I have just come back from a trip into Jericho, which is the trendy, hip and boho district of North Oxford near where I live. It is based around Walton Street and contains such delights as The Phoenix Picturehouse, Loch Fyne fish restaurant and Daisies florist’s.
I was going to the Co-op to purchase some necessities (bread, cough mixture, ibuprofen, jam, washing-up liquid, bacon, lightbulbs, yoghurts, that sort of thing) and also to pick up some carnations (exam tradition, doncha know?). Who’d have thought that I could have had such an adventure whilst down in the ‘hood? Well, I say adventure, but it wasn’t really that interesting. I’m going to write it down anyway.
First part of adventure: I popped into the aforementioned Daisies flower shop to pick up some cheeky buttonholes and I was served by a lovely young lady who picked out three beautiful pink carnies and agreed to hold them for me whilst I went to the shops.
Second part of adventure: In Co-op there was the usual assortment of gormless Americans, hockey jock twats and screaming rugrats preventing me from getting to my required products in good time. I quote one of the transatlantic variety, "Ham and pineapple [pizza]? No one likes that. Swap it for pepperoni." Tit face. I like ham and pinapple.
Third part of adventure: Upon returning to the florist’s I was dismayed not to see the lovely girl who served me not fifteen minutes beforehand. Her myopic East Asian co wo
rker came up to me. "Can I help you?" she said. "Your colleague has reserved some carnations for me," I replied. "Colleague? Who…?" "I don’t know her name. She’s keeping some carnations for me," I insisted. "Ah, carnations," she said, smiling and pointing to the bucket of carnations in the corner. Eventually she caught my drift and went to fetch the other lass.
Fourth part of adventure: Whilst she was out I was eavesdropping on the conversation between a male florist and his middle-aged female customer. "If you don’t mind me saying," she said, "it’s nice to see more… men… like you… in jobs… like these." "Yes," he said, "the best florists are men anyway. In fact, the world championship florist is a man. And English too." Hoo-bloody-ray. "That’ll be £22.20," he simpered. "Ooh," said the old crone, searching through her purse and pulling out two £20 notes, "I don’t have the £2 but I’ve got the 20p." She handed him £40.20. "Don’t worry, love, bring it in next time," he said, shutting away the money in the till. I was forced to restrain myself from laughing out loud at what struck me as being an intrinsically hilarious situation. Fortunately, the pretty girl came back to my rescue, but alas she smiled at me as if she’d never seen me before, beaming, "Can I help you?" I was slightly surprised that she didn’t recognise me, seeing how I’d been in within the last twenty minutes, but she eventually caught on and wished me good luck for my exams. I obtained the carnations and left with a spring in my step.
Fifth part of adventure: Upon leaving the shop and heading back up Walton Street, I came across a confused and agitated, sour-faced young lady with glasses and tracksuit bottoms. "Where’s the Jericho Café?" she barked, gurning at me. "It’s back down there, on the left hand side," I told her, pointing to the direction from which I’d just come. "I’ve just come from there!" she spluttered, pushing her bushy eyebrows together in a frown which suggested it was my fault, and stomping off. I was practically blown home by the wind.
Incidentally, watch out for Co-op "bronchial mixture" cough medicine. It’ll burn your soft palette if you’re not careful.
Finally… the final final is finalized for tomorrow (ha ha, I’m good, aren’t I?) The last three have been OK - I hope that this one will be good too, but I’ve really got to the stage where I can’t concentrate and really don’t care all that much. I can’t wait to finish! It’ll be such a relief.
Who ate all the pies?
