connection to black history and culture. None are for sale (though you can buy t-shirts). Traffic lights, a fibre optic lamp, the telephone, the lightbulb, even the desk mounted pencil sharpener: all represent the work of black inventors.

Nothing is under glass. There are no big signs saying DO NOT TOUCH. But this small room is a miniature museum, and Osho is the curator who will sit down and tell you the story of how each object came to be with a passion that is beyond the acquistion of things.

So, Osho and His Black Museum are in my Cabinet of Curiosities. Check it out. And don’t wait for Black History Month in October to get down there…see it while the sun shines.