Daisy

For a start there are at least 5 Eastender style garages on my road, and the owners (all definitely of Mitchell stock) do great trades in Gucci Watches, YSL purses, murders of relatives and pimping). They are all my friends now and as such I have my pick of drivers and cars (vintage triumph motorcycle, bentley, ferrari) who I never take up on their offers – but they are there at least for possible lifts and murders. The joy of these guys whole lives (apart from my house mates legs) is the local caff, with its smeary windows and huge silver pots of tea. I once ventured inside (depsperate pre-work hangover moment) and all 40 of the men in overalls - many who I am sure never leave (why would you), all with cigarettes stopped eating their eggs and glared at me. I learnt quickly that I did not belong in this world, I am too blonde and too corporate on a weekday and certainly too female. Although they did not run me out of town the moment I entered their world (dazed and confused and rather acidic as I was) I know they wanted to. I’d still like to spend a morning there soon though, in Charlene style overalls with a B&H dripping out of my mouth. Maybe I will.

My road also has a taxi firm, who jut randomly make up prices according to how they feel and will pick you up from anywhere. You can wake them at 5 in the morning too and they all still smile and say ‘Islington? Oh I think that’s about £8 love – but can you man the A-Z, coz I haven’t got a clue how to get there’.

This morning the blackberries finally ripened behind my house (hundreds and hundreds of them). So when I come back from Liverpool on Monday I am going to climb over my balcony and go blackberry picking with my friends George, Julian and Dick.

D x x