Crossing the Line

'If you wear Jean Muir properly, people don't look at the clothes, they look at the person and say, "What a marvellous woman"

Joanna Lumley

As most of you know I have enjoyed the gentrified beauty of East Dulwich for 8 ½ years now. Each day I am here I love it more and more. I still find myself turning a corner and coming across a new street, a tasty new restaurant, a wonderful shop or gallery, or simply a new angle or view of something I thought I already knew well. There is so much happening, it’s a wonderful, ‘alive’ place and even though the 3 wheelers can be a safety hazard, and the parking isn’t always straight forward as everyone now has not one but two nannies, I love it, and it makes me very happy. East Dulwich and I were one of those wonderful surprises. Our union was random and unplanned. It was a pin in a map courtship but even though we had not even glanced at one another before the wedding, we fell in love from the start.

But my gated dream butts the real world, and sometimes it is necessary to leave. Yesterday, on a most glorious, sunny and happy bank holiday, as Justin, for that is his wonderful Monika, and I were strolling in a bona dolly old eek stylee (must check Polari dictionary) down to Peckham Rye station, to jolly ourselves onwards in a Victoria direction, and then to South Kensington, (for cultcha of course) I reached out and gave his shoulder a short but firm affectionate squeeze. It wasn’t an overt display of an unbiblical lifestyle, and I don’t even think Mary Whitehouse would have noticed it let alone written to the head of Religious Broadcasting about it, but it was noticed.

We were walking down past beautiful Peckham Rye Park, when a car full of young men pulled up and parked. Peckham Rye Park was, as it always is at the weekend, awash with young men in shorts running up and down trying to put an inflated, some might say engorged sphere of leather between two uprights (try saying that after your second large cooking sherry). We had both acknowledged the grunt they made as they first drove past us, (I didn’t really think anything of it) but we carried on walking.

All of a sudden screams of ‘Batty Boy!’, (a lower caste dialect still used by some breeds of south London scum) came hurtling down the road. We ignored it, as is best, but it continued, coming again and again. A torrent of abuse. We were being baited to turn around and make a scene. We just walked on though, both completely wound up and bubbling with rage, but aware of what danger turning around would provide. Why should we have to experience this? why are they allowed to shout those things? What I wanted to do was take the fuckers out, and then see to it that all their offspring and relatives were sterilised so that this form of infected vermin could not proliferate further in society. But what we did was walk on and we got over it.

It is dear reader such matters which will surge the circulation of the Daily Mail amongst the liberal middle classes. In a straw poll conducted today, a range of otherwise mild mannered liberals were agreed on hanging for our abusers. Perhaps they will simply shoot each other out of existence, that would be the best for all and so much quicker.

So we finally arrived at the V&A. What a wonderful place, and why haven't I been there before? I can tell you I am certainly going back again. We had gone to see a very interesting exhibition on New York fashion designers which shone an interesting light for me on the evolution and renewal of fashion. Obviously I now have a personal insight into the Devil wears Prada world but I'm not able to say much as it is all very hush hush and only to be shared on a need to know basis, let's just say I'm going all out this season for the return of the bat wing sleeve, pearl thong and Jean Muir navy blue waistcoats, let's just leave it at that!

In other news, I start my leave next week, still not sure what I'm going to do exactly, but I think it will involve at least a 3 centre break. Confirmed destinations include Dulwich, Leamington Spa (Royal) and Norfolk - 'international crazed jet setter, get down!' I hear you say, and yes you are not wrong, I am he. Anyway if I do end up anywhere else exciting and remember to take a note pad, you'll be the first to hear.

All the best from the west and Toodles.

WHGIII xxx