Upper Clapton in East London was once an up and coming area. Henry VIII owned Brook House, a 15th century country manor, now an ugly sixth form college. That was its heyday. The Krays lived in the area for a while, but considered it too rough.
A couple of months ago I found my way down the River Lea towpath impeded by police tape. There was a dead body in the river. Nearby stood one of those frightening blue and yellow signs with a tale of kidnap. Handy notices are pinned to lampposts with tips on how to avoid muggers.
Then, in a move which pushed ‘eight year old addict slays pensioner’ off the front page of the Hackney Gazette, a Thai restaurant moved in. Could this be the catalyst? I foresaw a knock-on-effect with Italian delis, funky cafes and a redesignation as Upper Clapton Village. Poncy people in berets called Jasper would replace the roadside Stella drinkers. A better class of body would be dumped in the Lea. Perhaps after dark, Upper Clapton Road would even attract a less rank assortment of prostitutes.
The restaurant was called Bagabon. From the outside, things looked promising. A varied menu and minimalist d’cor (but with a nod to the past; the building was a former pub and a tiled Victorian fireplace was scrubbed up amid the blond wood tables). Best of all, low prices. We went a few times and I must say the service was excellent. It had to be, we were the only customers. After a month, the business added a take-away service which was always promptly delivered (I guess we were the only people ordering it).
After five months it was all over. The windows were smeared over and a notice explained a relocation to Stoke Newington, a mile away. Probably squeezed between a couple of Thai restaurants.
And now Bagabon lies empty again. Those urban vultures, the flyposters have found a new board to pin their messages to, the graffiti kids have returned with their scribbled crap. A Thai restaurant in Upper Clapton! It seems so silly now, but what a story to tell the grandchildren.