The Taxi Driver

They say that champagne doesn't give you a hangover. I do not know if this is true or not, but I can state categorically it doesn't apply to prosecco.  Oh dear.

Before the sesh got beyond a joke, three of us bundled into a cab. We were still lucid then, and I was just on the end of a sentence praising the beauties of Botswana,so presumably our driver guessed we were friendly types. He was old and from Gambia and was all smiles and agreeable discussion. One small part of the conversation remained with me:

'I remember the [Boot forgets the words, but it meant GB representatives] coming to our village. They went to all the villages. And they said, 'Will you come and protect and defend the Queen? And of course, all the young men said, Yes!' The old man laughed, a nice laugh, and shook his head, 'And now they are telling us all to go home.'

And that,right there, is the signature of ignobility and a very selective group memory indeed; the girl whose relations made war in 1914, who herself made sieg-heil gestures approved by her mother and whoever is holding the video recorder (presumably our king) gets adored and given huge tracts of land and money as well as protection from prosecution under the law all the days of her life. The people who volunteered to help in those wars - having originally had their resources stolen by the very people asking for help -  get to be used, and to one day hear, for themselves and their grandchildren, the demand that they 'go home.'

Straight through the Looking Glass.

Small pretty things

Keeping up with life's pleasures as well as its ponderables lest I turn into Steppenwolf, the last couple of days have been a lot of fun.

Though a terrible shopper, there's enjoyment to be found in umbrella-flooded Oxford Street, with everyone crowding into the foyer of Selfridges, then being lured through to sample ridiculous things, perfumes and cosmetics, expresso machines and hand printed cushions. My weakness is for smellies; this year oud is absolutely everywhere, so popular  I'm surprised we aren't facing oud-flavoured breakfast cereals. Some versions are sheer and elegant, some take no prisoners. Black Afgano's great but pretty terrifying. It's like an olfactory version of the dance for Agamemnon in Time Bandits with added coffee and cannabis. Mugler have  brought out their new version of Angel, a scent ruined for me by its ascendency among the demi-porn stars back at the studio. The new version, 'Muse,' is redolent with hazelnut extract,seduction for the squirrel in your soul. I love hazelnuts, not so sure if I want to smell of them.

I found myself in front of the Tom Ford counter. Beside me stood a young hipster in a well thought combination of tweed and spectacles. Together we stood in front of those little tester pots, and sniffed at everything,swapping positions half way through. He was all about flowery scents. I found myself drawn to a gorgeous tobacco/vanilla combo, not sexy or alluring per se, but  lovely for Autumn. Scent is a magical thing.  I wonder why cigarettes smell so ghastly while cigar smoke can be rather delicious?  I tried a little of the tobacco leaf/vanilla thing and went out into the rain, smelling like nicely kept books and warm chocolate.  Looking back, I saw  the hipster spraying himself with a patchouli/ rose perfume,lifting his wrist to his nose very delicately.