27 degrees and I took the Clapham Junction route.
Down Falcon Road, on the train and then a sweet little trip to Waterloo.
There was a free SOUTH AFRICAN newspaper on the seat. A story about branding people on the buttocks who had HIV made we wonder about the sado masochistic nature of the human under stress.
When you go to bed with someone, it said, turn them round and look at their buttocks if they are branded – well you know the rest.
Through the Station, across the road under the tunnel up the steps leading up to Nelson Mandela’s huge head outside the concert hall then over Hungerford Bridge. The Thames looked crisp and clean and St. Pauls and the Gherkin looked like a bold cardboard cut-out.
The buskers under the bridge make for a good Eastern European sound track but the saxophonist on the bridge has no sense of rhythm. I rarely tip him.
Through Charing Cross Station, over the road to Oscar Wildes low slung statue telling you that we’re all born in the gutter but that some of us see the stars, then round the bend, in the sunshine, past the post office and Pret a Mange,
There are more Pret a Mange’s than there are cod in the sea.
Today I had shreddies for breakfast so didn’t need to buy their bird bar which is a lot of money for a bar of seeds stuck together with date syrup.
The show was interesting, busy and controversial.
The old man is wanting the ‘pooter so I have to go but suffice to say that the sun warms the cockles, which makes life a lot less distressing.
Tonight Jim and I went to the Soho Hotel to see ‘Looking for Eric’, the new Ken Loach film.I cried like a baby. I met a woman in the lavatory that supports Man U, her cat is call Eric and her husband speaks posh english, she cried too.
The film is funny, grainy, sentimental and warm hearted, I loved it.
Jim and I then had supper in a little Italian in Soho with a clientele of tourists, Italians and a table of tranvestites.
Old Compton Street is divine..