Rufus In London
(30 December 2009)
I moved away from London many years ago for aesthetic reasons. The introduction of the Clean Air Act dramatically reduced the incidence of smog, and while I can see that there were benefits to this (fewer people dying, for example) it also meant that the capital lost a lot of its atmosphere, and I was no longer able to indulge in my hobby of wandering through the streets at night, unseen by anyone more than eight feet away, banging two halves of a coconut shell together to simulate the sound of horses hooves and crying, "Surely, Holmes, you must be mistaken?" We made our own entertainment in those days, you know.
Disappointed, I packed my worldly goods into my Armstrong Siddeley and went to live in the country, where I have been ever since. Rarely have I had occasion to return to London, partly for the above reason and partly due to an increased knowledge of what goes on in the water supply before Londoners gain access to it.
Just before Christmas, however, I went back. There were two reasons for this. One was in reponse to an invitation from the delightful fillies in the Nissan press office to drive their new car, the aptly-named Cube, and write about it for the online magazine which is filling your screen right now. Unfortunately, I missed the deadline by what must have been a matter of minutes (Editor: it was five days, actually) so the young scamp who claims to be in charge here had to publish his own views instead. No matter.
My other reason for revisiting London was to view the remains of my Aunt Gertrude in Kensington. I don't mean she's dead, but she certainly isn't the woman she used to be. Then again, which of us is? I didn't really want to go, but she was having a cocktail party, and a nephew who fails to attend one of Aunt Gertrude's cocktail parties is a nephew who trifles with his health.
In the past I have almost invariably become hopelessly lost on my way to Kensington (I am convinced that London adds about four hundred new streets to its system every year - must have a sharp word with young Boris about that) but the process was made simpler this time by the fact that I was driving a car with a satellite navigation system, with whose help I arrived about an hour earlier than previous experience had led me to believe I would.
My only complaint about the "satnav", as I believe young people call it, is that it failed to recognise the existence of a street which I know exists but have never been able to find. The Editor will not, for some reason, allow me to write its name, but perhaps I can steer you in the right direction (as the satnav did for me) by telling you that it is not quite Gropecant Lane, and not exactly Gropecent Lane, and not precisely Gropecint Lane, nor yet entirely Gropecont Lane. Something close to all of those, though.
Puzzled by the satnav's denial of the street's existence, I made a point, after returning home, of asking my Research Department to investigate this, and she told me (while flicking a lock of blonde hair from her forehead, and shortly before asking me in her pretty Romanian accent to change the subject) that there has not been a thoroughfare of this name anywhere in the British Isles since the mid-16th century, and as far as I know all satnav systems were developed some time after that. Pity.
It was also a pity, I felt at the time, that on the third night of my visit I was awoken at 2am by a loud cry, from just underneath my hotel room window, of "OI YOU FAHKIN SLEHG". Not having lived in London for so long, I am unclear as to quite what this means, but something tells me it is the sort of thing that might have been heard in a street which was nearly, but not exactly, called Gropecont Lane.
I shall stop now because I wish to open the bottle of Glenmorangie which lies temptingly within reach, so that I may fortify my system in advance of the alcohol onslaught it will receive at the turn of the New Year. Best wishes to you all, and if you have nothing better to do you might pay me a visit on my new Twitter. page. I don't understand Twitter in the slighest, but it seems to have caused a major row between Messrs Ross Noble and Duncan Bannatyne, and what could make for more pleasant festive viewing than that?
