With what fondness do I look back to August, the best month by a distance for your city dweller. The streets, or more accurately, the roads have emptied and unless you choose to spend the day outside Buckingham Palce or Madame Tussards (Spot the Freudian connection) you need never see a tourist or almost anyone else.
Added to which delights my son and heirs decamped to Nice and Barcelona respectively so I no longer had to decant the gin into fabric softener bottles and the fridge stayed fully stocked for days on end.
And then there was the Olympics. Now I am not normally a fan of sporting activities and certainly not if it involves wearing Lycra but a friend came over one night and whilst working our way through a bottle of Mothers Ruin (Incidentslly in a record beating time) we actually got quite excited about the cycling. By the time we ran out of tonic there was even wild talk of getting the four ladies from the pub quiz team to train for Tokyo.
Obviously this plan was ditched next morning faster than the bottle into the neighbour’s recycling bin and in a spirit of embracing reality I decided the time had come to sell my own bicycle – one lady owner,never raced or rallied, the bike anyway, and if I am brutally honest, only ridden twice.
Unfortunately the buyer lived somewhere called Southend and thinking logically that London boasts a West and an East End, and I imagined it must therefore be one of those places south of the river that one has never visited. Obviously. So very wrong. It turns out to be – dramatic pause – in Essex.
I decided that nothing else would do but to hire a white van,the better to blend in with the natives. I also took Useless the Younger with me as he has a tattoo on his arm which he dangled out of the window to lend us a little street cred. Fashion followers will note that I was sporting site specific white sling back stilettos and a spray tan. Add to the mix a pair of furry dice and a folded copy of the Daily Express on the dashboard and we were ready for anything.
Regular reader(s) will know that I have driven a great many cars over the last 30 years but a White Van turns out to be The Best Thing Ever. Traffic just parts before you like the Red Sea. So when Mr Bolt was looking for inspiration in preparation for his attempt for three more gold medals he merely looked East and feasted his eyes on the vision of Lady K in her white chariot outrunning the field by miles.
I note that since my piece on Canvey a Island the residents of Stamford Hill have decided to decamp there en masse. Perhaps I can work the same magic on Sarfend. Perhaps Usain will retire there.