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The invisible shroud of blah (which turns out is probably a better way to describe it than if I had thought of the correct word) continued its clammy embrace, but it didn’t matter too much as I was essentially having the day off today as we were having lunch with my niece and my brother-in-law (who have become great friends - might they one day marry and unite our two families even closer? It seems unlikely). We went to a pub in swanky Primrose Hill, nearby to where Paddington filmed and Alan Bennett lives and opposite a house where Frederick Engels once lived (a lovely house in an expensive area, right next door to the park - so much for communism). The row of artisan shops and posh cafes and ice cream parlours along with the lack of ethnic diversity made it look like the set of a Richard Curtis film (I imagine some DJs were orchestrating a comedic failed rape in one of the flats nearby). To be fair it was very nice there: quiet with a villagey feel, but right by the tube and were it not for the fact that all the people who lived there (apart from Alan Bennett and Paddington) seemed to be rude, self-obsessed, entitled pricks and the fact that a modest house big enough to accommodate my family would cost about three million quid, I would quite like to live there. Fucking Frederick Engels and Paddington Bear obviously had some good off-shore investments. Bloody immigrants, coming over here, taking our stupidly expensive houses. And yes I know that both Paddington and Engels are fictional characters. I am not stupid. When will Robbie Williams do a song about Paddington though?
I am sure if I lived there for a couple of months I would become a rude prick too and would fit right in.
Still a bit battered and lethargic I concentrated on keeping my daughter entertained and both my wife and I managed to resist the strong temptation of an afternoon beer or wine and so completed our first week without alcohol (I have to consider the possibility that my illness is down to going cold turkey).
After lunch we walked down to the park, played in more sands and on slides and swings and then walked to the top of Primrose Hill and looked down on the doomed city of London below.
The walk was probably not the best thing for me, but I love spending this time with my family and wonder why I would ever bother trying to work, whether fit or ill. Then I remember that I need to keep them alive and so have to earn some money. But man, the day’s I have wasted in my life sitting inside failing to work when I could have been watching a toddler gleefully throw itself head first down a slide or pushed her up a steep incline in a pram not knowing if my heart will burst from exertion or love (but knowing it will burst soon enough one way or the other).
We went to another pub, but I was feeling too shrouded in blah to be tempted to drink (I am so sober now that when I look at anything I see half the number of things that are actually there). We got Phoebe some toast and asked for some jam and they gave us some kind of Primrose Hill fruit compote. It was nice though. I wish I could be one of the horrendous people who live here.
Back to Shepherd’s Bush, trying to negotiate the tube and find the route with the least steps and the most lifts. It’s painfully difficult to get round this city with a baby (who is still small enough to carry), so imagine what it would be like if you were disabled. Some of you don’t have to of course. But it pains me to see how bad access is in this supposedly modern city. Even at Kings Cross where they have lifts it’s almost impossibly difficult to locate them all.
Ah well. Maybe after the Brexit/Trump apocalypse we can start again. Though we’ll be living underground by then so access won’t be such an issue.
