>Honestly, I’ve been having way too much fun to properly sit down and become one with these grubby computers – I do love the Ukranians but unfortunately they don’t exactly practice mainteance in this shop.
On the weekend, Claudia and I were on the tube coming back from a shwanky area where some of her friends stay (and where I regurgitated half a packet of cherries in an awful hungover state in a pretty little garden that will sprout cherry trees in the near future, but this is another story entirely) and some poetry stuck up on the wall of the tube caught my eye. Claudia then proceeded to find a little booklet titled “London – Poems on the Underground” which she handed over to me yesterday. It’s full of both poignant, old poetry (William Blake) and new introspective, immigrant Londeners sharing thier experiances of life in the big city.
I thought I would share my favourite, titled “Celia Celia”
When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on
– Adrian Mitchell (1932 – 2008)
You thought it was going to be all deep and mushy, right? Nah. There were a couple cute ones about love and shit. Again, nah.
And encase you were wondering, High Holborn is a road in Central London which forms the northern boarder of Covent Garden. The road then becomes simply “Holborn” at a junction with Gray’s Inn Road (which incidently is a road that, the last time I was in London, I got lost on. This is not the type of road you want to get lost on. Trust me). You lazy bastards are never going to Wikipedia it, so I thought I’d take the liberty of doing it for y’all. God I sound like Britney Spears. Okay then. Off to Camden Town.
Oh and Inggs, I decided to start rolling some Golden Virginias. Mainly because ciggies are just way too expensive here and my carton is now depleted. And when Claudia and I talk about you, we affectionately refer to you as Frost. I will now make the sign of the cross to ensure my safety.