That will do. I’ve had enough of the Notting Hill Carnival. Yesterday was fun, hanging out on Golborne Road with cousin Ben, his gorgeous daughter Amazon-Rainforest and another twenty thousand of my closest friends. We ate goat curry with rice, had a little dance and blew our whistle. We watched some floats from my balcony. And that just about exhausts the entertainment menu of this international, multicultural extravaganza.
Now all there is to look forward to is another long day of drunken hooligans honking their horns, incomprehensible MCs shouting off about goodness knows what, tourists pissing in one’s courtyard and so many bodies thronging the streets that it becomes almost impossible to go anywhere that is more than fifty yards from one’s front door. Isn’t it about time they moved the whole thing to Chiswick?
So this morning I’m up early to get out of dodge before it all kicks off again. I pack my micro-wheelie suitcase and trundle off along Golborne Road, pausing to scoff down one final curried vegetable pattie before I vacate the area. I politely offer assistance to a gaggle of confused looking police officers, all dressed in ill-fitting trousers and clutching maps.
Then it’s off to East London to stay with my fabulous friend Rosa. The trip on the tube, followed by climbing three flights of stairs to Rosa’s warehouse pad has done me in. I crash out on the couch. When I awake it is to find that Rosa has whipped up a mouth-watering roast chicken lunch. I want to hug her. If you are lucky enough to have someone in your life that cooks for you on a regular basis, may I suggest that you take the trouble to chalk it up in the ‘blessings’ column on your life ledger. It’s a rare treat for me.
We settle in for an afternoon watching ‘Four Weddings’, a reality show where four women attend each other’s weddings and then slag one another off in the hope of winning a ‘five star luxury honeymoon’. Rosa turns to me and asks, “What would your ideal wedding be like?” We’re both in our late forties. I love her optimism.