the fish abroad, part two: London

There are quite a lot of people in London. 

There are more people in London that there are in my entire continent.

They funnel themselves from one place to another via the London Underground. I sometimes ask directions to places. I say, is that a blue station, or a red one, and people look at me funny. 

For example, Victoria is blue. Central is red. There are lots of colours, pink, green yellow, and more, all laid out in a handy abstract diagram, so you dont really have any clue where you are going or actually how FAR.

The notion of how far one has to go when one climbs out of a tube station, and in what direction, is a persistent mystery to me. this is of great importance when ones feet have swollen to the size of airships. (Due to spending two days flying right after a week's skiing. Not ideal)

Everyone on the Underground reads these free newspapers that people give out at the entrances. I never take them, because I usually have my hands full and I hate the idea of throwing the paper away when I get off. But that doesnt stop me reading them, over peoples shoulders. Thats how I found out about The Magic Underpants.

The headlines screamed "Emergency supplies of Fat-Busting Knickers Rushed to John Lewis from Brazil"
How could I not read on?I leaned closer to the man holding the paper.
It seemed that there was such a demand for a kind of miracle underwear that actually burned the fat right off your big fat arse as you just WORE them and nothing else, that John Lewis had sold out, and had a new shipment flown in. I leaned even closer...the date was today!




The man shook his paper closed, and without quite looking at me, managed to convey that i had committed some form of social gaffe by leaning on him with my mouth open and reading his paper.   Some people!





Naturally, I had to have some of these magic knickers. Bugger going to the National Gallery, I wanted pants!

 Closing my eyes I concentrated: John Lewis=Oxford Street=YELLOW! 
I found my way to yellow, and emerged into a swollen river of people on Oxford Street. In the distance I saw the John Lewis sign, calling me, over the tide of heads.





You know how those Canadian Salmon have to jump upstream?

They have an easy task compared to walking along Oxford Street. I put my head down and ingored the howling of my feet as I forged a path through the tide. It rained on me suddenly. I bought an umbrella from Boots and felt very English.




It was a wonderful moment to arrive in John Lewis. I promptly made friends with two chaps in the mens hat department, who directed me to the magic pants section. I was worried I might miss out, so they walked me over and pointed. Such good service!





The shipment had arrived from Brazil, and the John Lewis staff had adopted a military style procedure to cope with the traffic. Two marvellous women were on hand to assess you for size and hand you a sample pair, which you then took to another woman waiting further down the human chain to whisk you into a specially set up area for trying. As I stood, finger to chin, pondering which size and colour, a Sloany woman rushed out of the dressing room in regal panic, demanding some other kinds to try. The saleswomen pacified her, and gave her what she wanted. I decided I didnt like the idea of struggling to squeeze myself into magic knickers on front of scary women, and besides, I had a plane to catch. To Italy. We made an educated guess, and I seized my prize, making my way to the sales counter.

Do you think they really work? I asked the lady behind the counter.
Oh yes, she said, it says so on the label!
Back on the tube, making my way to the airport, I read te packet. Apparently they operate by heating up your bottom with chrystals, after which the fat molecules are carried to the surface of your skin and whizzed away. Fabulous! A hot bottom, skinnier by the minute!


It was 32 degree Celsius in Venice when I arrived, and the wearing of my hot underpants almost made me pass out. I checked the mirror that night to see any difference...then read the label.
"Must be worn every day for 30 days."

 I decided I could not cope with a roasted bottom in that type of heat. I decided I would defer the wearing of my marvellous underpants until it was cooler.

The London Underground can be such a useful place, can it not?

Tottenham Court Mosaics by Edouardo Paolozzi, 1980's