Flaneries

Baudelaire did it in Paris. Walter Benjamin got into Passagenwerk, too, in Paris mostly. I've got into Kennington, Lunnun town.

Couple of observations, just haphasardly...

In Kennington's magnificent supermarket, not far from the gasworks, frequented assiduously by the usual sandwich buyers (working in estate agents', judging by the cheap suits) and hypercaloric ethnic mums (where are the dads?), when looking for sardines for the sprog, I came across the proud Shitto brand of tinned fish. One wonders whether nomina sunt consequentia rerum...

In the National Gallery shop, when looking for postcards, came across a very lifelike Vincent Van Gogh doll, not for the under fives, according to the label, which boasted a detachable ear. I checked. The left ear, disturbingly lifelike, was on a velcro mounting. Was it his left ear he razored, I wonder?

Outside Downing Street, a couple of clearly very special, special, special advisers, bearing 'important papers', were unceremoniously turned away from the bigwigs' entrance and told to stand in the queue with the rest. They were mightily offended, but gave in in the end. The officer who performed this exquisitely satisfying ritual, which briefly restored my faith in democracy, was armed with an automatic pistol on the right hip, and what looked like a Taser on the left. Which would he have used in the event of trouble?