I have been staying in Canary Wharf. Eleven floors up in a flat with panoramic views over London.
The flat is being payed for by an Olympic outfit that have more money than conscience. Drop a towel and its picked up by the MAID every Friday. The fridge is American huge, the bed sheets Egyptian cotton, and the atmosphere as sterile as the magnolia wall paint.
The concierge MALAIKA – which was the name of my daughters adopted elephant when she was three – sits all alone in the foyer.
Come out of the flat turn left, then right. A five minute walk to the Hilton Hotel which is even more souless than the apartment. Men in sharp suits hang around the ashtrays screwed to the walls, puffing on Marlborough Lights and talking to other men in sharp suits. Their ears plugged with rubber speakers.
JACK DASH HOUSE is to the right – he would be turning in his grave to see what they have done to his Docklands.
Over the silver clickety clackety bridge and through the swing doors into the Mozzerella restaurant.
Two choices; down the escalator into the shopping mall before working your way to the Jubilee Line, or through another set of swing doors out into the open air and the Reuters print out. The share prices pass round and round and round as thousands – and I do mean thousands – of city folk, earphones firmly lodged, ipads, iphones and Macbooks firmly held, make their way to offices in the banking towers.
Its big, its rich and its as cutoff from the rest of us as Mr. Diamond is.
I stayed from last Thursday and arrived home today at 2.00
Housewiffery
Clock ticking. The thwack of a bird on the window pane. It nearly made it into the bedroom. Managed to relaunch after the window pain. . The post now arrives at 10.30. The letter about an idiot woman who banged into the ‘oosbinds car 18 months ago and still they are bellyaching about who pays … Read more