Breaking the dcuk

Inspired by a short quip from The G--, and saucy like its French counterpart, the Delectable Connection UK once again draws us to L-- for scrumptious snacks and duck dishes. Of course, in between meals we had to find something to do, which in earlier times must have been the origin of nearly all the fine art and writing of the Western world and perhaps the motivation to invent things like the toenail clipper or the butter curler.

Faced with the ruins of the feet of chicken gnawed to the bone and a tablecloth drizzled artfully with soy sauce (that would feel more comfortable at the Tate Modern (obligatory Tate Modern/Modern Art that is actually Rubbish jibe)) we of course went around seeking to occupy ourselves, which come to think of it is quite the startling and polemic reversal of what things were like long ago, when in between brief entertainments such as bead necklace threading and reproduction, people spent most of the time in between looking for tasty berries and sheep to eat.

We did a myriad things, that deserve no mention (other than, fittingly, walking down R-- Street and being assaulted by the ever-annoying tongue-in-cheekness of FCUK dribbling down the sides of shop fronts, rendering it an experience akin to being jabbed in the ribs by an awful and incompetent stand-up comedian hoping that we would "geddit"), before popping into H-- (yes, popping into, as one would pop into the ubiquitous and nameless corner shop for a pint of milk and bananas, dropping change into the hands of a wizened old Asian woman the son of whom are working their fingers to the bone washing plates at a £4.95 all-you-can-eat buffet Chinese restaurant and whose lease is being threatened by unscrupulous High Street property barons who want to redevelop the area into an office block and because of this she spends all night weeping into her scratchy polyester pillow while her young grandson lies in bed and dreams of chestnut buns and the girl at school).

H-- once held an amazing aura of mystique for me, because of the heavy press coverage, the word of mouth of aunts who chatter too much but mainly due to its unattaintability, so when I did get a chance to first visit it, it was quite the experience, and I liked it like a fire likes the taste of gasoline.

Second, or even third time going there however, its sheen began to flake off like the cheap varnish on souvenir models of Big Ben, mainly because I only went there to buy chocolate and doughnuts, probably the only things that I could humbly afford, though it would be like going into that aforementioned corner shop and buying a stick of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit. So in that sense it was just another so-called convenience store, albeit one that was obscenely expensive and where everything it sold seemed extra precious (even if it did sell toilet paper you would think that wherever you touched the toilet paper to, fresh roses with leaves of gold and glitter would sprout). Imagine walking into the local Aldi and picking up a Snickers bar, putting it on the counter, and the clerk bagging it, and saying "Your total is £15" and you handing over the money, eyes shimmering.

I might have started to become a little desensitised towards the value of money, as in my glee to look for price tags to ridicule and finding on clothes tags that should have been attached to low-mileage Japanese used cars, and casually tossing it off as though I had been reading the price tags on bottles of ketchup and mustard. Indeed, I was a little miffed that I could only find something that cost £1200 as the highest priced item in the store (I mean, where were the truffles, or the gold bars, or the diamond and jewel-encrusted toilet seat?)

But the truly rich need no price tags, and as we trooped out in our waterproof jackets and sneakers, the staff were probably snickering at the riff-raff that come around only to gawk at things they could never afford in several lifetimes, before pressing the switch to allow like the Queen or Elton John into the secret chamber, the one with the toilet seat and the anti-theft laser cannons.

Outside, I bit into a cherry liqueur truffle, and let the sweet liquid dribble down my chin. Ah, the Snickers of H--.