The horrors that befall you when you move house will not be the subject of this blögge, you will no doubt be pleased to read, because a) everyone knows it's a pain, of course it's a pain, you have to put everything in boxes and then move the boxes and then move the boxes again and take the stuff all out again and what more is there to say on the matter and b) risk of post-traumatic flashbacks. You weren't there, man. You don't know. So instead of that, let me, in the manner of a myopic electrician, attempt to focus on the positive.
I'll just let that pun settle in for a moment there. Aaaaaah.
I have moved to a small hamlet within a big town; a tiny, beautiful gamete in the huge, shuddering ballsack that is London. A field of Earls! Imagine such a thing! Placed gingerly in the south-west, between the place where the Wombles womble and an STI-ridden piggy! And as I gyre and gimble (not womble) through the hallowed turf of this "Earlsfield" there have been many things which have tickled my pleasure centres and made me light up like a myopic electrician. BAM! Bulletpoints!
- The river. Or rather, the crossing of it, something I must do twice-daily now to and from work and which fills me with ineffable feelings of happiness and contentment. God alone knows why. I can't swim for I am an idiot, which mean the river could literally kill me for my idiocy. Plus, it is a lurking snake of dread winding through London, threatening at any time to rise up and wash us all to godforsaken Canvey and beyond. I'm currently about as scared of the Thames Barrier breaking and fetid estuarine water swamping us all as I am that I'm going to suddenly contract CJD from all the beef I ate in the eighties, which means either someone vaguely respectable said it would happen or I saw it on QI. It's about a 6 on the SwineFlu-o-Rama scale. But even so, every time my little chunty train goes choo-choo-choo over Grosvenor Bridge and I look out at the glistening river, my heat swells a little and I realise I properly love London. Till the inevitable day I look out and see a bloated corpse floating by, of course.
- Roll up, roll up, and enter the magical and munificent world of Earlsfield Library! You won't believe your eyes as you encounter the wond'rous array of modern technologies! GAWP! At the checking-out table that can identify and register a whole pile of books in an instant just by placing them on a little glass panel! GASP! At the... well, that's it, really. But that was enough to set my ass on fire.
- The Buffet Brazil restaurant, or as I refer to it, the Torment Of 1,000 Meaty Skewers. You order an unlimited barbecue, and settle at your seat, replete with salad and ricey side-dish goodness. And then the Torment begins. A man emerges from the kitchens with a skewer - well, a sword, really - laden with sausage, and puts a little segment on your plate, where it sits, sadly, looking alone and forlorn, until you wolf it down your gizzard. Just as you start to grumble at the meagre nature of the supposed unlimited meal, the man reappears, with another sword of flesh. Yum! More meat! And on it goes, the man reappearing at increasing intervals with ever-more bizarre offerings ("Chicken hearts. Mmmm!") until you realise you have eaten a phantasmagorical amount of meat, there is more piled on your plate and your chair is about to collapse. In fact, the place could be improved in two ways. First, an element of peril - if your plate gets too overburdened, and you are not transferring the meaty goodness into your colon at an efficient enough rate, a switch is triggered and you are flipped bodily through the roof and into the black London night. Second - when you finally finish your enormous repast, a scoreboard covered in animal symbols lights up to tell you exactly how much you've consumed. "Ding ding ding ding! Congratulations! Four cows, two sheep and three-eights of a cockerel!"
So there you have it. A few wonderful things about my wonderful new part of town. On a scale of one to ten, I'd give it one. I REALLY WOULD.