It’s been this kind of weather in Londra.
Amazingly, no rain. Also none of that misty greyness hovering just above one’s head like a levitating fascinator.
As this is like a second home for the Trivialista-Seriousimos, we don’t often do the touristy bits. But while Seriousimo rested, we popped by Buckinghome Palazzo to join the throngs from Ye Olde Europa who might soon not be quite so welcome here post-Brexit. Everyone with form knows Elizabeth Regina’s at Sandringham at Chrissy, rather than here. But still they wonder about it, aloud, in a rainbow collection of languages.
Have my old Bane of Bris buddy Shallot and her famiglia coming for lunch, so popped into La Fromagerie to fondle some formaggios. Decided against the Umbrian white truffles, for now. That’s about three Célines per kilo.
Divine wrapping. Love the pride. Oh gods – ‘pride’ – that’s made me think of dear departed Georgios Michaelos. Bugger, I might cry again.
La wandered down Pimlico Road, early. Spotted a Banksy. Had a coffee at Daylesford. That place is such a wanky triumph of packaging over content. Love that a family that made its money from heavy machinery is now all preachy about crunchy-granola-save-the-earth-organic-or-die practices. *Spot the grumpy jetlagged Antipodean*. And their coffee was bitter.
Visited my old haunt, the site of my first job in Londra in 1994. (That’s if you don’t count my couple of months with @Blackmorelife writing ad copy for ‘seccie’ jobs. “Pop the corks – we have champagne opportunities for you!” was a high point of our oeuvre.) The old Grand Met (now Diageo) HQ in St James’s Square. This was where La worked for one of Prince Charles’s charities, and got to meet that great farmer with the sausage-like fingers and crazy blue eyes a few times.
What a welcome to Londra that was. More than 20 years on, the pull still pulls. Gods how I love it here.
Thank you for the vicarious holiday, lovin’ it.