Back in the day, while I was working at Herbert Smith, before, yknow, I Dreamed A Dream, I lived at #27 Belsize Park Gardens. Top floor flat. Ron on the ground floor would decorate the lobby with pictures of Palestinian children, there were a couple of very old gay fellows on the first floor, an Iranian Jewish lady was subletting on the second floor, and Jerome Flynn was on the third floor, I was told, but I never saw him. I didnt really enjoy Belsize Park. Too built-up, too urban. Not that I spent much time there. I was in the office most of the time. The day I knew I would quit my job, I worked until about 5am on the Monday, similar on the Tuesday, on the Wednesday night I didnt go home but worked through into Thursday, and I think that on Thursday night maybe I slacked off at something like 3am. On the Friday, we completed the deal at about 5pm, and then I got onto the tube at Liverpool Street. I kept on falling asleep standing up and falling on people, and I guess that after it happened two or three times, someone offered me their seat. I fell asleep sitting down, until I woke up with blood pouring out of my nose. And thats when I decided to change course and dream a dream. Anyway, while I was living in Belsize Park, the other side of the tracks from Gwyneth Paltrow - right or wrong is another question - the subject came up of leaseholder enfranchisement. A tenants meeting was scheduled and I was looking forward to a harmonious and pleasant discussion about collective purchase of the property freehold. That was going to be fun. The meeting took place on the first floor. Things took a certain turn when Rons good lady came in with a big fat copy of Halsburys Statutes and banged it down onto the table. There was no escaping Halsburys Statutes in those days. I get something analogous to clammy hands just typing it. Anyway, it all went off very well. A harmonious and pleasant meeting was had by all. Apart from the Why dont you go back to Iran and get your head chopped off comment. Which, in all fairness, did circumscribe progress. I went back to Belsize Park a year or two or three ago now, and took a stroll along the wrong side of the tracks, down Parkhill Road. I had a weighty tome with me - not Halsburys Statutes, however - and ambled along, admiring the houses, getting my bearings. Because, you know, I left Belsize Park a long time ago. I reached the end of the road, my plan being to turn around and head back. Because time was proceeding apace, you see, and I had yet to throw my supper (nice chicken dinner) into the oven. At the end of the road, I saw this chap studying a map. Me, personally, I have very few medals from the World Gregarious Champships and the European Extrovert Games, but nevertheless I thought that I would ask him if he needed some help. He seemed ok. Turns out he was headed back up Parkhill Road himself. We had a nice chat as we walked back up the road. He told me that he was from Germany. It was some place something like seventy or a hundred or a hundred and fifty miles or kilometres or something from Munich. You get the gist. Not a suburb, but Munich was the nearest well-known point of reference. Anyway, I was gabbing away as we got about halfway up the road, and then I took a moment. Funny tast ein my mouth. Chap remained perfectly congenial and to my surprise didnt register any kind of disquiet in respect of momentary, turn. He just extended his hand heartily for a handshake, beamed, said Bye!, and headed back across the road a house or two to his destination. I had swept him along a few extra yards. My bad! His standup courtesy! Must dash. If its Friday, its chicken. My technique is simple and spicy. Check this out, though, if you desire the real deal:-
Posted on: Fri, 28 Mar 2014 16:01:01 +0000
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