The spirit of panic buying
It has been a very trying afternoon, being prodded, poked, and scanned by the medical community. My appointments were scattered at various addresses around Harley Street. I lived in Marylebone for several years, so visits there are always tinged with a slew of memories - some good, some not so bright.
I'm released from diagnostic purgatory at 5pm, and a little wound up I decide to walk and wend my way back to Cannon Street. I head down Marylebone Lane, taking a wander around Daunts the Bookshop. Here the books the store chooses to stock are picked entirely by their covers - and truthfully each is an artfully crafted design statement. Books for the fashion conscious, although who knows if they’re necessarily a good read?
On to St. Christopher’s Place, a little alley full of boutiques. Overhead the Christmas lights create an illuminated ceiling. Every shop front is awash with garish Christmas decorations temptingly arranged around whatever goods the store is selling. Look, say these displays, this could be the perfect present for Aunt Flo, full in the knowledge folks are beginning to get a little rattled by the proximity of Christmas and the necessity to buy something, anything, for everyone on the Christmas list.
Out onto Oxford Street, where half the pavement is dug up, and shoppers squeeze past. The Oxford Street lights are lit, three dimensional umbrellas and parcels delicately traced out in light, floating between the buildings. They are a vast improvement on the Harry Potter themed decorations from a few years ago. Witchcraft versus the most celebrated Christian festival? Deliciously ironic.
Crossing over I head down South Molton Street. This street will be lit with crossing arches, which are in place but not yet illuminated. Singers fill the air with religious carols, quite at odds with the secular interpretations of the festive season on display in the commercial establishments all around. There are people handing out what looks to be a newspaper. I'm about to reach out and take one when I hear 'Gift ideas, full of gift ideas.' Er, perhaps not. I'm not filled with the spirit of panic buying just yet. The shops are posh, minimalist, and staffed with precious types who ooze supercilious attitude, unless of course you waltz in all blinged up in this seasons high fashion, then suddenly they're fawning. There is no temptation to browse here.
At the bottom I turn left then right onto New Bond Street. A sign states the road will be closed next week for the turning on of the Christmas lights, which, it would appear, have not yet been erected. The upmarket boutiques I've passed on the preceding streets are quite ordinary compared with the top design houses and galleries that make their home here. My entire wardrobe probably costs less than the sole of a solitary Jimmy Choo shoe. The chip on my shoulder becomes heavier as I take in the shops dedicated to conspicuous consumption. I'm mollified a little when I notice that almost without exception all these stores are completely empty except for the staff, who look bored, and in some cases a little anxious.
I pass Opera Gallery, and am stopped in my tracks by a fabulous oil abstract, all waves and swirls of colour. I'm tempted to go in and ask 'How much is that daub in the window?' but I doubt they'd appreciate the humour, and I've no wish to sell my house to buy a painting. Next to it is a giant gorilla sculpted from coat hangers, its dangling family jewels keep grabbing my attention.
The road segues into Bond Street proper, famous for Tiffany and De Beers. Christmas decorations here are subtle, carefully chosen not to outshine the diamonds. Each store has a burly chap standing at the door, and you can take it for granted that these doors don't open unless they decide to let you in. Diamonds they would have you believe are a seriously expensive business. In reality, apart from a few specific industrial applications, diamonds are entirely useless. Their only value stems from the carefully constructed myth that you have to have a diamond ring to become engaged to be married, the bigger the better. The mythical pricing of diamonds can only be maintained as long as there is no second hand market for the rocks. After all - it is true what they say - diamonds are forever. They don't rot, degrade, or go off, so the De Beers of the world can only stay in business if there is a demand for newly mined diamonds. Have you ever tried to sell a diamond?
Passing De Beers I find myself on Piccadilly, and crossing over I find myself gazing at the window displays of Fortnum and Mason. Here is truly a Christmas treat. Festive displays like those of yesteryear. No products for sale in these windows, just artistry. Each window contains a three dimensional model of a well known painting from the National Gallery. Landscapes, still lifes, street scenes. People stop and point. I hear a faint jingle jingle of Christmas past.
I wander down Princes Arcade, and turn onto Jermyn Street, the Savile Row of Shirtmakers. The worst of mercantile hell is behind me now, and as I turn onto Waterloo Place the streets become more formal. I soon reach The Mall. Looking right, I wonder whether the Queen is in Buckingham Palace, and how she feels about the forthcoming nuptials of her grandson, given past experiences. Frankly I couldn't give a monkeys, but no doubt the media will whip themselves into a frenzy in the mistaken belief we want to hear every last little detail.
I cross the Mall, and start down Horse Guards Road, turning left I cross the parade ground. As my footfalls disturb the gravel, the pungent odour of horse piss wafts up. Going through the arch onto Whitehall I eyeball the Horse Guard on sentry duty with some sympathy, having had to remain completely motionless myself for an extended period earlier in the day. I'm pleased to see him sway ever so slightly back and forth. Human after all.
Turning right onto Whitehall, I'm now in the heart of central government territory. A popular point on the tourist trail, but singularly un-touristy. There are no ice cream vans, or tourist stalls here. Police officers patrol in force, arms nonchalantly folded over their semi-automatic rifles. I'm careful to appear the casual by passer that I am. Don't take too much interest in the police patrols, or gaze around taking in the placement of the CCTV cameras. Just walk quietly, heck even think quietly. I'm sure the spooks at MI5 take an interest in anyone who lingers too long hereabouts. As I pass the end of Downing street, I see the spooks have their work cut out tonight. A queue of guests wait for admission to an event being held at No 10, all upstanding members of the Asian community, here for dinner with the PM. One man in military uniform has his jacket in his hands, as his friend helps him re-pin his medals so they line up perfectly.
Spotting the London Eye, I reorient myself, and crossing Whitehall I cut through Richmond Terrace to get to The Embankment. This section of the Thames is always a glorious sight at night. Now I'm in a somewhat less sensitive area, I'm tempted to touch my ear and whisper into my lapel "Sparrowhawk to Kestrel, target acquired, repeat, we have the mole in sight, over."
Having walked two miles, it is here that I decide to listen to my weary feet and catch a bus to cover the last two miles to Cannon Street. It must have been contagious all that paranoia floating on the air in the high security zone I'd just traversed. Gazing round the bus I notice it has 5 CCTV cameras. I realise it would be an easy task for some MI5 operative to correlate the CCTV image of me boarding with the oyster card I'd swiped, thus identifying me from the details registered in Transport for London's database. I was rather glad then that I'd kept my sparrowhawk fancies unvocalised. Who'd want to end up in some dingy windowless basement in Thames House, trying to explain the concept of a "joke" to a humourless spook?
I'm released from diagnostic purgatory at 5pm, and a little wound up I decide to walk and wend my way back to Cannon Street. I head down Marylebone Lane, taking a wander around Daunts the Bookshop. Here the books the store chooses to stock are picked entirely by their covers - and truthfully each is an artfully crafted design statement. Books for the fashion conscious, although who knows if they’re necessarily a good read?
On to St. Christopher’s Place, a little alley full of boutiques. Overhead the Christmas lights create an illuminated ceiling. Every shop front is awash with garish Christmas decorations temptingly arranged around whatever goods the store is selling. Look, say these displays, this could be the perfect present for Aunt Flo, full in the knowledge folks are beginning to get a little rattled by the proximity of Christmas and the necessity to buy something, anything, for everyone on the Christmas list.
Out onto Oxford Street, where half the pavement is dug up, and shoppers squeeze past. The Oxford Street lights are lit, three dimensional umbrellas and parcels delicately traced out in light, floating between the buildings. They are a vast improvement on the Harry Potter themed decorations from a few years ago. Witchcraft versus the most celebrated Christian festival? Deliciously ironic.
Crossing over I head down South Molton Street. This street will be lit with crossing arches, which are in place but not yet illuminated. Singers fill the air with religious carols, quite at odds with the secular interpretations of the festive season on display in the commercial establishments all around. There are people handing out what looks to be a newspaper. I'm about to reach out and take one when I hear 'Gift ideas, full of gift ideas.' Er, perhaps not. I'm not filled with the spirit of panic buying just yet. The shops are posh, minimalist, and staffed with precious types who ooze supercilious attitude, unless of course you waltz in all blinged up in this seasons high fashion, then suddenly they're fawning. There is no temptation to browse here.
At the bottom I turn left then right onto New Bond Street. A sign states the road will be closed next week for the turning on of the Christmas lights, which, it would appear, have not yet been erected. The upmarket boutiques I've passed on the preceding streets are quite ordinary compared with the top design houses and galleries that make their home here. My entire wardrobe probably costs less than the sole of a solitary Jimmy Choo shoe. The chip on my shoulder becomes heavier as I take in the shops dedicated to conspicuous consumption. I'm mollified a little when I notice that almost without exception all these stores are completely empty except for the staff, who look bored, and in some cases a little anxious.
I pass Opera Gallery, and am stopped in my tracks by a fabulous oil abstract, all waves and swirls of colour. I'm tempted to go in and ask 'How much is that daub in the window?' but I doubt they'd appreciate the humour, and I've no wish to sell my house to buy a painting. Next to it is a giant gorilla sculpted from coat hangers, its dangling family jewels keep grabbing my attention.
The road segues into Bond Street proper, famous for Tiffany and De Beers. Christmas decorations here are subtle, carefully chosen not to outshine the diamonds. Each store has a burly chap standing at the door, and you can take it for granted that these doors don't open unless they decide to let you in. Diamonds they would have you believe are a seriously expensive business. In reality, apart from a few specific industrial applications, diamonds are entirely useless. Their only value stems from the carefully constructed myth that you have to have a diamond ring to become engaged to be married, the bigger the better. The mythical pricing of diamonds can only be maintained as long as there is no second hand market for the rocks. After all - it is true what they say - diamonds are forever. They don't rot, degrade, or go off, so the De Beers of the world can only stay in business if there is a demand for newly mined diamonds. Have you ever tried to sell a diamond?
Passing De Beers I find myself on Piccadilly, and crossing over I find myself gazing at the window displays of Fortnum and Mason. Here is truly a Christmas treat. Festive displays like those of yesteryear. No products for sale in these windows, just artistry. Each window contains a three dimensional model of a well known painting from the National Gallery. Landscapes, still lifes, street scenes. People stop and point. I hear a faint jingle jingle of Christmas past.
I wander down Princes Arcade, and turn onto Jermyn Street, the Savile Row of Shirtmakers. The worst of mercantile hell is behind me now, and as I turn onto Waterloo Place the streets become more formal. I soon reach The Mall. Looking right, I wonder whether the Queen is in Buckingham Palace, and how she feels about the forthcoming nuptials of her grandson, given past experiences. Frankly I couldn't give a monkeys, but no doubt the media will whip themselves into a frenzy in the mistaken belief we want to hear every last little detail.
I cross the Mall, and start down Horse Guards Road, turning left I cross the parade ground. As my footfalls disturb the gravel, the pungent odour of horse piss wafts up. Going through the arch onto Whitehall I eyeball the Horse Guard on sentry duty with some sympathy, having had to remain completely motionless myself for an extended period earlier in the day. I'm pleased to see him sway ever so slightly back and forth. Human after all.
Turning right onto Whitehall, I'm now in the heart of central government territory. A popular point on the tourist trail, but singularly un-touristy. There are no ice cream vans, or tourist stalls here. Police officers patrol in force, arms nonchalantly folded over their semi-automatic rifles. I'm careful to appear the casual by passer that I am. Don't take too much interest in the police patrols, or gaze around taking in the placement of the CCTV cameras. Just walk quietly, heck even think quietly. I'm sure the spooks at MI5 take an interest in anyone who lingers too long hereabouts. As I pass the end of Downing street, I see the spooks have their work cut out tonight. A queue of guests wait for admission to an event being held at No 10, all upstanding members of the Asian community, here for dinner with the PM. One man in military uniform has his jacket in his hands, as his friend helps him re-pin his medals so they line up perfectly.
Spotting the London Eye, I reorient myself, and crossing Whitehall I cut through Richmond Terrace to get to The Embankment. This section of the Thames is always a glorious sight at night. Now I'm in a somewhat less sensitive area, I'm tempted to touch my ear and whisper into my lapel "Sparrowhawk to Kestrel, target acquired, repeat, we have the mole in sight, over."
Having walked two miles, it is here that I decide to listen to my weary feet and catch a bus to cover the last two miles to Cannon Street. It must have been contagious all that paranoia floating on the air in the high security zone I'd just traversed. Gazing round the bus I notice it has 5 CCTV cameras. I realise it would be an easy task for some MI5 operative to correlate the CCTV image of me boarding with the oyster card I'd swiped, thus identifying me from the details registered in Transport for London's database. I was rather glad then that I'd kept my sparrowhawk fancies unvocalised. Who'd want to end up in some dingy windowless basement in Thames House, trying to explain the concept of a "joke" to a humourless spook?
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