Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Wanted: Vintage sewing machines

I have come to develop a passionate hatred of car hooters. I'm sure it was invented with an honest and useful function in mind, like alerting someone that their jaywalking (while talking on their mobile phone) may result in their leg being caught under your wheel. Accidentally of course. The people who drive past our street however, seem to use their hooters as an outlet for all their passive aggressive rage, and woe betide anyone who does not instantaneously accelerate the split second the light turns green. I mean, god forbid these people aren't able to get their 30 mile per hour fix as they screech past our house, only to join the next queue of traffic at the opposite junction.

I have fantasies, as I did when I was pregnant and extremely intolerant of noise, of climbing to the top of our house and dropping heavy old fashioned sewing machines, on indeed anything I am able to get my hands on that will make a satisfactory dent, onto these people's cars. I don't want to hurt them mind you, but I do want to hear the loud thud and watch their terrified faces jolt upwards to see what caused the sudden impact and noise. Much the same way their hooting often jerks Julia and even myself out of a peaceful place of contemplation or near sleep.

She's a little soldier our Julia. She's learnt that if she is to have any sleep at all, she must ignore the ambulances, police sirens, fire trucks, jack hammers, and aforementioned hooter-obsessed bastards. While other little ones listen to 'Bach for babies', Julia is now very familiar with 'Sounds and sites of London traffic.' In fact I'm thinking that when we travel with her to more peaceful destinations, it would be prudent to buy such a soundtrack because this child is not going to know what it's like to sleep in peace and quiet, and it may make her anxious.

I received a very fancily-addressed thick cream envelope in the post this week. I thought it was a wedding invite, admiring my name written in the black curlicued calligraphy. It turned out to be a Harrods advantage card. I was informed that they were delighted to have chosen me to be the recipient of this card, and they very generously pointed out all the benefits of using it - invitations to special shopping events, free gift wrapping, discounts on baby elephants from Inja etc.

That said, I have never, ever, in my entire time of being in England, bought a single thing from Harrods. Not even an olive from their famous and horrendously overpriced food hall. And, I have also only ever been into the store twice. Once accompanying a much older boyfriend who took great pleasure in pointing out every attractive woman to me, and the second with a girlfriend who wanted to peruse cosmetics. I think the first may have something to do with my disregard for the place. But that's just a guess.

I take it someone, somewhere, has been selling my credit profile details:
This woman shops a lot online. Buys plenty of stretch jogger bottoms, baby clothes, cosmetics, and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Conclusion: She has just had a baby, is doing nothing to lose the post-pregnancy weight but thinks that a bit of touche eclat can hide the fact, and her only day-time stimulation is hitting the 'view shopping basket' button, which further affords her an excuse not to leave the house because she is waiting for the delivery man. The jogger bottoms give the illusion that she is a sporty mommy on the road to getting her figure back, but the reality is that her ass is as wide as a Buick and looks like crap in jeans, and stretch fabrics are oh so much more comfortable.
Of course that assessment would be complete and utter rubbish. But still, those marketing guys are sly, and what's worse, Harrods now have me in their sites.

1 comment:

Lou said...


Remember this when you're looking for a new house: Anywhere near a traffic light / junction will be noisy. (Even worse for mine as I am on a box junction, therefore people feel even more right to beep like crazy should someone be blocking it!). The emergency services also seem to just flick their sirens on to go through the lights (most likely for safety reasons, especially if they are jumping a red...)

And wasn't it me you met in Harrods once, not to shop, but as a warm place to gather before going to a champagne-fuelled party across the road?! :)