Bright lights, Big city
Well, what do you know? The day managed to come good, and though a late starter, it got it’s head sorted out and delivered the goods.
My mate came over, and we went to Greenwich for a cup of tea. Fortunately, this involved getting out of the car on Blackheath, and walking through Greenwich Park, which is very lovely. Particularly in the dark. In Greenwich Park there is a large hill. If you stand at the top, you can look out across London, and what a sight it is.
Canary Wharf was lit up like a Christmas tree. It’s awesome. It dominates the skyline from this part of London, and even on a Sunday night there is obviously things happening over there. If you pan across the horizon, you can see everything from Big Ben to the London Eye. Traffic zooms around, like a million tiny fireflies each on its own unfathomable mission. Jets fly low across the sky, already on their descent into Heathrow, and their headlights strafe across the clouds in sync with the changing note of the engines as they bank. Rising up from this carpet of lights is the distant roar of traffic, the sound of a multitude of lives being lived all at once. It is exhilarating. I felt like a goddess, standing and watching my creation come to life. When you see the big picture London, it’s a place to inspire you and make you glad to be here.
I love going out and about with this friend of mine. He looks at things differently to most people I know. We can potter about, looking through obscurities in car boot sales and odd little markets, and I’ll always find something I would never have looked twice at normally. Last time we did that, I ended up with a Poole coffee pot, which I don’t use, but which I love. This evening we pottered about Greenwich Market, riffling through velvet curtains, admiring dining tables, looking at second hand books (”True Crime Diaries - Read about daring and horrifying murders through the eyes of the perpetrators!”). Then on the way back, we got locked in the park. The police had to let us out, once we realised that anti-climb paint actually means ‘get extremely and irredeemably dirty paint’.
To round things off, we went for a quick drink in the pub opposite my house. I never go in this pub. It worries me, frankly. They serve hideous vinegary red wine in half-pint glasses. Last time I was there the publican’s two year old daughter was under the next table, licking the ashtray. It’s always full of grisly men in dirty jumpers. As we sat with our pints, we noticed a rather ancient looking man staring goggled eyed at the titty poster above the fag machine. Transfixed he was, mouth agape.
So now, I’m sitting here, feeling much more cheery, waiting for 4 Weddings and a Funeral to come on TV, so that I can throw things at Andie MacDowell. All round, a perfect end to a strange old day.