The Inner Voice
A new realisation- you know that inner voice that sounds out all the words you read in daily life?
Lately, mine has a French accent.
Especially with words like passage (puh-sahge), orange (or-hange) and message (meh-sahge).
Comment allez-vous, ma cherie? (Koh-month ah-lleh woo, mah sherry?)
“Bring your people along”
English desis wearing Paul Smith suits and toting the latest Blackberry Curves are a dime a dozen. They also universally seem to congregate around Leicester Square during evening and conduct loud conversations on their phones- swinging their hands around and looking at the sky. (Damn you, handsfree).
“Hey, Samantha, I am at the Dangling Conversation at Covent. Do you want to meet up for a drink or two?”
There must have been a reply of some sort because the guy replied after 10 seconds.
“Oh, it’s no problem. Bring your people along too.”
Dude, I am sorry for sniggering behind your back. I really am.
Some people will do anything for love…
Like leave their relatively-safe-job and come home during a recession. Just to feel all loved up.
Just to make it absolutely clear- I wouldn’t.
Hakuna Matata at the Lyceum
Then there are those perfect moments, when you see Timmon and Pumba singing their hearts out. Maybe someday that little lion cub will learn that the philosophy to live by is to just stop worrying.
And it’s not all that hard to remember that 14 years ago, you had cried over Mufasa’s death. This time, you are excited, even though you have to contort yourself just so that you can see the top of Sarabi’s head during the opening scene at Pride Rock.
Yes, I watched Lion King at the West End!
When the sole aim is to get lost…
you walk from Foley’s at Tottenham Court Road, with a slight digression at the British Museum and Malabar Junction to Oxford Street and from there to Charing Cross Road, Leicester Square and find yourself back at the British Museum. Then you walk towards the other end to magically find yourself at Covent Garden, back at Leicester, Picadilly and suddenly at the National Gallery.
You just found your way home!
I still don’t understand modern art. But I really liked the sticky toffee pudding at the Tate Modern!
Parking for Princesses only. All others will be Toad.
Sales lesson #1 for the extremely-expensive-China shopkeeper on Portobello road.
When confronted by two people- one, an Indian girl wearing summer clothes in Britain and two, a ditsy American blonde (and her clueless husband wandering in and out) here’s how you might be able to sell a few cups the next time.
It might not be a good idea to concentrate on the one who is giggling at a bone china cup, exclaiming she didn’t know those cups could cost upto 30 pounds, even if she does have a nasal American twang. She might not have been joking when she said, “I might have to mortgage my house to buy this saucer.”
Especially when the Indian hadn’t said anything when you informed her rather snippily about the price of a Wedgewood teacup. It’s her mother’s birthday after all. Mothers deserve eggshell thin dainty tea cups.
You’d run back to your favourite customers who were still giggling nervously in front of the cake dish.
Fast-forward one century
Our London office is on Jermyn Street near Picadilly Square, right behind the steeds of Helios. You really can’t miss it, if you know what you are looking for.
Apparently, a century ago, Jermyn Street was a bustling red light area.
Different century. Different services.
We accept cash.
Monkeys now have well arranged rooms
Sorry, dude. I just couldn’t resist it. Your books are now all stacked on your dresser. Happy reading!