London

There were a few books that I missed during my trip to London last week, and wished I'd packed; 'Lights Out for the Territory' by Iain Sinclair, Pepys 'Diary' and Ackroyd's 'Biography of London'. Sau and I had a wide-ranging pub crawl through central London on Weds, maybe an equivalent.

When travelling with D. (my pregnant friend and hostess) outside of rush hour she chose the Tube, but I preferred the bus to see local diversity and neighbourhoods. I became acquainted with the #73, including its lycanthrope night version, heading from Victoria thru' Oxford St, Kings X, Islington, Stoke Newington and Stamford Hill, the kingdom of the Lubavich.

I said something about London manners on public transport elsewhere on PoV. I'm obviously spoilt by the gemutliche attitudes and manners on Scottish public transport, and became quite discomforted by a disregard and ignorance of simple social courtesy.

D. looks like a woman half her age- 35 weeks gone and despite the heat without any swelling and no stretchmarks except a big plump babby in her belly. She eats healthily every day and has everything ready including her hand-knitted babysuits, blankets, jumpers, trousers, mittens, booties and hats. That babby is a lucky one- no mistake.

I washed some windows while visiting, but D's man had already painted the frontroom and slathered over the mould. D. wants, not unreasonably, to be transferred to a modernised flat with post-1930's wiring and plumbing, inbuilt heating, more than one power point in each room, a hotwater boiler that works in summer, no sewage seepage in her backgarden and no mould garden in half the house walls and doors. The Council surveyor was booked in to visit on Friday, and hopefully condemned the place.