The streets of London are sprouting tomatoes now.

I imagine the fruit will taste like drains but I shall try it nonetheless. At least that is if the local foxes/raggamuffins/parakeets don’t get there first.

I like my local council. Hounslow always seems more down to earth and less petty than Hammersmith and Fulham. Less Londony, less extortive. They still are irksome, nevertheless, in the ways councils always are.

Like when you spend ages queuing to pay for a permit or something and they only have one of four windows open. I don’t really mind too much, at least not as much as the little old lady in front of me who was tutting like a typewriter.

However, if they cannot afford to pay the wages of enough people to man more than one kiosk, it is nice to see they had the resources to install funky new dot matrix signs above each window. Obviously someone envisaged a situation where the numbers ‘1,2,3,4′ simply would not be adequate. Perhaps a council worker might be superstitious about the number 3? No sweat, the council can just change it to an 8.
THAT is foresight.

It is also good to see that, while they were at it, they stuck in another, bigger sign. It says ‘hello’ and conveys the human touch.

I like the idea. Polish cuisine is never really going to be slimming is it? It’s a shame the proprietor did not read the slogan to himself out loud though…

I’m not so sure that soft cream marble was the right choice of material for the floors of the spangly new toilets at Westfield. Lino would have at least been cheap to replace when stained brown with bladder drippings. Yuck.

[Is anyone else alarmed by my proclivity for sanitational photography? It is a bad habit, methinks]

Need I say more?

Probably not, but I shall anyway.

I don’t know about you, but that blond (and now seriously hampered) woman looks remarkably gay about the whole business. Is your 15 minutes of fame really worth having your limbs drain and drop off? She must look like  a papier-måché figure in the rain. Or a shit scarecrow. Or some kind of German fetish. Is it really all worth it when your only claim-to-fame is a few square inches on the front page of a budget goss-mag? Even when said shit-rag feels the need to point out that said witheree has rotten stumps where her hands should be? In case we hadn’t noticed…

Bah! What do I know? I am sure it feels great for her.

It would have been nice if the editor could have afforded her another exclamation mark, though. I would have given her three at least. Mind you, I would have felt compelled to run with the headline: “Look! Mum – no hands!”

I spend a lot of time looking at the ground. It is more interesting than it sounds. You see lots of scraps of life dotted around, and the street beneath always makes for a poetically bereft backdrop.

However, when I saw this on the ground recently I didn’t know whether to laugh or vomit poetically. Obviously a local fox hates Capri Sun