I woke up naturally this morning at 7am, looked out at the sunshine streaming in the window and decided to go back to sleep. Then my alarm rudely interrupted my slumber at 9am, and I rolled out of bed begrudgingly. Washed my face. Threw on some clothes. Headed out the door.
The 37 bus bound for Brixton came trundling up to the stop just as I got there, which was fortuitous. I put on some classical music and slowly woke up, staring at Southwest London passing by outside the window.
I alighted at Clapham Common 20 minutes early – such is my fate when London buses actually run on time – and soon realised I’d terribly misjudged the weather. It was fucking cold. And windy. And cloudy. I couldn’t even go into The Black Lab Coffee House, because it wasn’t open yet.
I stood in a sliver of sunshine on the pavement. When it disappeared, I jogged in place for a while, inviting curious stares from passersby.
10am approached and Lizzie arrived. We entered our intended destination: Portishead’s Dummy was playing in the background; I ordered a flat white and walnut-and-raisin toast; all was well with the world. We gluttonously ordered an enormous slice of carrot cake; I ordered an americano; the world was still well.
What does one do after spending a morning in Clapham Common? She goes to Tooting Broadway. She goes to Tooting Broadway and gets an £18 pedicure.
Lizzie and I mooched about the shops in Tooting some more. I bought a dress (as I’m wont to do). We ate some delicious Indian street food for the extravagant expense of £1.95. Total. Seriously, people. If you’re looking for cheap-as-chips pedicures and Indian food (and who isn’t?), Tooting is calling.
I came home. I sat around. I had some tea.
I got bored, so I started taking pictures.
I was still bored. So I made Red take a walk with me along the river.
We saw some rich people looking bored in their helicopter land at the Battersea heliport.
I took some more pictures.
Then we went to the pub.