Friday started off with the usual interview complete with fixed smile and artificial confidence oozing out of every pore. Afterwards, I was sent by the matriarch to buy something for her friend's newly born grandson. Apparently, the ONLY place in London that sells baby-wear is Harrods and so that's where I went like the obedient Princess that I am.
Needless to say, I have never in my life shopped for a veritable foetus and not only was the baby department unfamiliar territory, but I also felt like I was behind enemy lines. I walked in wearing my suit with my heels clopping loudly on the floor and felt dozens of judgemental eyes upon me at once. "Who is this strange brunette who has invaded our paradise of the bleach blonde Knightsbridge mother, with her Maclaren baby stroller, her comfortable shoes and her three children?".
Slighly a-fluster I picked up the first romper suit I saw in blue and acted as though I knew what I was doing. Whoever knew that Dior designer duds for new-borns would set you back a hundred quid?! "WHAT?", thought I. I immediately fell upon the camp shop assistant and said with a slightly manic look in my eye, "Here's the deal. I need something blue, something small, and something cheap." He looked at me as though I were the scum off the bottom of his shoe. What I ended up with was a little hat and matching gloves that together are about the same surface area of the palm of my hand, for a cool 50 quid. Remind me not to have children until I have my bank manager's lips stuck to my arse.
Anyway, a little bit shaken, I then left to spend the night in Hackney with Poochie for the usual board game bonanza. I lost at EVERYTHING and I blame it entirely on the baby-shopping episode, of course ;-)
On the way home on the bus, I was sitting there minding my own business and reading an old fashion magazine when two girls came to sit next to me. I don't wish to bore you with the details of there inane conversation, but please trust me when I say they didn't have a brain cell between them. (E.g. Upon overhearing someone called Duncan on the phone across the isle, they started screeching and laughing at how stupid his name was. "Did e jussay is name wa Duncan? Izi fakin joukin?! Who da ell is called Duncan? Ahahhahah".
Suddenly though, Stupid no. 1 said to Stupid no.2 "Oi. Didja see tha'? That boy ju'fell off 'is seat. I fink 'es dead!"
S2: "Shu' UP 'es dead, you wankah! AHAHAHAH! Look- 'es black. Probly drugs innit?"
S1: "Ahahahh - you know wha'? I really fink 'es dead. Betcha anyfink. Wanna bet on it?"
S2: "All right - I bet ya a quid 'e aint dead"
At this point I looked up to see indeed, a young black man, probably a teenager, lying in a heap on the floor of the bus with people trying to wake him and feel a pulse. The bus driver then announced that he wouldn't make any stops until the Westminister hospital and he asked for help from some men to carry the man in. Before we arrived at the hospital though, it seemed pretty certain that he had in fact, dropped down dead on the bus.
The funny thing was that I don't know what upset me more. The fact that I had just witnessed a young man lose his life, or the fact that Stupid 1 screeched in triumph when she won her money.
