September 28th
Now that I have recovered from my daughter Rebecca's wedding, (which rolled in and out of our lives like a gorgeous tank, crushing and obliterating every other thought in our heads), I can return to Luton with a clear brain. I still have one bunch of hydrangeas in my home to remind me of that fabulous autumn day, but alas the roses from the bouquets have crumpled and fallen. Memories of the lovely ceremony flash in and out of my mind unexpectedly, I don't want them to fade, but I know that, like those roses, they surely will.
Luckily Luton fills the vaccuum left by that all-consuming family event, and continues to entrance. Last Saturday was fascinating. I flew back from a ChildLine fund-raising event in Edinburgh, so I missed the morning, but even so, the first International Food Festival in St George's Square was a feast of spices, breads, sauces, dozens of different ways to cook chicken, and little cakes, Polish, Caribbean, African, and everyone sat in the afternoon sunshine filling their faces and watching the dancersl. Arlene, Craig, Len, Bruno and Alesha would have loved them. Not that I've ever seen the Strictly dancers fill their faces with food, those costumes would cling to any extra ounce. Eeven the men wear lycra that hugs them mercilessly, I wonder they can walk, let alone rumba.
I wasn't watching Strictly last Saturday evening, addict though I am. I was presenting prizes to the winners of the tennis tournament in the Vauxhall Recreation Club, held in aid of the Marie Curie charity. Such a wonderful cause, working as it does to ensure cancer patients have a quality of life and a freedom from pain. The club is a precious resource for Lutonians, with indoor and outdoor courts so that maybe, one day, a Lutonian will win Wimbledon. Why not? Marilyn Murray, one of the coaches, is a bundle of talent. She took up tennis when her injured knees meant that she had to give up netball at the age of forty - so it goes to show, doesn't it, that not only can an old dog (sorry, Marilyn, I don't mean you) learn new tricks, but she can excell! Her family have promised to show me Luton after dark - I can't wait.
On Monday I was in the Leaside Hotel meeting some trusted supporters and planning our future together. They were talking about their hopes and fears for the town. Our discussion led us into difficult territory. Luton is a microcosm of the whole country, with the problems that beset the whole of Britain. If we can find solutions, that would be hopeful for everyone. After having spent happy hours enjoying the diversity of Luton, which must be one of its great strengths, it's so sad that a football match had to be cancelled, for fear of violence. I need to know more. Who is instigating the violence? Why? It's always self-defeating.
I'm returning to Luton almost every day this week. Not everyone knows that. Stephen, the 3 Counties breakfast shock jock rebuked me a couple of mornings ago, "You're not here, Esther!". Yes I am Stephen. And what's more soon I'll have an office in the indoor market, so you can come and take coffee with me there, and, as Michael Winner says, Calm down dear!

August 18th 2009 - around Luton South in an afternoon

August 18th 2009 - around Luton South in an afternoon

Each visit so far has been separate and distinct, focused on a particular purpose.
Opening a school fete, which, like all the best fetes was jolly, messy and crammed with delicious home-made cakes, and good-natured teachers getting wet sponges flung at them. Meeting dedicated staff in the Luton and Dunstable Hospital, seeing tiny babies inside complex machines, clinging valiantly to life, no wonder Obama envies our NHS. Watching the IBC white van production line, each gleaming van preordered, the machinery almost as surgical and germ-free as the hospital. Buying hats in High Town with little factories disguised as Edwardian homes, filled with the implements of the hatters' craft, steam machines, moulds, boxes of feathers and huge silk roses. Taking coffee in Bury Park, exotic and vibrant.

Each visit had taught me more, but in my head Luton had become a patchwork I could not quite sew together. In the nick of time today a kind new friend agreed to show me her Luton. She is a Lutonian born, bred and with a distinguished career entirely carved out in Luton, so I had found the best possible guide to drive me around for an afternoon.

What contrasts! We drove through sleepy, sunny fields, along dusty country roads, to Caddington. A village with its own green, “And the voters here are all true Blue” said my guide. Would there be no chance, then, for a would-be prospective Independent?
Would the show-business connections make me altogether suspect?

Plunging back into the town, we navigated long curving streets of identical tudor semi's (exactly like the ones I grew up in in North West London). I love the fact that Luton, like Florence, nestles in a circle of hills.

Unlike Florence I saw the site of the new "Olympic" swimming pool high on one of the hillsl. On another I admired High Town village, once the buzzing shopping heart of old Luton town before the advent of the Arndale shopping mall. Could it once again become the cafe culture of Luton South? On another of Luton's hills I saw the impressively successful Airport, where Easyjet, Monarch and Thomson have lift-off. And then in a wild wonderful gulch , Napier Park, where 35,000 Lutonians used to build convoys of Vauxhall cars and Churchill tanks.

I wondered where they manufactured the houses in Tin Town, much derided, but far more attractive than concrete car parks, and far longer-lasting, it seems, (I think the tin houses should be listed. They are so much more attractive than the rabbit hutch flats developers pile up into tower blocks. Unless of course the tin walls are so hot in summer and cold in winter that the owners think they have no right to immortality).

Driving past the University and on through the student areas, we passed Mr Moon's the newsagent's shop. Standing by the door I recognized Mrs Patel, whose husband Jashbhai, one of the town's most popular figures, was brutally stabbed to death there, on a Sunday morning in June. We stopped and I ran to meet her, a steady, clever, courageous woman, determined to carry on, because as she told me her late husband had so much faith in her. I saw her grandchildren with their huge lustrous dark eyes taking in her grief, but not understanding it. I took her hand. So much to say to her, of admiration, and sorrow, but I couldn't find adequate words. She needs help to fit out the shop, I'm sure Luton will rush to support her.

The tour was almost at an end. We circled, as everyone does, there is no escape from it, the notorious concrete car park, which has become a desparing symbol of the mistakes in the past, now condemned, an eye-sore. My guide explained that The Hat Factory nestling next to the station has a tiny theatre inside it. Surely we need a bigger theatre in Luton South, don't we? And a concert hall? Wouldn't the site of that horrible dead car park be ideal? After all, the popularity of the yearly Luton Carnival, and the bright, shiny Carnival Arts Centre shows that creativity is alive and well in the heart of the town.

My guide admitted that although she loves Luton, when she wants to shop for quality she always goes to Milton Keynes. And when she wants a good night out, she goes to London. I wonder why? Why has nobody has capitalized on Luton's superb geography accessible from North and South, by road, rail and air to create a destination town?

We finished the tour with strong cups of tea in Luton Hoo hotel, admiring the brilliance of the August herbaceous borders. Another contrast, another world. But where once the Queen and Philip had their honeymoon, Lutonians now filled every armchair and sofa, sitting beneath vast tapestries and high windows, enjoying a mammoth tea, scones, sandwiches, home-made cakes, and a doggy box to take home the delicious left-overs.

So what kind of patchwork did my kind guide piece together for me? She showed me a whole new pattern, with bright colours, vastly different textures, exciting, warm. Yes, there is tragedy here, and hardship. But so much vitality, and endurance, and potential. I can't wait for my next visit.

a concert dedicated to love, miracle babies and a happy ending

August 16th -

The perfect Sunday afternoon in Luton South. St George's Square has always looked a bit bleak to me before, with its metres of Chinese granite, and a corner of grass. But today in the hot sunshine it was covered with tables, stalls selling everything, music, jewellery, fried chicken, all surrounded by a happy crowd rocking to reggae. This was the Luton Loves Music, Hates Racism concert, flatly contradicting the cynics who try to convey a very different picture of this diverse, warm-hearted town. All humanity was there, every age, every race, every religion, all smiling and dancing and enjoying a glimpse of the English summer. Not of course that a hot roast corn cob and some brilliant drumming is going to solve the problems of the world, but it's a start

I paused to watch the children jumping and dancing in the fountains. Luton Council created their fun, they must be delighted. As artist Gaz from the Hat factory drew a caricature of me, complete with a Luton hat and Rantzen teeth, a courteous young man talked to me seriously about the damage he believes I am doing to Luton's politics. He described himself as being left of the Labour party, and talked about potential candidates who have put in years of hard work, only to have been shoved off balance and out of the picture by what he called the Rantzen circus. "Would you stand down", he asked me, "If you became aware that your circus was damaging the chances of a better candidate?" "No," I said. "Why not?" "Because I wouldn't think they were better."

He laughs, I laugh. And I explain that although I may appear to be a "celebrity", in fact it's my journalism and campaigning work that I hope will qualify me for politics

I can't apologize for my lack of political experience. This will be an election in which I hope other non-politicians will also decide to stand. After all, many of the people who have spent the last decades propping up the current system have done us all a disservice. A Lutonian I spoke to on Friday told me his view is that the party memberships are all so low now, it means the "gene pool" of potential candidates is very, very limited. Certainly the result in Totness seems to prove the value of non-politicians coming forward, a local GP got the Conservative nomination there, by public demand. I'm sure we need more people like her, with experience outside politics, to put themselves forward.

Personally I will be standing as a prospective Independent candidate partly because I am so un-impressed by any of the politicians left, right or centre, who, over the years, have allowed the current system to flourish. By the current system, I don't just mean the abuse of allowances and expenses. I mean a system, which, for example, means that the voters cannot recall MPs even when they are patently not doing the job. Which, from what I have been told, has been the situation in Luton South. Margaret Moran it seems has been notorious for not replying to letters, not being accessible, not being available, the people I've spoken to have felt completely unrepresented. And now of course since Margaret is off sick, they are indeed, unrepresented.

Chatting beside one of the stalls at the concert I found the MP for Luton North, Kelvin Hopkins, who is as respected and popular as Margaret Moran was not. The man talking to him shakes me by the hand, smiles at Kelvin, and tells me I would not have a chance of standing against him. Good for Kelvin. We enjoy the sunshine together, and wish each other luck, unofficially of course.

On the way home I walk around the gorgeous gardens of Luton Hoo, and watch the fountains catch the light. Just after the Second World War, Churchill spoke here to 110,000 people, grateful for all the Churchill tanks manufactured in the Vauxhall factory. I visualize the scene. I've never been part of a crowd that huge. Now there are wagtails on the lawn where they must have stood. The old Vauxhall plant is waiting for a creative re-developer to use the land well. Not tanks this time. My dream would be to turn it into a theme park. Luton is the centre of Britain, with unrivalled transport links. What fun to have DisneylandLuton. As I dream in the sun, a couple of Easyjets fly overhead, to reinforce the point.

Friday was good, too. A visit to Luton and Dunstable Hospital, the L & D, to see the tiny babies in the neonatal ward. They weigh less than a bag of sugar. Tiny hands, minute stretching feet, I can just imagine how harsh the air and the light must feel to them. How do they survive? Next to the incubators, a beautiful young nurse. She was born twenty years ago, and though she is healthy and gorgeous now, then she was well over ten weeks premature, and taken immediately to this very ward. Standing next to her, one of the nurses who looked after her, still doing the same for today's tiny babies. And with them both, the distinguished consultant who was the young registrar who had also looked after her twenty years ago. All three looked proud, and happy, and so they should. What a wonderful message of hope to the desperately anxious parents, wondering if their own tiny morsels of life will survive. The L & D is launching an appeal to extend the neo natal intensive care, so that babies don't have to be ferried all over the country when they desperately need support. I do hope the Appeal is successful.

Also on Friday, a heart-warming visit to the indoor market, where I may be given a unit so that I can meet Lutonians who might want to talk to me about the problems in their lives. And there I hear another typical Luton story. Recently an elderly Luton lady took out all her savings to pay for her daughter's wedding. Professional pick-pockets followed her out of the bank, and as she reached Keith's counter in the fish-monger, they stole all her money out of her bag. She arrived in David Gibbs's, office, he is the boss of the indoor market, in tears. He gave her a cup of tea, called up the CCTV to see what happened, and promised to meet her again the next day. He was as good as his word. But this time he had with him a bulging envelope. Hearing what has happened, Keith and all the other market traders have had a whip-round, and between them raised the £1,000 she lost. I took home with me a lovely bouquet from the market, and very happy memories.