Talk about Wackos

Talk about Wackos.

Guys, to be frank, today was pretty weird. We start off at Post Office where Julia fronts up to pay our council rates (UKP60per mth). She starts to line up behind a wino reeking of stale urine and the guy behind the counter was waving a card to ward off the smell and it all becomes too much for her. The guy serving counter 1 tells her to move down to counter 4. He makes an attempt to apologize by saying ‘this is what we have to put up with’ but the offer to move was a pointless offer. This welfare recipient had basically destroyed the place. The smell was beyond description. Julia was gagging and bravely stood her ground her nostrils flattened as thin as a rabbit flattened by a truck.

Then onto the 360 bus to south Kensington. In troops a Jamaican woman aged about thirty. I thought she was having an argument on a mobile, however after thirty seconds Julia informed me that the woman was having a two way argument with herself which was both interesting and a tad scary. Just as we came abreast of the Chelsea Pensioners Home this woman turns to the guy next to her (a teenager wearing headphones and listening to very loud rap music) and screamed at the top of her lungs “ Stop talking to me. You are too fat, (in fact he was a skinny white guy). Don’t touch me or I will call the Police”. Maybe the teenager didn’t hear her or had heard it all before, however he didn’t move a muscle. I have to tell you I was slightly relieved when this barking mad wacko exited left at the Sloane Square stop.

Onto the V&A (no dramas there) then onto a life changing lecture at the natural science museum entitled ‘Bat Winter Survival Strategies’. Julia made the comment that she thought I should be certified for attending this lecture. What does she know? If this Bat thing develops I’m the first one she will turn to when looking for help.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty mundane. Down to the Goya in Lupus Street for a cheeky Spanish Sav (check out their web site, they do great Tapas).

Then no sooner had we returned to the flat than the buzzer rang and

I opened the door to be confronted by a huge fat guy wearing a flaming red rosette who proceeded to thrust out his hand, tell me he was working to reelect Ken Livingstone (that’s as in Red Ken Livingstone) and then turned to his left and said “ Let me introduce you to London’s next mayor, Ken Livingstone.”

At this point I’m wondering what the bloody hell is Ken Livingstone doing hanging out on the seventh floor of a two thousand unit apartment building clogged with foreigners and Conservative voters at 7.30 on a Thursday evening in March.

No matter, Ken delicately extends a paw and asks me if he can count on my vote.

Filled with Dutch courage, courtesy of the Goya’s modestly priced Spanish Savs, I proceed to tell Ken that once he has squared away uncertainty over his dodgy personal tax issues, I will more than likely tick his box.

Ken doesn’t say a word, thrusts a pamphlet into my palm then storms off towards apartment 709 and beyond.

Time to tune into the Classical Music Channel and wind down. These drama filled days are all getting a little too much.