On what would have been Adolf Hitler's 116th birthday, the front page news in most London papers is that the Vatican have appointed an ex-Panza driver and Hitler Youth member as the next pope. Nice. Sensitive. Timely. Won't do much to change the opinion of those who hold that the Catholic Church was always ambivalent, even complacent, about the activities of the Nazis. Can't wait to see the results of his first inter-faith conference.
Brentford is full of contrasts. On the bus to South Ealing I sat behind a lovely woman coming in from somewhere in Kew or Richmond, transporting her cello to somewhere in a road case, 6 feet tall, all masses of light-brown wispy ringlets, pointy shoes, stonewash blue jeans with ankle-high turn-ups, smiling shyly at everyone who had to go anywhere near her luggage...musical goddess stuff. Immediately afterwards, on the tube, all the way to Piccadilly, I got to sit across from a woman who must qualify as bovine; nothing whatever to do with her shape (angular), or her features (hard), but the extremely large cud she appeared to be chewing. Slowly. With purpose. With relish. All the way. What a joy it was to ride the Piccadilly line with the trees flying past, the Spring sun shining, no doubt joyful choruses of twittering birds in the passing trees, and the gentle, almost playful "ntch, ntch, ntch" of 40-something saliva clicking away steadily two yards away. For twenty minutes. I feel spoilt, I truly do.
Piccadilly Circus, where Thomas Cook are Travelex but they're not but they are but they could be but they will charge me a commission to cash their own cheques. At least they could point me to Marble Arch where the operation would be painless, for there could be found a Thomas Cook which was still a Thomas Cook, and not a Travelex which was Thomas Cook, but wasn't. Out of my way, though, because I was heading to Bethnal Green.
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