To be more precise I actually pay Carrie a
visit, and to be honest when she lived in Clapham Common I said the same thing
about there too. So in actual fact I think South London is my home from home
and I’m harbouring not-so-secret desires about moving there.
But enough of that - The move is some way in the distance yet, on
account of having an incurable shopping addiction and a limited resource of
pennies.
Anyway, I drove home at the speed of light,
hastily threw an assortment of clothes in a wheelie bag (previous trips have
taught me that excess walking makes a shoulder bag uncomfortable and impractical).
I prayed that there was enough variation to make an outfit or two to get me
through the weekend’s frivolities.
Like my day, the journey up was uneventful.
However I should like to ask for some clarification the etiquette regarding
asking other travellers to turn down their music in a carriage not marked ‘quiet
zone’. I know I have covered this in previous entries, but it still remains a
little undecided. Should I have turned to the ignorant man behind me and asked
him to turn down his mp3 player of choice? If I wanted to listen the beautiful melodies
of garage, R’n’B and hip hop like he did then I would have brought my own. But
alas, I did not and nor did I want to listen to the ‘tss tss tss tss...’ for
the journey.
I didn’t turn around and say anything. And
neither did anyone else. But when the refreshment trolley came through the
carriage and offered him drinks and snacks, he didn’t have any money. I almost
offered to purchase him an overpriced caffeine fuelled beverage in exchange for
silence. Unfortunately he found some loose change before I had the chance to
turn around in my seat.
I arrived in Balham quite content and warm,
for Friday was a balmy night in London, and waited at crossroads outside the
station for Carrie. She was in Sloane Square for leaving drinks and arrived a
little merry, I was keen to join her in this state. We dumped my bag at Chez
Carrie – a top floor maisonette shared with three or four of the other sex (I
can’t confirm numbers since I have never seen them all in the same room) and
another female companion, and made our way out in to the night.
Destination? Balham Bowls Club.
Yes my friends, I too wondered what this
venue would have in store, since I (like
you) associate Bowls with retired people and green lawns – never to be confused
with bowels, which could lead to all manner of bizarre conversations with the
elderly.
But we walked in to a packed array of
quirky rooms, each decorated with the flair of yester-year. A very homely and
welcoming pub (which serves fantastic looking food). Carrie and I were unable
to locate a couple of chairs inside so decided, that whilst it was warm and not
raining, we would move our beverages (a bottle of house red – don’t mind if I
do) outside. We propped ourselves up against the wall and were the only people
without a cigarette. Having never wanted to light up in my life, I was
overwhelmed by a brief and fleeting desire to stand with a lit cigarette in one
hand and wine glass elegantly poised in the other. Thankfully it passed before
I could act upon it; it seemed that the smoke was doing enough to make me feel
like one of the cool kids.
The only downside to moving to London is
that I will have to practise ‘freezing’ my face when it comes to paying at the
bar. After the wine disappeared (and we had moved inside, the temperature
dropped quite quickly) we opted for another favourite of mine, the good old gin
and tonic. I’d love to say that I can tell the difference between our array of
widely available gins, but I would of course be lying. So I won’t.
I stood at the emptying bar and made my
request, “Double?” the young lady serving me asked. “Oh why not,” I thought to
myself, “Yes please, with a slice of lime too.” She dutifully obliged and told
me how much it was. It took every fibre of my being to stop my chin from
hitting the bar top and creating a scene. I know that by London prices it was very
reasonable, but when you come from the suburbs on the south coast, it’s a
shock.
I paid, left, and returned to Carrie. Now a
fully integrated Londoner (she knows the tubes and bus routes without checking
a map), she shrugged and sipped her gin.
It got late and Carrie suggested locating a
food serving establishment. Red wine and gin does not form the base of a nutritious
diet so we found a kebab shop. It was run by some lovely Greek men, who were
extraordinarily busy and dealing with a large number of hungry drunk people. We
joined a growing queue. Next to us were two Irishmen who had a hard time believing
that Carrie’s transatlantic tones were Bermudian. It was one of many stages in
life where Carrie has had to convince strangers of her childhood home. Soon
they got bored debating with her and stepped outside to eat their now-cold
kebab in a polystyrene box.
I can’t recommend it, purely for the fact
that I don’t remember what it was called and I probably would only suggest
going when inebriated because let’s face it, your tastebuds don’t care what
they’ve got. But it was on the Balham High Road, opposite Waitrose (that’s how
you know Balham is posh!) and it makes crackin’ chips. I opted for a little
salad and garlic sauce with mine, just to get in some of the government backed
5-a-day.
We clambered into bed a little after three
am. Fed, drunk and happy, we vowed to get up early to be at Portobello Road
market.
My weekend of London adventures were only
just beginning.
