The Sun Never Shines On The Tube. NEVER!

Sunglasses worn on the tube has to be one of the most irritating sights in all of Christendom! Spotted six such cretins on today’s journey and not a white stick in sight (there were two fools with un-ironic rock star pretensions in my carriage alone). We are underground! For the entire duration!! The nocturnal subterranean world does not require any additional shading…it’s plenty dingy as it is!?!

Admittedly the lighting is a little harsh on the tube itself – I'm sure the Guantanamo detention centre must use the very same light bulb supplier. However only Stevie Wonder (& friends) should be permitted to be seen in sunnies down here. And even an undisputed icon such as Mr Wonder would have the good grace not to wear his accessorized with an air of woefully miss-placed smugness!

Bad enough to push them atop your head like some Sloaney headband, but to actually proudly sport them with brazen bravado makes me want to commit acts of random violence. Chiefly to their appalling sunglasses!?!

Mostly they are of the Wayfarer and Aviator variety, typically coupled with a pair of espadrilles and an ironic trouser turn-up, so you can probably deduce what type we are talking here. However there was one Marilyn Manson-wannabe whose transgression I'll permit, purely on the grounds that his sunglasses were at least covering the majority of his face, so in turn doing a major service to society...

Boat drinks to the naked eye!

Last Night's Fireworks at Brockwell Park...

For reasons I am completely at a loss to explain (and exceedingly annoyed about!), Blogger has removed its video function, so I am unable to present the footage I loving shot last night (i.e. pointed my shaky Sony at...). The fireworks were moved this year from Clapham Common to Brockwell Park, to celebrate the bicentenary of the Grade II listed Brockwell Hall, and the location change certainly seemed to have deterred the crowds, which was just dandy with me! No stampeding hordes descending on Clapham and rendering the entire postcode a no-go zone. Apparently the festivities kicked off at 4pm, but we rocked up about 10 seconds before they lit the fuse on the first firework at 8 o’clock and then promptly exited as soon as the last bombette had faded in the firmament – happy in the knowledge that my council tax has been well spent for another year.

Boat Drinks Brockwell!

The Great (Guinea) Escape...

I love the idea that this tufted twosome have hatched the great escape and are currently scurrying off into the sunset. Fur-clad versions of Thelma & Louise, who have said ‘so long’ to the hutch and are heading for far greener pastures. Or maybe even back to Guinea! And yes, I do know they don’t actually hail from Guinea, before any members of the British Cavy Council (where genuine G Pig fanciers flock - check it out, it exists!) start bombarding me. However I hadn’t realised that HRH Elizabeth mark 1 had been a proud owner of one...

Anyway, enough of ‘pets of the rich & famous’. I'm sure there are some grief-stricken youngsters who are desperately missing their rotund rodents, but I'm not sure I could bring myself to "capture" the errant cavia porcellus as instructed; partly because I am far too carried away with the notion that they are a latter day Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Pig.

But mostly because I am not exactly warming to the slightly dictatorial tone of this ‘Lost’ poster. Where are the pictures of weeping kids? Photos of the AWOL pair?? The heart-felt pleas for their safe return??? They don’t even bother mentioning how much they miss them!?! I’m starting to suspect that there is more of a touch Kommandant von Luger about the author of this sign. I mean for all I know, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot could have sprung themselves from some animal testing lab, secreted away in the backstreets of Balham. They’re not called guinea pigs for nothing!

Putting all that aside, the cynic in me fears that their owners may want check with the Fox family at number 43...

Boat drinks Bonnie & Cavy Clyde!

On Closer Inspection...

Even the most sporadic of visitors to this blog/diatribe will know that I am rather partial to a sign – preferably with a hefty dose of homespun wackiness!

Whilst walking around my ‘manor’ on Friday, I spotted a number of these beauties dotted around. My first impression was that they were as hopeless in their artistry as they were in their pursuit of their long-gone belongings.

But on a closer inspection, I saw that the ‘artist’ had in fact added a rather masterful detail to proceedings. Note the despondent face on the lost ID – genius!

Somehow I doubt his quest will result in much success, but one can only hope that whoever found/stole the wallet sees these and relents...

Boat drinks Picasso!

London from the back of a Boris...

I took a ride on a Boris today. Or to be more accurate, I spent my lunch hour gleefully pedalling through Regent's Park in unseasonably warm September sunshine. 'Glorious' really does not do the day (nor the journey) justice.

Although the enterprise was not without its tribulations...

This was only my second encounter with a Boris. The first really should have put me off for life.

For my original excursion, and not being a fully paid-up member of the scheme, I had to opt to use one of the street terminals reserved for us casual commitment-phobes (read 'wary type with visions of being crushed beneath a bendy bus'). The instructions were that bizarre combination of being both seemingly straightforward and bafflingly complex. Too simple, if there can be such a thing!

Anyway, with release code in hand and my 10 minute window of opportunity rapidly dwindling, I entered the 5 digit code and attempted to disengage my loaner from the docking point. No dice. The light would turn a tantalizing amber before plumping for an obstinate red, like a miniature HAL 9000 (yes, him again!). I tried numerous docks and still no green light. Then one eventually relented (it could probably pick-up on my increasing desperation by the manner in which I savagely jabbed in the code), but alas this was yet more torment as I couldn’t actually remove the whacking great beast (much like the bike's namesake!) from the ever unflinching dock. However I refused to be bested. After numerous attempts to disengage the vexing velos, plus one irate call to the service centre, emancipation was mine!

And the minute I was astride my chariot/clunky cycle, I forgot all about the woes and weeping. It was marvellous…

Just to explain for the uninitiated; ‘Boris’ is the widely accepted slang shorthand for the Barclays Cycle Hire scheme – pay-as-you-go bikes, available to hire at various docking stations around the city. Pick-up, pedal off, and then park-up at any dock that suits. This initiative was inaugurated by our (not so) beloved mayor, Boris Johnson, hence the moniker. Despite the demented antics of drivers in the city, Londoners have taken to the scheme with gusto; to date over 7.4million Boris's have been hired since launch in July 2010, although yours truly was a little late to join the party...

(grudging) Boat drinks Boris!

The Journal Years...

I have kept journals for as long as I can remember. You won’t be surprised to learn that this has been a rather haphazard and inconsistent affair, but I have always enjoyed venting my spleen and committing to paper whatever was getting my goat that day/week/month/year. Only recently I was perusing some of my earlier tirades and found the following. Hope you don’t mind my sharing one from the archives. And yes, I know it has absolutely bupkis to do with London...

I had to stop writing for a moment and watch Desperate Dan plunge his latest victims into the drink. To the uninitiated, Dan is the impressive brute who runs the water sports concession here on Alymiros Beach. He looks just like he’s walked off the pages of The Dandy, albeit with a tan that would make mahogany feel pale and insipid. Plus he wears the tiniest Speedos to have ever been manufactured!

Dan drags people around the Bay of Mirabello on bananas or ringo’s, taking a great deal of pleasure in semi-drowning his unsuspecting customers. But I think he gets the most joy from blowing his whistle sharply at anyone that steps out of line – be they a child that has tried to have a cheeky free go on the iceberg slide or more typically his long suffering apprentice, who regulars feels the wrath of Dan. Yesterday a wizened little Chinese gentleman appeared on the beaching touting something we couldn’t fathom until we spotted the poor man giving Dan’s enormous frame a massage. Would be like trying to work the knots out of the hulking hide of a rhino!!!

The Hotel has lived up to its two-star status. The shower is a farce – I’d probably feel cleaner if Sam dribbled on me! The owner’s wife and cronies gather early every morning to squawk energetically, seemingly right outside our bedroom door, so a lie-in is right out of the question. It does however have a rather nice balcony to retreat to at the end of a sun-baked day. It also presents us with a great view of the quayside for a prime bit of people watching. There’s a restaurant directly below us which provides a surprising amount of entertainment, as we watch the Maitre d’/chief hawker try to literally drag in business from the pavement. He has several methods of coercion, but some nights his powers of persuasion are more potent than others. Unsurprisingly, we have yet to eat there, but I’m quite tempted by the idea of merrily strolling into the place without him having to utter a word of enticement, just to see the look on his face!

We’ve spent the last two evenings watching Greece playing in the EuroBasket championships. I always love watching sport with the locals, especially when national pride is at stake, as is the case for Greece, as they are reigning champions. Funny supporters though. In the bar we were in last night, they only came running in from the terrace to watch the dying seconds of each quarter, shout a lot and then go back to their drinks outside. Not exactly what one might call a dedicated following...

My Summer Hiatus...

...is at an end. Or should that be my hibernation?!? The ‘summer’ of 2011 has been officially adjudged the coldest for twenty years! It has been truly grim – even by Great Britain’s not so great standards. In fact for the second year running, the best weather of the year took place in April/May, so perhaps we must all collectively re-set our internal calendars and celebrate the sunny months of spring instead. Except I know in truth this is impossible, as I get as giddy as the next girl when I see the approach of July and August. The promise of some lingering warmth, lighter nights and brighter mornings is all that gets me through the seemingly endless grey days of a UK winter. But what do you do when that promise is broken? When it feels/looks like November and you even contemplate turning the central heating on (although I opted to put on an additional jumper instead)...

Luckily I managed to disappear to the insanely balmy heat of South Carolina for a couple of weeks in early August, which just happened to coincide with London being ransacked...

Look what happens when I leave town for a couple of days!?!

In part I felt very thankful to be absent from the city whilst the moronic mob was rampaging. However it is seriously disconcerting to be so far from home during calamitous times. It’s impossible to gauge what the actual situation ‘on the ground’ is; particularly when your primary source of information is that home of hideous hyperbole – Fox News. They even gleefully showed CCTV footage of Clapham and Brixton being ripped asunder, just for the viewing displeasure of yours truly (that Homeland Security sure is a blabbermouth!).

So alas I can offer no real insight into those nights of nuttiness. Nor can I bring you an eye witness account of the sacking of South London, as I was unashamedly AWOL. The irony does tickle me somewhat...

Personally, I am blaming it all on the weather!

Boat Drinks Brixton Clean Up