The Urban vortex has swirled, and I've been caught.
It's all new to me.
I like
Brixtonians. They're not too down at heel, which would be depressing, but they're not too posh, which would also be depressing given that I'm skint. All a bit jumbled up. Hark at me and my meeedl clarrrssness.
Electric Avenue: That's the best street name in the world. It should perhaps lead to the greatest casinos in Vegas, or one of Gilbert Scott's wonderful deco power plants. But it doesn't. It's a bit rubbish. Someone even made a cheesy record about it. But that's okay. It's still the best street name in the world.
I'm Confused By:
The giant traffic sign on the hill. It's a bit odd for London. I think of LA Story, and expect a lone man to be staring at it in awe, when it eventually says: "No queues in Streatham"
The lack of an Urban75 Bus. I expected a little 10 seater, whizzing around ferrying people to the Albert. That's what I thought "the server" fund was for.
I'm reassured by:
The Albert. Obvious really. On a good night, joining in a conversation, it's difficult to tell who actually knows each other. I call it a festival in a pub. Or maybe I'm just a social pest. But I like it.
M&S. Reassurance I'm not slumming it, whilst I rummage for their cheapest ready meals.
Living just near Paulo'z way. That's me. That's me! Well, sort of.
I'm let down by:
Healthy Bites (is that their name?) not having any rotis, and Negril not managing to put menus in the window. I've still not eaten any jamaican food. My torture might be picky self inflicted, but it *is* torture.
Closed Hill Bars: SBB, SSB. It's a minefield of a very limited alphabet, but hey, there's the Windmill.
I'd like to:
Go to the Ritzy: You can't not want to go anywhere that's called that.
Live here a lot longer. Someone is doing me a big favour at the moment, but I can see myself hanging around* if I get my shit sorted. It's nice.
* I don't mean in their flat. For the benefit of the tape.
It's all new to me.
I like
Brixtonians. They're not too down at heel, which would be depressing, but they're not too posh, which would also be depressing given that I'm skint. All a bit jumbled up. Hark at me and my meeedl clarrrssness.
Electric Avenue: That's the best street name in the world. It should perhaps lead to the greatest casinos in Vegas, or one of Gilbert Scott's wonderful deco power plants. But it doesn't. It's a bit rubbish. Someone even made a cheesy record about it. But that's okay. It's still the best street name in the world.
I'm Confused By:
The giant traffic sign on the hill. It's a bit odd for London. I think of LA Story, and expect a lone man to be staring at it in awe, when it eventually says: "No queues in Streatham"
The lack of an Urban75 Bus. I expected a little 10 seater, whizzing around ferrying people to the Albert. That's what I thought "the server" fund was for.
I'm reassured by:
The Albert. Obvious really. On a good night, joining in a conversation, it's difficult to tell who actually knows each other. I call it a festival in a pub. Or maybe I'm just a social pest. But I like it.
M&S. Reassurance I'm not slumming it, whilst I rummage for their cheapest ready meals.
Living just near Paulo'z way. That's me. That's me! Well, sort of.
I'm let down by:
Healthy Bites (is that their name?) not having any rotis, and Negril not managing to put menus in the window. I've still not eaten any jamaican food. My torture might be picky self inflicted, but it *is* torture.
Closed Hill Bars: SBB, SSB. It's a minefield of a very limited alphabet, but hey, there's the Windmill.
I'd like to:
Go to the Ritzy: You can't not want to go anywhere that's called that.
Live here a lot longer. Someone is doing me a big favour at the moment, but I can see myself hanging around* if I get my shit sorted. It's nice.
* I don't mean in their flat. For the benefit of the tape.