Water, Water ....

At the weekend we went to Little Venice, a canal "roundabout" near Paddington. It's a nice, rather picturesque, spot where you can watch canal-boats manoeuvre around an island where 3 canals converge. Compared to road junctions, all such manoeuvring takes place at a sedate pace and water slap-slaps against the canalsides.

The building development includes several statues (a family group, 2 more-than-lifesize men approaching each other and some others) and a sunken grassy arena with the usual array of a Pret and a Sainsbury Local. Further along the riverside are the usual food outlets, catering to office workers during the week and visitors at weekends. They may serve any locals too, but the Sainsbury was closed On Saturday which suggested a weekday trade only.

You can do canal trips to the Zoo and Camden Lock or have lunch in a floating cafe (or the usual cafe/food outlets along the canalside). The ploughmans with the herby oil drizzled over tomatoes and lollo rosso was very pleasant to the tastebuds (less so to the pocket) though I take issue with them advertising cream teas on the board outside in spite of having no scones and being unable to actually serve cream teas. At least they did not advertise DevonSHIRE cream teas or I might have been roused to violence .... The boat moves, barely perceptibly, in response to passing canal traffic.

On the little islet are Canada geese, cormorants and the ubiquitous gulls, strangely quiet compared to the gulls I'm used to dive-bombing me. Ducks and swans scrounge titbits from children in pushchairs who've been wheeled there, stale bread in hand, for just that purpose. People with the urge to sketch prop themselves against the wall near the cafe-boat and - I assume - sketch. Canal boats (other than the tour boats) chug past every so often. A tall masted clinker-build small boat is moored there - that one won't be getting under any bridges!

There's pub nearby and another within short walking distance. Naturally we head for the further one, which might be called "charmingly compact", meaning the single ladies' lavatory opens directly onto the bar and if the door is opend just a little too forcefully will knock some poor drinker from his seat, or at least cause spillage of drink. The pubs are essential after the cafe's generous mug of tea ("with milk" seemingly being the only option since no-one cares to ask you how you wlike your tea).

Rumblings

Lying in bed, hoping it's just colic or wind. Alternately hot and cold. Restless. Please, I don't want to puke. I hate puking. If I just lie still the feeling will pass. The rumblings of intestinal discontent gather momentum. Forehead grows sweaty. Body clammy. Turn this way and that to ease the discomfort. It has to be just colic, I just need to sleep it off. Resignation sets in. A sense of "better out than in". A rush to the bathroom to assume the requisite position. Sweat breaks out on my brow as I stare into the pristine porcelain, the tranquil Harpic-scented lavatorial waters. Why couldn't it just have been colic?

Jasmine tea

Just a teaspoon of leaves in a four-cup teapot, it says. I pour on the boiling water and the fragrance of jasmine envelopes me immediately. It stands for a minute or two and I swirl the pot. The tea is disconcertingly straw coloured, like urine, but exquisitely flavoured. I consume the whole pot of tea, savouring the delicate floral taste.

The downside is extracting the huge, soggy, green tea leaves, too large to tip down the sink. It's a small price to pay for a taste of heaven.

...

put my helmet on and go for a walk.

Due to matters of national security, I cannot discuss what happened on that day, but suffice to say the discussions were very lengthy and forthright and satisfactory to all concerned.

I poured another cup of tea from the teapot. I sometimes felt like I was the last person alive who drank tea from a teapot. Not directly of course, I did use the intermediary of a mug, but most people only drink tea that has been a teapot in service stations, where the teapots are metal and prone to leakage and slightly upmarket cafes where they will look down on you if you ask for a refund.

I like Darjeeling.

...

found myself with a limp smile and stone in hand, embroiled in the belligerent mischief of children more extant and forward-going than I; but I always took the time, in the anonymous envelope between dusk and supper, to return and deliver a quiet and sincere apology to whatever window or flowerbed or neighbourhood cat took the feeble brunt of my eagerness to please. Nothing whatsoever on this order, and even the half-made plans of truancy and bikeshed cigarettes of later years, before I drifted away altogether, left me all nerves and cold sweat.

So all in all, not where I expected to find myself today. Sitting here, tea in hand, I'm still fighting an urge to go down there and make peace with the broken glass and spidery windscreens. I think the only thing really stopping me is the image of a bunch of young men and women in uniform bricking themselves at the sight of a cartoon fight-cloud bursting out of a bank and in their direction, and how if I saw one of them now I'd end up latched onto their legs cringing and babbling about how sorry I am, really, to have ever caused any little bit of trouble and how well they did after those first few seconds when, being honest, anyone would have been taken by surprise and given probably not the best show of themselves, and not to worry, and really they shouldn't have been put in that situation in the first place because who should even have to put up with this kind of rowdy nonsense?

But really, all right, I'm sure I could restrain myself, so to be maybe a smidge less glib for a moment: I think why I don't want to go back is because I have this idea in my head that what happened there wasn't in any appreciable way me, and nor was it anyone else insofar as I could gather, and I'm scared of turning up and finding out who it was. If that makes any sense at all, which at present I am inclined to

Never Been In A Riot

It was at the precise moment that clearing out the people in the bank failed to have any effect that I realised I'd never been in a riot. Never been in a fight.

Sure enough, I'd been in disturbances, crowds of people getting a bit carried away and rowdy, although I should mention at this point that I was rarely the one getting rowdy, but you'd already guessed that I'm sure, but an actual riot had always seemed out of reach.

I was just a little bit scared and, in the best possible way, rather excited. Or maybe it was the other way around. After all, it was hardly the time for concise and critical thought patterns to reign supreme.

For example, I wasn't writing this during the riot. That would be silly, and would be stretching the credibility of this narrative, which on the first page, would be a somewhat reckless endeavour. I wasn't even thinking this during the riot. These thoughts came later, as I sat down with a cup of tea with what felt like a million sugars in and pondered what had gone before.

Somebody had the bright away of smashing a window. Smashing one window is hard, but once you've smashed one, smashing as many others as you can see becomes somewhat easier. Like shouting. The only time I'd shouted before was when I stubbed my toe in the bath and that was only because I'd somehow managed to do it sideways and bruise it in such a way that walking in most kinds of shoes for a few days afterwards was nothing short of total agony. Here I was though, throwing things and shouting like I'd done this all of my life. Was I a natural rioter? In a word: no. In several more words: no, of course not, don't be silly etc. etc. I was a typical child, in the sense of being withdrawn, but occasional sociable and this often meant that I

Hangover Breakfast

1. Search for water.
2. Find water.
3. Stand under shower.
4. Step outside.
5. Find newsagent.
6. Purchase newspaper and soft drink.
7. Drink soft drink.
8. Read newspaper.
9. On the road to recovery already.