People in Kensington still travel. There are more travel agents than anything else in the High Street. Unlike Tottenham High Street, where the majority business is bookmakers. There is only one bookmaker in Kensington High Street. People like outdoorsy sports especially skiing and rock climbing. They use expensive bikes. And eat out. They still buy books. And they park on yellow lines during the day (I guess that happens in all High Streets).
Opposite my work a maid, (in a maids uniform - little blue stripy dress and a white apron, like Jennifer Lopez wore in Maid in New York) was outside the house sweeping. Maids dress a little like nurses. Blue uniforms, white short socks and white sensible shoes.
In the lift a terribly English man is talking to a terribly English woman (middle English - no accent as such, him: strawberry blond hair and beard, her: mousy brown ponytail). It ended up here, he pointed to his neck just below his ear, I never really understand the lip kissing thing. Its embarrassing enough with your own parents, she pipes in, but someone else's! I leave the lift. Thinking about discomfort of meeting people. I've overcome that a long time ago. Socially meeting women is a cheek kiss the first time and same for the elders of the Panther's (either sex), and later on that cheek kissing informality becomes lip kissing or very-close-to-mouth kissing. The Panther greets my father that way. Actually its nice. Its so much more welcoming than a handshake, that feels ever so standoffish now. Moving away from stiff upper lippish Englishness. Good riddance to it!
Monday, 19 September 2016
It was a late evening last night - selling stuff and food at a flea market, got home after a long clearing up session at 12.30. Today I am exhausted. Literally aching all over and tired. I found the closest thing to a greasy spoon that I think the neighbourhood will muster and I'm drinking a long strong cappuccino and waiting for eggs benedict. They are playing Pink Floyd. As the track Money begins I become aware of someone behind me tapping their foot heavily in time. A youngish man says flat white when the waitress asks and then says I'll be back in a couple of minutes I have to sit in the car. The waitress comes to the door and calls down the street large or small? The waitresses speak French. My eggs come. Perfect without giving instructions. A welcome pick-me-up. Flat white man pops back and sugars his coffee before hurrying out. The tune changes to Comfortably Numb. Cars go past.
I've just been reading about Amy Schumer, then a tragic tale about a tetraplegic woman who has the anxiety in extreme form when you feel you are missing out (my whole younger life was one long worry about that) because she is - not able to get up by herself and finally about a white collar man who bought himself a boiler suit. Panther bought a boiler suit and does love rocking it - yes it's practical but there are also the benefits of having it tied round your waist teamed with a vest or in extremely hot conditions a bare chest (I can hardly speak about it I am so overcome)... And then I'm misreading the advert in the cafe window (backwards because I'm inside and the paper faces outwards) fluff time staff wanted I read.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 1:45 pm
Thursday, 15 September 2016
It's hot. A crocodile of private school girls lines up to cross the street. They are wearing awfully old fashioned pale blue gingham summer uniform dresses with white piping and white round collars and straw boater hats. Marshalled by some strict looking teachers in high vis vests.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 9:05 am
A random stranger (woman) on the escalator today excused me and told me she absolutely loved my figure (me - I'm not usually that keen on it), she felt odd after and said she wasn't a lesbian or anything but felt she had to say. It made me feel good about myself and made me smile - which is a good thing.
Now I'm listening to Bentley Rythym Ace (of some time ago) which is further lifting my spirits.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 8:59 am
Friday, 9 September 2016
Dog walker dressed in black training outfit walks through Kensington Gardens with 4 dogs, all neatly walking to heel, quietly, without the hint of a tug.
Shortly after a largely muscled man jogs past, he draws attention because he has two mini parachutes holding wind behind him (I guess to increase the pull and improve the training).
3 older ladies sit in an extended golf cart (a sort-of golf cart limo) being driven around to look at the Palace. Their driver giving a guided tour on route.
The entrance to the palace is guarded by armed police. Signs saying photography is not allowed are all over the place - the next street over is full of embassies (Romanian, Russian, Israel, Nepal, Slovakian). It's quiet. Street is empty apart from a tanned man with a huge gold chain bracelet and a cigar being driven in a large black silent car.
And I return to the office politics.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 1:38 pm