Sitting by the open French windows and cooled by the gentle cigarette-flavoured breeze from the incessant smoke of Paul Squared, I am waiting for the call from my optician which will prompt me to start the actions of the day.
Assuming that my new contact lenses come into Cardiff on time and further assuming that the obligatory visit to Paul’s sister’s new kitchen will be completed in double quick time I will then be able to set off on the journey to London.
I am having yet another attempt at getting my eyes to accept a compromise in the contact lens department. Fine-tuning now has been done and I have six months’ supply of new lenses to see me through the summer and well into the cold days of January.
The trip along the dull lanes of the M4 was as tedious as ever, the only point of interest being a fleeting glimpse of Windsor Castle with a flag flying which simply is insufficient to justify the misery of hours of featureless landscape along the way.
London itself was a little more interesting as I navigated most of the city trying to find the bloody River Thames and head south to Herne Hill. If nothing else (and believe me it was nothing else) it gave me the opportunity to listen to all the programmes that Radio 4 had hastily slammed into the schedule to cover the gaps caused by the strike of the journalists’ union.
The Radio 4 play was one of those fugitive pieces which while engaging the mind while it was going on didn’t say enough to make you think. Perfect driving drivel!
Few people could have expressed more delight upon seeing the mundane outline of uninteresting shops in Brixton with more delight than I as I at least then knew where I was. I was able to put the fruitless searching for a major river behind me and promptly miss the turning for Herne Hill.
To be fair to me it wasn’t a real road as the entrance to the carriageway was tiled with fashion bricks making it look like a pedestrianized area. It wasn’t as I rapidly found out when the main road that I intended to take to Herne Hill turned out to be one-way. Now I am used to these little setbacks as Spanish road planners take fiendish delight in changing road layouts almost as you watch. I merely turned (eventually) into a familiar street and passed with a swift flick of the eyes Clarrie’s old flat. My approach for the second time was more measured and with only one other false turning I made it to my final destination in this two-centre holiday!
Sitting in the sun, sheltered by trees and drinking a decent cup of tea is little short of real, deep pleasure and time became lazy and elastic as chat eventually prompted us to a cool bottle of wine and thoughts of the morrow.
A short walk to Sainsbury (was it always there, I think not) allowed the purchase of wine for this evening a generous selection of nibbles and a decent bottle of Cava for the party tomorrow.
It is a delight to be back in Herne Hill and to be with two friends who go back more years than it would be decent to recount. I also have to be on my best behaviour with them as they have photographs which in part explain why I have never attempted a career in politics!
There is wine at my knee on the occasional table in front of me and books and music wherever I look so why the hell am I typing!
Good question. I’ll have a glass of white!
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