Me and my people. I was trying to explain to Mrs Pearly Queen here that I was in fact as much a cockney as she was. That I just spoke more properer than wot she done. That both of us were born within the sound of the Bow Bells, even though they stopped ringing in the war, rendering that definition of ‘cockneyness’ a bit more theoretical than when both of my parents were born, virtually up the clock-tower. Its just that I chose to wear civilian clothes rather than that particular vision of pearliness.

We went to Columbia Road for our twice yearly pilgrimage to London’s best flower market. In the East End. Where Shoreditch meets Bethnal Green. The land of my forefathers. And mothers. Proper Cockneyland. Salt of the earth. Up the apples’n’pairs. Awright love, gissa kiss den, why don’t’cha, stone da crows, my aunt Fanny. That’s how we speak there. Which is why no-one understands anything anyone says. Small price to pay for all that charm.

And the flowers are brilliant. And cheaper than you could buy them anywhere else. So why not buy more than any seven houses could need? I don’t know either; ask Mel. I just go for the banter.

But before you arrive, you have to get to Shoreditch. And although there was very little traffic this morning, as ever it proved to be more difficult than it should have been. For numerous reasons. The first of which is the Borough of Islington’s proud and oft-repeated proclamation of being ‘London’s first 20mph borough’, as if its something to be pleased about. And secondly because people actually adhere to it. They actually drive at 20mph. And not just Prius drivers but loads of normal people as well.

It says in the highway code, and I quote: “when you see a speed limit sign, either ignore it altogether or apply the formula – speed to drive = advised speed limit x 2 plus the number of beers you’ve drunk that morning”. Yet some drivers insist on adhering to these fictional signposts. Yet aren’t bothered about sending text messages whilst at the wheel. That’s a different law altogether, that one. Doesn’t apply on Sundays. Similarly green traffic lights mean ‘finish texting, at your leisure, then, once everyone’s started hooting, pull away as slowly as you can without stalling the car’.

I love Columbia Road, love a chirpy cockney, fucking hate all other road users.

Happy Easter Sunday

A xxxx