Thursday, 29th March 2001.
Mayfair, sweetie, darling. More posh bastards per square metre than any other part
of London (including High Street Kensington). As they say in New York, chichi.
And what am I doing there?
Well, apart from hatching a devious plot to embezzle rich widows to the tune of millions
of pounds sterling, I'm working as a PA/secretary at an upmarket property group.
When one exits the tube station at green Park one can smell the old money. Mmmmm,
musty. (Play Musty for me.) (Ah, Play Musty for one!)
At lunch I wandered about trying to find somewhere
remotely affordable to buy lunch. I passed a pub with a sign on the door that read:
"No soiled work clothes". Why don't they just put up a sign saying "No Riff-Raff"?
Today staff on the Underground went on strike. Apparently they want more natural
light in the workplace. So London's commuters were thrown into disarray (and some into
dat array). Some tried to take the bus (although there are more than one) but the buses
were packed. Police had to be called to quell angry groups of people at crowded bus stops
all over the city. Police responded by making cups of tea and giving everyone BIIIIG
As for little me, I took the opportunity to walk to work on a glorious morning. (And
walk home in the pouring rain.) Never have I seen so many people out on the streets of
London. Except for that protest march when it looked like the Spice Girls were going to