Portobello Road

On my right is the row of colourful houses Hugh Grant strolled past in Notting Hill. I’m thinking I want the pink one with a purple door, while I perch on someone’s front stoop eating a cheese and onion pasty, watching the fruit sellers and the handbag hawkers at work, watching every single colour I could dream in front of me and the never ending crowd meander past in the most orderly English fashion.

Earlier I had popped my head out of St John’s Wood station in the middle of a posh residential neighborhood where Ferarris sit casually on the edge of the road like contented suburban minivans. We had a giant cup of tea in a cafe down the block where there wasn’t a soul about, feeling like we were anywhere but five minutes down the road from one of the biggest tourist draws in North London. So we went hunting for the holy grail of Beatles regalia; the zebra crossing on Abbey Road. Couldn’t be, we swore. But it was. The one right in front of the studios. The one smack in the middle of that road teaming with cars and busses and Japanese photophiles on walking tours. NeverSo I didn’t get to take my shoes off and walk across. I didn’t get to walk across at all. Apparently even John Lennon has to get the bobbies to stop the traffic for him, so what chance do I have? Bugger. But looking at all the writing all over the wall was cool. People have been from everywhere. I dare you to search for a Beatles lyric that hasn’t been written on there.

We had dinner at the Princess of Wales on the edge of Covent Garden. Johnny had toad in the hole on the biggest yorkshire pudding either of us have ever seen. My mother would die if she knew someone out there was making bigger ones than she does.

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