Lambeth
I risk my life each day when I travel through the London Borough of Lambeth on my journey to work. Brixton is genuinely one of the scariest places on earth (gasp).
To be completely honest, although I adore driving my gleaming luxurious Audi Q7 to the City of Westminster, and take great pleasure in the fact that I can afford to pay the congestion charge to reach my personal parking space (this super toll has substantially reduced the volume of traffic in my way), occasionally I become concerned about the environment (sigh)... Sometimes I actually catch the number 3 bus to work,as I did this morning (OHMYGOD).
I remained downstairs for the duration of the journey, surrounded by beer swigging Russians, dangerous dogs, harassed mothers wearing uncomfortable acrylic thongs and unsanctioned exuberant young children, leaping off the seats like fleas... I noticed a couple of Danish tourists (obviously campers from the frightful site at Crystal Palace) sporting great tufts of orange underarm hair, sprouting out above the arm holes of their flimsy cotton vest tops! I feared I might inhale my own vomit...
The bus stopped for a moment to allow passengers to alight outside a vile kebab shop on Brixton Road. There was a yellow tinged Metropolitan Police sign stuck to the inside of the window printed with the words "Safe Haven, if you feel threatened, come inside."
You do realise that this fast food establishment did not sell free range or organic fayre? Yet, I felt so traumatised that I actually perceived the vile establishment to be a comparative a place of safety!
Why would anyone who wears their underarm hair as a badge of honour choose to holiday in this civilised city? There is nothing for them here. Despite our binge drinking culture, potentially murderous pets, uncomfortable underwear and poorly disciplined progeny, everyone depilates appropriately. We are a civilised nation...
Would anyone care to join me for a small Doner while I wait for darling James to collect me?
