I’ve got a bit behind with these since I got back to work. I’ve been very busy looking at spreadsheets and imagining how much fun it must be to be dead.
Anyway, more dreary suburbia. I’m sure the people here are nice. They have hopes and dreams. Sometimes they know joy. All of the hot food in the hot food cabinet in Sainsbury’s had been purchased by midday.
I made do with a cold sausage roll, which I ate hastily on my journey through Winchmore Hill, apparently “the suburb that thinks its a village”. If you live in a boring suburb that thinks it is anything other than a boring suburb I encourage you to lock your doors then burn your home to the ground.
Grovelands Park has signs up that cannot emphasise enough how little they will do to accomodate you. They will not grit. You are not worth grit. Slip and fall. See if they care.
I now learn that the big house at one end of the park a) contains an octagonal dining room designed to make you feel like you are inside a bird cage and b) is The Priory what you have to go to if you are on the telly and put too much drugs up your bumhole.
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I reckon this might be a bit unsettling if you’re a recovering smack addict. But as far as I know I’m not.
On the other side of the park is Southgate, birthplace of your hero, Simon Mayo. It goes on.