'You are so British, you see that and you sit down! In Rome if they saw such a thing on the Metro they would be "ooh look at that! Have you seen that? Come and look at this"'.
So came the response from an Italian colleague of mine, as we had a coffee in Carluccio's in Hampstead, as I told her about our trip on the Overground from Wapping to Hampstead Heath.
Apparently, the Roman and London attitudes differ on matters of the surreal, though once you live in London long enough, the surreal becomes commonplace. My understated response reminded me of a quote from the Sherlock Homes story, The Red-Headed League:
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify.”
(As an aside The Jeremy Brett TV adaptation of the Red-Headed League should be commended for an appearance by Richard 'I can't believe it' Wilson with a fine head of ginger hair)
I'm often amazed by outfits I see people wearing in London - the trend for rolled up skinny jeans, no socks with shoes and a set of waxed moustaches that would make Poirot envious is a case in point. British people are meant to be good with irony, or so we tell ourselves when criticising American comedy (which is presumably why we ended up with Miranda). I think that some element of the hipster outfit is meant to be ironic but I'm not quite sure which bit. Amazed in that I don't know at what point you decide to become a hipster, or how it happens. I know that it's too late for me, for one thing, I don't have calf muscles that would fit in a Pringles can, or more importantly in skinny jeans. To be quite frank a lot of my jeans could be described as tight fitting, but not over the entire length of my leg. For many men, skinny jeans (or if people are honest, basically jeggings, the route of pure evile) are an appropriate fashion choice, a link to their spiritual icon, Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, whereas for me, it would be less Errol and more error.
So, when I boarded the Overground and was faced down by a heron in a glass case I was somewhat taken aback. The Wapping Wildlife patrol often see 'Mr Burns' around the area, but I don't think they've ever seen him on the Overground. However, my surprise quickly subverted itself physically into an eye-roll. The heron's escorts were of the hipster persuasion.
By the time I was plucking up the courage to ask them about the provenance of the heron (it was already on the train before it got to Wapping), they departed at Dalston carrying it, and their secret with them. Should anyone ever want to write an amusing Brit Flick, they could do worse than writing the story of the underground railway that transported taxidermied animals under the Thames.
Yet, the commonplace part of my day, meeting up with a friend and her husband and baby to have a picnic, was particularly enjoyable. A brief stroll through part of Hampstead Heath (which for some reason I had not visited previously), and a pleasant repast, something that is so common for so many, but not puzzling to understand why it was a nice relaxed way to spend my weekend.
