|Guardian Greyhound & Bobby Bollard
Mad Scientess Jane Expat
|[||the weather today is
|[||with a hint of
|||||Ministry - Hizbollah||]|
There I was, walking through the monotonous, oppressive cleanliness of Belgravia and wondering why I was putting myself through such an excruciating experience. I don't understand how anyone who lives there finds their way home, either, as all of the houses are white three-story jobs with columned entryways and creepily symmetrical topiary. The few people I passed were breathtakingly expensive and hostile. After an hour, I was contemplating suicide by spiky black wrought-iron fencepost. Heaven knows there is a surfeit available.
My increasingly desperate flight took me to the sanctuary of Sloane Square station - and you know you're in trouble when you're thinking of a tube station as a haven. I turned down Gerald Road and almost stumbled over Bobby Bollard, who squats in front of a police station converted into flats. Much to my delight, Guardian Greyhound stood at attention only a few doors down. They allowed me to leave Belgravia without feeling as if I'd found a section of London that had been conquered by robots.