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The #WhittingtonStone to commemorate #DickWhittington and his #cat on #HighgateHill. Dick Whittington became Lord Mayor of #London. There is a rags to riches #legend, which describes his rise from poverty-stricken childhood with the fortune he made through the sale of his cat to a rat-infested country. However, the real #Whittington did not come from a poor family of common stock, and there is no compelling evidence supporting the stories about the cat, or even whether he owned one. Never let truth get in the way of a good #story! #culture #art #statue #sculpture #feline #meow #blackcat #instacat #igerslondon #igersuk #visitlondon #visitbritain #visitengland #fiction #fairytale #history #education #edutainment #Highgate #IgersHighgate #HighgateLondon (at The Whittington Stone) https://www.instagram.com/p/CRgkuGmsRHg/?utm_medium=tumblr

Hey friends 😊 I'm selling some small artworks & hand made cards tomorrow, Saturday 17th at the Gladstone Road Sidewalk..8am-2pm, Highgate Hill...Come and check out some great stalls selling vintage treasure & awesome junk!! 💕 #markets #handmade #vintage #artwork #highgatehill #treasure #sidewalksale

#vintage #treasure #handmade #highgatehill #artwork #sidewalksale #markets

On The Way to St. Joe’s One Morning.

Originally Published 27 July 2008

Last updated 23 December 2014

When I was 36 years old I stayed in London for just over 3 months. At the time I identified myself as a Catholic (with Muslim leanings), and I attended St. Joseph’s Church (www.stjosephshighgate.org.uk) on Highgate Hill. St. Joe’s was a good 30 minutes walk from my flat in Parliament Hills Field. And as the address suggest the church sat on top of a hill. So whenever I was in the mood for a good cardio work-out before mass I would walk to church.

The walk took me through some very interesting neighborhoods that were reflective of real London. One neighborhood in particular was a bit dodgy and sprinkled with estate housing. It is unfortunate to say that when I would walk through this economically challenged neighborhood I put a spring in my step and walked as fast I could. On one crisp, Sunday morning on the way to St. Joe’s I apparently was not walking fast enough through this challenged community, and I drew the attention of three less than desirable young men. At first they stood in place and made a few inappropriate comments to me. Then the three young men started following me and voicing their prurient, basal thoughts. I was afraid and started running. All of a sudden I heard a distinctly Northern Irish male voice ask me, “Are you on your way to mass then?” I looked up towards the top of the street and saw a young man of say 22 years old who repeated his question only more loudly, “ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY TO MASS THEN” I answered yes. Then I did the oddest thing and ran toward this young Northern Irish man that I did not know. My logic being I did not know who I was running towards, but I knew I was running away from three creeps. (The three creeps stopped following me when they saw the young Irish man) As I got closer to this unknown young man I did have the presence of mind to ask him if he went to St. Joe’s. He said, “Yes.” He then asked, “Don’t you take the bus to church?” I told him yes, but of late I was trying to get more exercise in so I had taken to walking to mass. He quickly replied in a strict, stern voice well beyond his youthful appearance, “Either take the bus or don’t walk through this dodgy neighborhood.” We walked together on our way to mass for the next 10 minutes. I wanted to ask him why he was so kind to me but like most Irish men that I have known (and I do apologize for the generalization) this guy walked really fast. So it was all I could do to keep up with him. In addition more than once he looked back at me and told me to hurry up and stop doddling. Other than his duel attempts to speed up my pace we walked to church in silence. You know it was odd, but I felt so safe with this kid who was more than a decade my junior. I did not know him, but I felt safe. And I assumed he knew me because at the time I attended St. Joe’s I was one of the few lone Black women in the congregation. Well actually I was one of the few Black congregates as the church was made up of mostly Catholics of Irish descents………………………………………………………….So as one of the few Black Catholics at St. Joes (at the time) I was sort of known. By the time we made it to the main entrance of St. Joe’s I was completely out of breath. I attempted to thank him for his tear provoking act of chivalry, but I was met with, “Father is about to start mass. Go take your seat.” I went to the left side of the church near the front where I always sat. He vanished into the congregation. After mass was over I joined the queue like always to say a few words to Father who was standing outside in the garden just by the front doors meeting and chatting with the congregates as we left the church. When I got to the front of the queue and after Father blessed me for the week, I told him of the kindness of the young Irishman who had come to my rescue earlier in the day. After a detailed description Father told me he knew who he was and that he would tell the young man of my gratitude. I always find it fascinating how we as humans make sense of the world and others in it. And I wondered: 1. Did this young man help me out of sheer kindness? 2. Did he help me because I was another Catholic and therefore I was a part of “his world”? 3. Did he help me because I was a woman in need? In reality it actually does not matter why this young man helped me. And my questions of his motives are in no way meant to diminish his actions. It is just that for me London is a sociological cauldron, and I am curious about what and who makes up the mix. Allahu akbar- London and all her people are brilliant.

- By Debra V. Wilson

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