Learned London from the upper
deck of a #27 bus that day, eyes
squeezed tight; cruising Portobello
Road crammed with cars and a feral
shopping throng loosely afoot on a
grey Saturday - with inches to spare,
eyes widening where the Somali driver
guided us, his hands speaking volubly,
daring vivid insults to careless drivers
who encroached his space. It was a
breathtaking ride through narrow
streets barely wide enough for two
lanes less a row of tendentiously
parked cars.
And in the race to Camden
Town to meet Tara McH I began
to understand Parisiennes – their
automobiles bear scars of honour
earned in le hors de combat, at
their random round-abouts and
the eternal joust for lanes, bumps
and bruises claimed in a rite of
passionate passage whilst here
the dour British avoid ‘le crash’
with adroitness just short of anal
– a sang froid less panache that
only the French would appreciate.
© 25 September 2007, I. D. Carswell
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