Passing Waterstones in Picadilly last week, I thought I ought to pop in and make sure they had a copy of my book. They had two. They must have sold the rest of them. I imagine it was a big pile, and that they’d just sent in the order for some more. Anyway, my wife dutifully turned it cover out and put it on full display on one of the tables. Here’s a cheesey pic of me pointing at my book, just in case there’s any doubt about who wrote it.
After that, we went to Portobello Road market which was … well, it was a market. Not much excitement there. Just a mass of tourists shuffling along the road like the living dead, casting their eyes from side to side to look at the nick-nacks and trinkets. Occasionally they’d stop and have a sit down on someone’s doorstep to eat their sandwiches. If I lived there I’d be out with a bucket of water and telling them to ‘gerrorf moi laaand!’ £1.4m it costs for a two bedroom terrace, and then some bugger comes and sits on your front doorstep to smoke a fag. Actually, the house that was for sale was the same one that George Orwell used to live in. A bit of culture, then.