Vintage radios

If I had space in my flat I would collect these massive old vintage radios. We've got a slimline Bush one, but these wooden beasts are just lovely. The amount of music and news that has come out of those speakers doesn't bear thinking about. Picture taken at Perry Higgins in North Wales, I was right in my element exploring.

Berlin U-Bahn Stations

There are lots of brilliant things about Berlin – the parties, the music, the graffiti, the history, the little Ampelmannchen – but one of its unlikely stars is the U-Bahn.

Living in Manchester and putting up with buses and trams, it’s hard to believe quite how efficient the U-Bahn is. If you live in London with an extortionate Oyster card and unbearable overcrowding, you’ll still find it pretty unbelievable. The city is yours for a few euros per day, and it would be pretty easy to avoid paying even that. Along with the S-Bahn, the Berlin public transport network makes it so easy and fast to get around a sprawling city, usually with a seat and no pushing and shoving.

Practicality aside, the U-Bahn stations also have a certain modernist charm. Anything this efficient should surely be ugly, but the colourful tiling and jugendstil fonts really do it for me – Senefelderplatz is the nearest to the hostel I stayed in, but there are lots of better examples, like Wedding, Unter den Linden and Alexanderplatz. Stations like Rathaus Spandau, Heidelbergerplatz and Residenzstrasse are resplendently art nouveau, you can just imagine the 1920s & 30s bohemians heading home after a night of decadence. Then there’s the Zoologisher Garten, with its animal mural; I’ve yet to check out the zoo, its station or its fabled toilets, but with Berlin there’s always a next time.

But what intrigues me most about the U-Bahn is its history. When Berlin was divided by the wall, the U-Bahn was divided too. The line that ran from east to west had to be cut in half, with trains reaching the half way point and turning back. Meanwhile some lines were permitted to run through the Eastern sector, but not stop at any stations along the way. This resulted in U-Bahn ghost stations (Geisterbahnhofe) like Jannowitzbrucke and Potsdamer Platz; when they were reopened after the wall fell, they were perfect little time capsules from the 1960s. The thought of a whole station being sealed off and entombed underground for 30 years is pretty spine tingling – imagine shooting past on a rumbling train on the way to work, and catching a glimpse of the past.

Vintage Elgin watch

I got this little vintage Elgin wrist watch on eBay a couple of years ago. I knew it was old, and thought it was pretty, but didn’t know much else. The seller was in the US, so I paid about ten dollars plus ten for shipping. I doesn’t work, but I took it to the local watch repair place to see if they could sort it out – and they told me it would cost about £200 to fix, using handmade new parts, but assured me it would be ‘worth it’ financially.

I find this hard to believe as there are SO many broken vintage Elgins on eBay for peanuts, and the fully working ones only go for a hundred quid. And I have no idea how old this is, whether it’s real gold, how many jewels it is, whether it’s all authentic, basically I know nothing. But I suppose I’m secretly hoping this could be my ‘Del Boy moment’.

The most similar ones I can find on eBay are from the 40s so I’d guess at that, although the strap is a Flex-Let which seems to be more 50s. It’s the only one I’ve seen with just even numbers on the main dial, and no subdial. It’s also unusually tiny. The dial is about 10mm across, the word Elgin is less than a millimetre high. Looks a bit weird on my chunky wrist to be honest, it's for elegant and willowy society ladies.

Anyway. Elgin was a US company, founded in Chicago in 1864, stopped in the 1960s, although there are still some monstrosities appearing today using their name. They originally made beautiful pocketwatches before branching out into wrist watches, and pretty much every Elgin I see is beautiful. If you’re an expert on vintage Elgin watches, or know somewhere cheap to get them repaired, please help!

1960s Underwood typewriter

My dad got me this little typewriter – it’s an Underwood 315, made in the 1960s. I think it’s got a very 60s look to it, with the bright blue coloured panel and modern lettering, and you can switch between black and red inks for extra added fun.

It came in a little carry case, but carrying it around isn’t something I’d be keen on. Strange how much heavy and bulky mechanical hardware goes into producing neatly typed documents. My mum and dad told me they used to have ‘study dates’ in university and one of them would have to lug round their typewriter to the other’s house. My mum had a portable one like this, but dad had a big old massive typewriter that probably weighed a tonne.

Machines like this would have been part of daily life; offices, schools, homes, they were everywhere just like computers are today. Of course our relationship with computers is different, they’re multi-purpose and flexible and documents are digitally stored. Typewriters are completely analogue, no spell check, no way of rearranging paragraphs, or changing font or size.

The first typewriter was made by Remington in 1873. Underwood began producing typewriters in 1895 in New York, and went on to become the biggest typewriter company in the world. The Underwood number 5 from 1900 is probably the most famous and recognisable, and is also a beautiful machine. Underwood merged with Olivetti in the 1960s, around the time when mine was produced. IBM started getting adventurous in the 70s and 80s, before electronic word processors began replacing typewriters in the 90s.

My little Underwood needs a new ribbon, but then I fully intend to start writing stuff on it, and pretend I’m in Mad Men.

Living the dream

There it is, the dream. A globe with a bar inside. I’ve seen it a lot in films etc, but I think this is the first I’ve seen in real life. Beautiful on the outside, and when it opens, oh hello – fancy a tipple?

It's even nicer with the fancy glasses and decanter inside, although I'd stuff it with lots more booze.

I do not own this (and don't know anything about it) but I have vowed to try to find my own one day. I think every house needs a bar of some kind, both as a focal point for entertainment and to give lovely spirits the home they deserve.

I will eternally regret the time I saw a ship-shaped bar in a junk shop for a few quid, and didn’t go for it. It had little port holes.

Morning in Morningside

I went to Edinburgh earlier this month to visit some friends - the same couple who run the beautifully decorated highland cottage from my first ever blog post. Their flat is in a Victorian tenement building, in the upmarket Morningside area, and I think the buildings are sandstone - or something orangey coloured - which gives the place a nice glow.

The little touches like the runner, the scarf and the flowers liberated from a neighbour's garden are sweet. But what I really like is the combination of white, wood and windows, to make an open, airy, but somehow honest space. Very simple, almost stark, but sitting around that table playing scrabble or eating a hearty bean casserole, it's cosy and warm. And in the fresh autumnal morning sunshine, tea and toast feels very cleansing.

70s record player

Every home should have a record player. Don’t get me wrong, opening my Spotify account might be the best thing I’ve ever done, as I’m a huge fan of endless, easy, perfect digital music. But sometimes, that’s not what you want.

This is especially true of old music, the kind that was originally played on record players in bedrooms and living rooms. You’re hearing it exactly as the original fans did, and every little pop and crackle, tinny drumbeat or fuzzy vocal just adds to the character of the music. There’s no shuffle button, no playlists or greatest hits, you have to commit to one album, a purposefully assembled set of songs.

Similarly, my dad’s told me horror stories of having to save up for weeks and weeks to get the album you were desperate for, or going round to a friend’s house just to hear a song. Then there was the time he saved up for absolutely ages to get the record player, but the speakers were separate and he had to save up all over again, and just listen to his music on headphones. No wonder it feels like music used to mean more.

My record collection is pretty big now; over 100 at last count. As a huge Beatles fan I’m particularly proud of the early mono albums, and we’re going through a bit of a Bob Dylan phase at the moment too. I’ve also got some nice novelty items like coloured vinyl and octagonal sleeves; my dad trawls the charity shops of North Wales for me, so it all depends on his luck.

The player itself is obviously quite big, so coupled with the collection in four old record boxes, it takes up loads of room (despite actually containing less music than my iPod) and we’re on the lookout for a G-plan style unit that will hold it all. The player is a Ferguson, and it looks pretty 70s to me with its wood veneer, mock leather top and special arm that drops a new record onto the turntable after you’ve listened to one side.

I think we most use our old record player when we’re getting ready to go out, when friends are round, and those lovely lazy Sunday afternoons. But my favourite is getting in from a night out at 3am, having one last drink or a cup of tea sat around the hypnotically spinning record, and it feels like those wise voices from the past are being sung right there in the room, just for you. I’m usually drunk and emotional at this point.