So Monday, when I had planes trains and automobiles to catch, I drove over to Finchley in a hurry to say hi to Z in her new house, and deposit a timely and relevant new house gift. Because of the stupid roadworks on the A41, my secret route is closed, so it takes ages to get there, and I have to go through Golders Green and Temple Fortune.
At Temple Fortune, my car overheats, in a BIG WAY, steam, the whole gantze megilla, and I have no choice but to stop at the side of the Finchley Road, which is currently a bus replacement route because of the Northern Line derailment. But with steam coming out of my car, and the headgasket about to blow (£1,000 for sure), I don't really have an option.
This is what I love about living in London: about 54 people make the effort to roll down their window, as they drive past, and yell "you stupid c**nt, what you f***king parking there for?" Like I'm a moron, and would park there on purpose if I had a choice. Jeez.
Eventually, the car cools down, and I loosen the water tank to let out the pressure. Fill up three litres of water (always in the boot, joy of my particular car), and decide I'm safer going home. I forgot to mention that I felt a little foolish, as I was carrying a 65cm pilates ball, which I was about to lend Z, and felt something like an extra in the Prisoner. Got a few (specific) odd looks on that count.
The joy of the fragile city.
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