Yesterday, I took a trip to the Big Smoke. Mainly to buy a present for my OLDER sister who is FORTY today.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULINE!!! (just in case Joseph has found this site on Google...)
I ventured into HMV and ended up applying for a banning order. They had a sale on, and they had an offer of 3 CDs for £15 - packaged as HMV Classics. I have also realised just how cheap EMI's Great Recordings of the Century are. I ended up getting thirteen CDs, some of them doubles, for the money I was going to spend on shoes. And only one cost over £10. Well, at least I got my priorities right!
There was a stall on Oxford Street selling t-shirts, including one saying "Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to London!". How tacky, I thought. Minutes later I saw a woman wearing one. It was at least three sizes too small, and was short enough to reveal the rolls of flesh round her stomach and the pastel purple of her utility knickers.
It was a glorious day, warm and sunny, but not hot. But being September 1st, it was Officially Autumn, so all the buses now have their heating turned on. Some people are wearing coats. Statutory black woolly tights are back.
I decided that rather than walking round Oxford Circus I would detour through side streets. It reminded me how much I love London. Oxford street is noisy, crowded and tacky, and negotiating its pavements is psychologically draining 'Stupid place to stop, out of my way fucker, stop bleeding dithering!'. Take a turn and you are met with vistas of space. Loving a wander, I ended up New Bond Street, the home of exclusivity. On the opposite side of the road was Asprey's, the Royal Jewellers. The stretch of road was just full of exclusive jewellers. Serious jewellers - Bulgari, Cartier etc etc. Opposite Asprey is another jewellers - I didn't see the name. Outside was a bunch of...er...chavs. From Sarf Lannan, I noted by the accents. But change the accents and they could have been from anywhere.
"So da' dere, da' 's blin' blin innit?"
I just love this from the Guardian's review of Leeds Festival His incessant demands to "raise your hands" became wearisome when he managed little to justify such a display of affection, and he was brought down to size during In da Club by a sign in the crowd that read "Hey Fifty, it's spelled In THE Club". Lynne Truss would be proud.. I think over here, he should be known as Twenty Eight Pence.
