London, what are your shoppers doing?

To the gentleman in the over-sized red jumper with an Adam's apple like an elbow, doing your grocery shopping in Sainsbury's with a grapefruit-sized plastic orb balanced on your head...

... whatever you're doing, you're doing it right!

London, what are your cyclists doing?

This morning, whilst I was commuting the shit out of my Wednesday morning, I was listlessly watching the traffic below from my bus window (only forgot my bloody Kindle, didn't I!?) Suddenly there was a loud cracking noise and I saw that just ahead of the bus that a motorcyclist had come a cropper against the back of a pickup, smashing his windscreen and mirrors and leaving debris over the road and his bike on its side. The cars around the accident immediately started trying to sneak either side of the scene (like party-goers when a drunk girl is crying on the stairs) and merge into other lanes, leaving the dual carriage-way looking like a dropped box of Lego; the motorcyclist, oddly calm, set about righting his bike.

Just then a figure in organgey-pinky fluorescence stepped in front of the scene- arms spread against the traffic like like a neon Jesus in a pastel blue helmet- and commanded the cars to stop. He then left his bicycle as a barrier to prevent anyone driving over anything and started to pick up the debris whilst the motorcyclist finished rightinghis bike and started pushing it through the gaps in the traffic- not even stopping to talk to the  pickup driver, who was leaning out of his window without one single fuck to give about the whole thing [utterly fuckless.] Making a quiet exit and keepig his head down, he left the cyclist to stuff the debris into his jacket- INTO HIS JACKET- as he had no bag, and check to see if the truck driver was okay. I shit you not, there were shards of broken perspex and strips of metal that he had rattling against his chest: "Internal organs? Most of them come in pairs anyway- I'll be fine!" With the motocyclist gone he made one final sweep of the area for bits of motorcycle, apologised to the cars for the delay, and cycled off towards the city (WITH A JACKET FULL OF SHRAPNEL.)

Traffic started moving again, car windows rolled up, and the grind ground on- but that cyclist selflessly stopping to help certainly left an image on me.

London, this particular cyclist was doing it right! (The motorcyclist was arguably doing it wrong...)

London, what are your hipster tea houses doing?

Three double-vodka, lime & sodas done; bish bash bosh. What now? As if we're getting a cup of bloody tea on a Friday night! (NB: not bloody-tea)

Soho is quirky, all the way up to it's glittery mirkin- sometimes vaguely sticky or matted- but always vibrant and effervescent. I was meeting my old friend Gawaine, as unbearable as he is adorable, for some catch-up drinks and to have a stomp around. Despite both of us proudly declaring ourselves "all London, an that!" we are actually fairly rubbish at organising water-tight plans that include specific locations, as opposed to approximate geographical areas. Gawaine started off with "Seven at LS." Now, I haven't consulted others as to whether this acronym is real, let alone even viable, but apparently it stands for Leicester Square- or rather, "Leicester Square. Keep up Grandpa" the horrid little shit.

Quirk, not Quirke

So after running a jolly around various bars in Soho, merrily bish bash boshing double-vodka, lime & sodas (he's diabetic and I've gotten a bit fat) we decided our night was levelling out, we needed to quirk it up to 11. It was then that we found Foxcroft and Ginger [http://www.foxcroftandginger.com/] a brunch-type-place (not a nineteeth-century detective duo, like I'd hoped) for exotic teas and coffees-to-pretend-to-like and things which Gawaine recommended as he had recently dated the shit out of someone there. It looked like it was close to closing and we had to awkwardly consult two not-unattractive lady patrons smoking outside as to whether it was still open: "... yeh, yeh it probably is. Not sure. Try it." Textbook London citizenship.

As we rolled in, on the right side of tipsy and the wrong side of volume control, we had a butchers at what was on offer; various pastries, teas and boozes. Clocking an opportunity, our man Sanders exclaimed, loudly: "Do you do things like teas and boozes mixed together and stuff? Like tea-cocktails? Gawaine, want a tea-cocktail? Wait, let me find out if they do them first..." To which Tom, the gentleman behind the counter, responded "No."

But wait, as if that's the end of the story! Tom, the gentleman behind the counter, followed up by adding: "But I can mix one up for you chaps! Let's have a look at what we have!" Then, like Mr Jekyll, suddenly produced jars and bottles of curious stuffs and liquids for me to ram my schnozz in, quietly repeating "And this, yes? This one, hm? What do you think of this, eh? Do you like that one? Do you? Have another sniff..." In any other situation his tone and intensity would have come across as vaguely rapey, but I must say that I was enchanted!

Gawaine, the fruity champ, enjoying his gin and odd-tea.

I cannot for the life of me remember exactly what I picked, but it contained some kind of queer tea mixed with a not-insignificant amount of rum (loads of fucking rum) and Gawaine had a similarly curious tea but with gin mixed with it- because he's a bit like that. Both drinks, despite having been made up on the spot by our gentleman behind the bar, Tom, were absolutely marvellous! His magnificent nose (in power, rather than size) categorically hit the spot with both beverages- the olfactory wizard! The heart-cloggingly over-buttered croissant that I enjoyed the tea with was also incredibly apt.

Having put away the teas we made our way out all the drunker for hard spirits and all the richer for a new experience at a cracking venue.

London, with quirky brunch joints like Foxcroft and Ginger, you're doing it right!

London, what are your eccentrics doing?

Standing at a pedestrian crossing down Regent Street waiting for the lights to change when an old man with a big bushy beard and scraggly grey hair held back in a ponytail a couple of people away from me shouts at a passing cyclist: "Oi, that's my bike! Give me my bloody bike back!"

He then turns to the young woman next to him and, with a smile and wink, says: "It's not really my bike..."

London, you're doing it right!

London, what are your mothers doing?

Back in September my heart had a number done on it, didn't it?

Four rows from the front, left hand window seat (the crow's nest) on the top deck of the Number 12 bus, I was grudgingly being commuted into the Smoke- a hangover the size of a whale's face pushing my forehead against the glass. Eventually the bus pulled up at the Notre Dame R.C. Girls School and I watched a mother and her daughter step off and walk towards the school. The daughter was skipping along, bright pink lunchbox swinging dangerous arcs through the air, hair in pigtails- generous lashings of generic schoolgirl stereotypes aplomb. The mother was tottering along in her high heels, tiny clutch bag squeezed against her velour tracksuit, arguably grossly overdressed and/or under dressed for the morning school drop-off. or any other conceivable occasion. 

The daughter, having tired of fiercely pirouetting, skips back to her mum's side. Walking side by side the daughter reaches up to hold her mum's hand only to have it casually slapped away like a nuisance fly. Slowing her feet momentarily and letting her chin fall, the little girl then hugged her lunch box and then skipped onwards by herself. In the fug of mental melancholy, partially (wholly) brought on by the previous night's endeavours, the sight fucking broke my heart...

London, you're doing it all wrong...

I admit that I have been more than fairly rubbish at keeping this blog updated; I'm sure both readers have been devastated. However, following on from a delightful and flattering conversation that I had with two lovely friends (Charlie and Charlotte, this shout out is for you two) I shall be cobbling together a renewed effort in keeping this palsy dream alive.

George, you're doing it right.