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May. 17th, 2007
"My dear old chap, look yourself in the face: you are 34 years old….your youth has gone and the bohemian life doesn’t suit you at all." - Sartre
Unfortunately I don't listen to (the age of) reason and we head down to the terribly boho Z Bar, allegedly hot-bed home of Marxists and radicals and people who want war to stop. However, there are no Trots in sight and we enjoy a veggie breakfast (he) and halloumi and roast veg on toast (me) with some old dears eating egg and chips, a quartet of fat white businessmen munching Turkish salad, three young black men getting their way through apple pie & custard and cans of Tango, and Stokey meeja types and their all-day fry-ups.
Afterwards, we take a convoluted route to the rarified air of Chelsea and go to a pretty secret walled garden. It is a registered charity but I don't really approve of gardens charging an entrance fee: every other city's botanical gardens are free, even Oslo's, where a loaf of bread costs £17.63. There was a recent survey which claimed that a stroll in the park helped 70% of depressed people feel less depressed:- think of all the money the NHS could save on Prozac if the Queen were to make Kew Gardens free. Anyway, there is the oldest rockery in Europe with shells imported by Captain Cook from Tahiti, a solitary orchid, a monkey puzzle tree, a warning for parents, teachers and nannies not to let their children fall in the pond, Spanish moss, and lots and lots of lovely flowers.
My dad is also out and about in London, enjoying Renoir and his landscapes at the National Gallery. He had booked to go see the West Indies play cricket but when the tickets arrived, he realised that he'd clicked on India (in July) instead. I believe Christopher Columbus made the same mistake. But he'd already bought the train tickets so he came to London anyway. Neither of my parents has been to my birthday since 1989 when they took me out to the Indus Indian restaurant in Doncaster ("a popular venue for visiting celebrities including Ian Botham, Billy Connolly and Freddie Starr"). But apart from telling tales about a certain Italian waiter named Luciano, he doesn't embarrass me too much. We (David, Dave#1, Richard, Jeff, Allan, Alice and Steve, Tanya, Matt, Claire, Gareth, Mark, Paul, Heike, Jo, DanJ, Andy and Tom) go to eat at Miso for bento boxes and noodles and beer. The Japanese (or Korean?) waiters appraise a birthday present of sake approvingly.
To the Faltering Fullback for more beer and vodka, taking over the picnic tables in the snooker room, which, unlike every other pub I used to frequent, hasn't (yet) turned into a gastro-area. Stay a little too late for someone who has work the next day - I could live this slightly bohemian life for a little longer.
Unfortunately I don't listen to (the age of) reason and we head down to the terribly boho Z Bar, allegedly hot-bed home of Marxists and radicals and people who want war to stop. However, there are no Trots in sight and we enjoy a veggie breakfast (he) and halloumi and roast veg on toast (me) with some old dears eating egg and chips, a quartet of fat white businessmen munching Turkish salad, three young black men getting their way through apple pie & custard and cans of Tango, and Stokey meeja types and their all-day fry-ups.
Afterwards, we take a convoluted route to the rarified air of Chelsea and go to a pretty secret walled garden. It is a registered charity but I don't really approve of gardens charging an entrance fee: every other city's botanical gardens are free, even Oslo's, where a loaf of bread costs £17.63. There was a recent survey which claimed that a stroll in the park helped 70% of depressed people feel less depressed:- think of all the money the NHS could save on Prozac if the Queen were to make Kew Gardens free. Anyway, there is the oldest rockery in Europe with shells imported by Captain Cook from Tahiti, a solitary orchid, a monkey puzzle tree, a warning for parents, teachers and nannies not to let their children fall in the pond, Spanish moss, and lots and lots of lovely flowers.
My dad is also out and about in London, enjoying Renoir and his landscapes at the National Gallery. He had booked to go see the West Indies play cricket but when the tickets arrived, he realised that he'd clicked on India (in July) instead. I believe Christopher Columbus made the same mistake. But he'd already bought the train tickets so he came to London anyway. Neither of my parents has been to my birthday since 1989 when they took me out to the Indus Indian restaurant in Doncaster ("a popular venue for visiting celebrities including Ian Botham, Billy Connolly and Freddie Starr"). But apart from telling tales about a certain Italian waiter named Luciano, he doesn't embarrass me too much. We (David, Dave#1, Richard, Jeff, Allan, Alice and Steve, Tanya, Matt, Claire, Gareth, Mark, Paul, Heike, Jo, DanJ, Andy and Tom) go to eat at Miso for bento boxes and noodles and beer. The Japanese (or Korean?) waiters appraise a birthday present of sake approvingly.
To the Faltering Fullback for more beer and vodka, taking over the picnic tables in the snooker room, which, unlike every other pub I used to frequent, hasn't (yet) turned into a gastro-area. Stay a little too late for someone who has work the next day - I could live this slightly bohemian life for a little longer.
"My dear old chap, look yourself in the face: you are 34 years old….your youth has gone and the bohemian life doesn’t suit you at all." - Sartre
Unfortunately I don't listen to (the age of) reason and we head down to the terribly boho Z Bar, allegedly hot-bed home of Marxists and radicals and people who want war to stop. However, there are no Trots in sight and we enjoy a veggie breakfast (he) and halloumi and roast veg on toast (me) with some old dears eating egg and chips, a quartet of fat white businessmen munching Turkish salad, three young black men getting their way through apple pie & custard and cans of Tango, and Stokey meeja types and their all-day fry-ups.
Afterwards, we take a convoluted route to the rarified air of Chelsea and go to a pretty secret walled garden. It is a registered charity but I don't really approve of gardens charging an entrance fee: every other city's botanical gardens are free, even Oslo's, where a loaf of bread costs £17.63. There was a recent survey which claimed that a stroll in the park helped 70% of depressed people feel less depressed:- think of all the money the NHS could save on Prozac if the Queen were to make Kew Gardens free. Anyway, there is the oldest rockery in Europe with shells imported by Captain Cook from Tahiti, a solitary orchid, a monkey puzzle tree, a warning for parents, teachers and nannies not to let their children fall in the pond, Spanish moss, and lots and lots of lovely flowers.
My dad is also out and about in London, enjoying Renoir and his landscapes at the National Gallery. He had booked to go see the West Indies play cricket but when the tickets arrived, he realised that he'd clicked on India (in July) instead. I believe Christopher Columbus made the same mistake. But he'd already bought the train tickets so he came to London anyway. Neither of my parents has been to my birthday since 1989 when they took me out to the Indus Indian restaurant in Doncaster ("a popular venue for visiting celebrities including Ian Botham, Billy Connolly and Freddie Starr"). But apart from telling tales about a certain Italian waiter named Luciano, he doesn't embarrass me too much. We (David, Dave#1, Richard, Jeff, Allan, Alice and Steve, Tanya, Matt, Claire, Gareth, Mark, Paul, Heike, Jo, DanJ, Andy and Tom) go to eat at Miso for bento boxes and noodles and beer. The Japanese (or Korean?) waiters appraise a birthday present of sake approvingly.
To the Faltering Fullback for more beer and vodka, taking over the picnic tables in the snooker room, which, unlike every other pub I used to frequent, hasn't (yet) turned into a gastro-area. Stay a little too late for someone who has work the next day - I could live this slightly bohemian life for a little longer.
Unfortunately I don't listen to (the age of) reason and we head down to the terribly boho Z Bar, allegedly hot-bed home of Marxists and radicals and people who want war to stop. However, there are no Trots in sight and we enjoy a veggie breakfast (he) and halloumi and roast veg on toast (me) with some old dears eating egg and chips, a quartet of fat white businessmen munching Turkish salad, three young black men getting their way through apple pie & custard and cans of Tango, and Stokey meeja types and their all-day fry-ups.
Afterwards, we take a convoluted route to the rarified air of Chelsea and go to a pretty secret walled garden. It is a registered charity but I don't really approve of gardens charging an entrance fee: every other city's botanical gardens are free, even Oslo's, where a loaf of bread costs £17.63. There was a recent survey which claimed that a stroll in the park helped 70% of depressed people feel less depressed:- think of all the money the NHS could save on Prozac if the Queen were to make Kew Gardens free. Anyway, there is the oldest rockery in Europe with shells imported by Captain Cook from Tahiti, a solitary orchid, a monkey puzzle tree, a warning for parents, teachers and nannies not to let their children fall in the pond, Spanish moss, and lots and lots of lovely flowers.
My dad is also out and about in London, enjoying Renoir and his landscapes at the National Gallery. He had booked to go see the West Indies play cricket but when the tickets arrived, he realised that he'd clicked on India (in July) instead. I believe Christopher Columbus made the same mistake. But he'd already bought the train tickets so he came to London anyway. Neither of my parents has been to my birthday since 1989 when they took me out to the Indus Indian restaurant in Doncaster ("a popular venue for visiting celebrities including Ian Botham, Billy Connolly and Freddie Starr"). But apart from telling tales about a certain Italian waiter named Luciano, he doesn't embarrass me too much. We (David, Dave#1, Richard, Jeff, Allan, Alice and Steve, Tanya, Matt, Claire, Gareth, Mark, Paul, Heike, Jo, DanJ, Andy and Tom) go to eat at Miso for bento boxes and noodles and beer. The Japanese (or Korean?) waiters appraise a birthday present of sake approvingly.
To the Faltering Fullback for more beer and vodka, taking over the picnic tables in the snooker room, which, unlike every other pub I used to frequent, hasn't (yet) turned into a gastro-area. Stay a little too late for someone who has work the next day - I could live this slightly bohemian life for a little longer.