Race Riot?

Many of you expressed horror at last week's Kate in the Countryside, which saw KITC party to the worst case of sporting sabotage this century. Or so we thought. 

Trenton, mate, if you want to be taken seriously...

Then came Saturday: the day the world met Trenton Oldfiled. A self-proclaimed Suffragette of our times, Trenton is man so committed to the fight against elitism that he ignores the elitist principles of spelling even for his own name.

It was 1pm and grey when I left the Pad for the river. In my cautiously worn Blues stash I fitted in perfectly with the baying braying crowd. The mood was obnoxious and cheerful. 

Oh who am I kidding? I love the Boat Race. In spite of the weather, the banks of the Thames were heaving with enthusiasts emboldened by Pimm's. It was impossible to find anyone or to move. Cast up between a cake stall and the entrepreneurial burger table, I was in danger of accidentally buying a hot dog when my fellow spectators found me.

One, dressed in even more stash than I, had not worn a coat. 

'You must be cold?' I asked.

'No. I've got nine Blues,' he explained.

We kept moving to avoid all the other awful people, and they, us. Soon, the two boats passed, Oxford just ahead.

'Oh God,' moaned Nine Blues, 'it's only just started. We've lost.'

'Watching' the Boat Race by the Thames is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Though you are treated to a lot of atmosphere (read: tweed) you can't see much rowing. There's a good bit for about ten seconds when the boats pass near enough for you to work out which is which but, other than that, we'd had our allotted excitement. When the group in front of us were splashed by the convoy's wake and a girl dropped her drink it was already had one of the most eventful Boat Races I'd ever been to.

We wandered back down towards the start and its giant TV screen. We observed a pigeon. We wondered whether to have another lukewarm beer.

The drink-dropper seemed determined to liven things up: 'Hey look, there's a bloke in the water. Someone's fallen in!' 

This seemed unlikely. Rowing is a simple sport.

'It's a streaker!' I suggested optimistically.

'It's a protest,' volunteered a radio-carrying gent who was passing.

Like I say, you can't see much at the Boat Race. We called a friend.

'Some cretin jumped in. They're restarting the race,' he explained.

We all agreed that the crews should have carried on and got him.

'Would man's head have been chopped off or just gouged?' Mother Dearest mused, via text.

It was at that point we gave up on the live experience and headed to a pub. As for the #boatraceswimmer, we don't need to talk about him. That pratty little man and his God complex and his beard. And his imbecilic ranting. So we won't. You know the rest. 

But be warned Oldfeild: England is unhappy with you. And we won't miss again.

Email Squash

It was with foreboding that I opened my email last week to find a message from a Sarah Loughton entitled 'Squash'. An innocuous title, you might think. Wrongly.

An in-joke I'm afraid.
Hint: moustache

Keen followers of Kate in the Countryside (all others please consult glossary here) will know of my enthusiasm for squash. These days, the only other fans of the game are aged gents. They played when Jonah Barrington (squash player) was almost a celebrity and flares were in. Squash back then was a cool game, or so Daddy Mason likes to tell me. But then he does have a moustache. 

Opportunities for squash games down at my local Pimlico gym are numerous. Saturday's Fight Club, where we tough things out on the squash court to make up for the indignities of office work, is one example. But Sarah Loughton's email relates to the squash league. It's a friendly league for those who like to indulge in the odd gentle game.

Ah, Sarah. She doesn't play squash. At least, I've never actually met the girl but I sense it to be true. Ms Loughton is the diligent PA of Bob, one of my opponents in the league. And she takes her duties very seriously indeed.

Dear Kate

Bob would like to set up his game with you for this month. He is free on Monday 4th, Wednesday 6th, Saturday 9th, Tuesdays 12th and 19th but not Tuesdays 5th or 26th. Thursdays are usually not best. Please respond as soon as possible with your availability.

Regards

Sarah

I already spend much of my life replying to emails. And not all of them about squash. Receiving an email like this usually makes me retreat to my room where I can put on Harry Potter tapes very loud and sit in a corner humming madly to myself. But Sarah does not like to be ignored:

Dear Kate,

Bob is no longer available on the Tuesdays as advised, but will be free on the 5th. Sunday 10th and Thursday 14th or Friday 15th….

Kate,

Bob would like to play his games in the second week of the month this time. Tuesday 17th 3rd or Sunday 30th (not Saturday) may be best. Wednesday….

Kate,

Please detail your availability at your earliest convenience. Bob's mother has….

It becomes a game. I send back impossible chains of numbers to which Sarah replies with one liners. We get nowhere. I don't even want to play this man. He wears a DT teacher's visor on court and last time we played he ran into me so hard that I was winded. Twice.

Then, last week, she strikes:

Kate,

Since you never seem to reply we ['we?' What is this? Are we going for two-on-one here? Surely unfair] will be claiming a walkover if you do not get in touch.

Sarah

Imagine this in email form

I spend the next two days crafting an email of such impenetrable niceness that it can surely lead to no more conflict. I can't take this any more. I have a full time job!

Next day: a forwarded email to accompany Sarah's helpful scribings. She has spoken to the League Master and he has obligingly agreed to remove me from the league. 

A sad day.

Now this may come as a surprise to you...

New Pimlico Residents

There is nothing of note happening in the world apart from the Snow. So that is what this week's Kate in the Countryside is about. No punchline, no fictional dog adoption - just snowy struggles from the incapacitated capital. 


Everyone knows that the London Underground doesn't run in the snow. So as I clambered through the blizzard to a birthday party in Borough last night, full taxis passed with gay abandon. Snow can make a mockery of even the most sensible of heeled boots, so my ability to walk had taken a hit. At last an empty taxi advances into view, its light gleeful in the dark. I flag it down. 

'Hello! Bermondsey Square please?' 

'I'm not taking you to Bermondsey Square love! It's only a few yards down that way.'

I should have argued, I know that now.  His was the only empty cab for miles around. I was lost half a mile from my goal and didn't even know it. But I was weakened by snow.

'OK, thanks! Great! Thanks for your help!' The window closed before I reached 'thanks'. Who needs snow in their cab anyway?

I strode on, sustained by thoughts of snowball fights and hot drinks and cursing my lack of iPhone map. Moments from my destination, I fell splat against a bin. I almost managed to laugh.

Bonus seat padding

The morning brought another travelling conundrum. This I resourcefully solved by Boris Bike. Cycling through slush and cliché from Vauxhall to Pimlico, I was so excited by the charm of the moment that I found myself waving to complete strangers. 


Boris has obligingly stationed a bike rack right outside the front door of the Pad. So smug was my face as I replaced the bike, I almost expected someone to pelt me with snow. Mr Shop in the corner shop downstairs is not happy with the new bikes - 'What are they for anyway? Who uses them? Tourists! They'll just get themselves killed' - but Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate and I are delighted. Frankly, what could be more fun than riding without a helmet over black ice on a clunky bike that - let's face it - can't really change direction?

I raced in through the front door to share the story of my biking triumph with BOF. The Pad is a winter wonderland. The Christmas lights are still up - snow makes them less festively needy, we reason. There is also an ailing poinsettia on the windowsill, which BOF bought in a fit of festive enthusiasm. It commenced dying barely had it left Sains, but now that we're ready for it to die, it is thrusting back to life.

Outside in Pimlico the snow clears. And the deer go home.

For Late Adopters

Late adopters of Kate in the Countryside have observed that - for the uninitiated - such an acronym-dense landscape can sometimes be tricky to navigate. 

It is for them, and for those whose knowledge of Kate in the Countryside is not as exhaustive as they might hope, that the crib sheet below came to pass. Diligent members of the readership would be advised to print out what follows and keep it in a handy place for reference. Perhaps an opportunity to familiarise oneself with laminating machine? 

Laminated items do keep better.
Just a suggestion

Kate in the Countryside began a year ago after the demise of my Carefree University Life at Cambridge. Returning from a month at the Edinburgh Festival, I found myself unemployed in The Countryside living with MD (Mother Dearest - of whom more later). The curious folk I found there proved an excellent source of solace and fascination. So the blog was born. When someone generously gave me a job months later, the blog travelled with me to London, where I found that the oddballs of Oundle were no stranger than those of Pimlico who now populate these pages.

KITC: Acronym of the name of This Blog. Also represents Kate the character at moments of dramatic importance.

Kate in the Countryside: name of This Blog. A misnomer (as is often observed) since I am no longer domiciled in The Countryside. Knowledge for the in-crowd, that. Like Magdalene being pronounced Maudlin. 

Pimlico: where Kate in the Countryside now lives with flatmate and co-star, BOF.

BOF: Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate. Formerly Belligerently Optimistic Future-Flatmate. This sobriquet refers to a sad time a year ago when we were both yet to be homed. But BOF's unflagging - if occasionally a little manic - optimism eventually secured us The Pad. A place with no graffitied doors and good-looking neighbours thrown in.

Pretty Neighbour (PN): Apple of BOF's eye. Attempts to seduce her / convince her to come over have as yet gone unrewarded. Though we did meet her once. Recently waking up to the fact that she may not be interested in boys. Bit galling, hence KITC's silence on the subject in recent months.

Spinning: one of London's gifts to the blog. I find myself being shouted and sworn at on a bike in a small room at the local gym with more regularity than I imagined possible. Run by...

The Shouter: Australian Spinning Trainer Man. He shouts. Suspect he may be in league with PG, who first introduced me to the local Pimlico hang outs and Spinning class.

PG: Pimlico Guru. Collaborator in Spinning sessions. Resident of Pimlico. Advisor in all things local. Word on the grapevine is that she may be leaving the gym. Updates impending.

Tactful Friend (TF): Non-Pimlico resident and regular facilitator of Nights Out. I have recently realised that such evenings always lead to encounters with London's Gits, for which this blog is very grateful.

Dogface: My dog. Interestingly, this is his real name.

Mother Dearest (MD): Mother of KITC. Teacher. Resident of Oundle. Recent adopter of Twitter. Follow her in real life (@msoundle) for the full metafictional KITC experience.

DM: Daddy Mason. Not to be confused with MD, DM lives in the Bahamas where he keeps swimming pigs. This may or may not be true.

Mysterious L: Most significant external contributor to KITC. True identity a mystery. Some say she exists only within the confines of the KITC world. 

(Lucky) Escape to the Countryside

Apple Day happened last weekend. For those of you who are not familiar with this illustrious occasion, it celebrates the end of the apple harvest. It is not - as PG (in her other guise as the Apple Hostess) was quick to clarify - the one day in which all apples are picked on all farms. Thank God. It's more an educative opportunity regarding apples.

The weekend's warm up to Apple Sunday was not so cerebral.

Friday's quiet drink with friends involved an accidental visit to the m&m's 'World' in Leicester Square. There, bouncers wore m&m's ties while shop assistants with sad eyes danced uncomfortably to the hyperpop next to m&ms inexplicably arranged to look somewhat like the Beatles. 

Terrifying

'Just look at all the different flavours of m&m's!' enthused Unlikely Militant Raver, one of the chums, trying to stay upbeat. [There were three (3) flavours.] Failing to fight the place's atmosphere of canned hopelessness with enthusiasm, we left.

It became clear that - to UMR - such an experience could only be topped, post pub, by a visit to a strip club. No matter that it was 9.30 and a third of the party was female - UMR would not be deterred. Attention transferred from chocolate pellets to naked chicks, he struggled to get us on board.

'Come on you bores! It's this great place my Grandad's told me about. (Pause. Confusion.) We'll walk past - see what's going down.'

The club of choice is just by where I work. Which is nice. We approached the bouncer: 

'Oh look! What about this place?' (UMR, acting) 'We could just grab a drink in here guys.'

Bouncer: 'Lads, lads, er, this place is not the sort of place you go for - er - "drinks".'

UMR: Right. What sort of a place is it then?

Jez

Bouncer (both awkward and smarmy. Think apologetic Jeremy Kyle): Well, it's got girls in. 

UMR (politely, in manner of enquiry): Girls?

Bouncer (coy): So - er - a bottle of champagne will be … so I mean you'll have to buy drinks for the girls. 

UMR (feigning sudden understanding): Aaah! The girls take their clothes off!

All look at me.

KitC (scrambling for taking-charge-of-the-conversation pleasantries): Er … busy night so far? Good ... turnout? So. Shall I leave?

Thank God for Sunday and the wholesome opportunity to sample the repertoire of this year's apples. Down in the countryside I found an idyll of apple-enthusiasts - not to mention the highlight: PG stashed up in farm outfit. Occasional animals and aesthetically-pleasing children ambled past the apple juice like extras in an Austen remake. Though the long-promised Apple Quiz did not materialise, there were plenty of Enid Blyton activities (apple bobbing, old-school pinball) to make the day an extravaganza of loveliness. Kate in the Countryside restored.

The Only Way is Chelsea (Part 2 - The Escape)

Scurrying from the previous episode's cosy Chelsea nightspot and its preponderance of gits, we hunted for a night bus. As the four of us walked along, we found ourselves being showered with CDs. Git 5 now stumbled up, apparently considering this glass-based attack a perfect way to charm the group. Tactful Friend attempted (tactfully) to dismiss him. So tactful was she he did not notice. Unlucky Friend asserted herself with more vigour, and dispatched the yob.

The best Google Images can do on the Flying CDs front

The presence of flying CDs yet unexplained we parted ways: the rest of the group south; Kate in the Countryside striking out alone the opposite way - back to the wilds of Pimlico. 

As I waited at the bus stop, the door to the flat opposite was abruptly flung open. Two boys fell out and started picking up the remnants of the flying CDs. 


They spotted me. I pretended to be fascinated by my book ('The Rum Diary' in case anyone's interested) but it was a fragile conceit.

'Come to a party!' Oddly, this chap seemed to be Not A Git. I looked up.


'Thanks - I'm afraid I have to catch a bus. Another time.'


Undeterred, he rolled out a string of (at the time, incredibly compelling) reasons why I should attend. At last, sizing them up as non-rapists and assessing their hallway to be neither the hallway of a crack den nor a Mormon haunt, I agreed. It's the King's Road remember. What could go wrong?

Up the stairs I ventured to a flat full of people I did not know. Here I was waylaid by Pensive Git (Git 6, for those of you still counting). Pensive Git had reached the contemplative stage of his evening and decided I was the perfect person to share his revelatory mood.

First I heard about his brother and his brother's plans for the future. Soon after, I was told about his early years at boarding school and the difficulties he'd had settling in, problems that were connected in some way to cattle farming - though I may be misremembering. We then moved on to a breakdown of his life objectives and career goals. He has a job interview in a couple of days and is planning to move into asset management, in case you were wondering. At this stage, he had yet to ask my name. However, since I'd just stumbled into the party of a bunch of people I'd never met, I couldn't really complain that the company wasn't up to scratch.

As he took to categorising the life lessons he'd learned up to and including tonight, he began to fumble at my knee. I realised at this stage that it was time to go. Hailing NAG, I announced my intention and thanked him for his hospitality. His enthusiasm was overwhelming, badly expressed - 'It's been seminal!' - and frankly quite sweet. Unfortunately Pensive Git seemed to believe my departure a come on.

'I'm leaving too!' he exclaimed. He groped for my name. 'Er... I'll show you, her, out yeah. Yeah. Bye then NAG.' He paused to embrace his old schoolfriend and, seizing my chance, I darted for the door.

Seminal indeed.

The Only Way is Chelsea

I have recently realised that nights out with Tactful Friend always lead to encounters with London's Gits. This weekend was no exception. 

That'll be £64.50, thanks

On Saturday, we attempted an elegant and - yes - cripplingly expensive round of cocktails at a cosy Chelsea hangout. Two drinks in, the bar was so busy we were being made forcibly friendly with the lads beside us. And we couldn't afford enough cocktails for that.

Soon Git 1 lunged past, nearly smashing both Tactful Friend's face and drink. In moments our group turned chav, abusing the wretch with all manner of gestures. The X Factor's most illustrious judges would have been proud. 

Next, Git 2 arrived. Not a man I recognised, but two members of our party turned steely. Both recounted Git 2's actively aggressive (and repeated) attempts at charming them, instances I then realised I had witnessed. They went as follows:

Unlucky Friend (dancing uncomfortably and at some distance from Git 2) tries to edge away from his pursuit.

Git 2: 'Lighten up why don't you? Can't you just chill out and have a good time?!'

UF's lack of enthusiasm becomes so pronounced it's almost a condition.

'Come on!' Git 2 grabs wrists of UF, in manner of domestic violence infomercial, and enforces complex gyration.

UF bobs, casting increasingly repulsed looks to the rest of the group. At last, recalling the old failsafe, UF moves in to structure a line or two of conversation.

[Git 2 delighted.]

Pleasantries commence. Then, the bombshell:

UF: 'So I was saying to my boyfriend the other day…'

Git 2, scandalised, drops wrists with embarrassing haste - 'Boyfriend?! Thanks for wasting my fucking time' - and flees.

And so it's with horror we realise he's here again, approaching the bar and UF and clutching an unsteady drink.

'I wanted to apologise,' he slurs.

(UF hostile)

'This [proffers drink] is for you.'

(UF thawing) 'Aw. Thanks Git 2. It's OK - don't worry about it.'

Brent: A regular

Gits 3 and 4 approach at this point to replenish Git Quota:

'Need drinks, girls? Course you do. I'm getting them. (Loudly) Anyway so I said to him "Mate let me remind you - you're not the only son of an oligarch in this fucking place."'

Pause. 
Git 3 dissolves into laughter looking around at us all to check we're giving the riposte the wild enthusiasm it deserves.

We manage weak smiles, which seem to buy us the drink. Git 4 talks at me for a bit while Git 3 engages TF. Within moments we both develop a crippling need for the loo. 

As we depart, Git 2 warbles up, spies Unlucky Friend and smoothes back his hair:

'Well hey, you look like you need to chill out and have some fun tonight.'

'I have a boyfriend.'

'Right. Yeah. Oh fuck off then. [Sudden recognition] And you owe me a drink.'

On the road to nowhere (Morocco Part III)

Who needs Bogart anyway?

The man at the ticket office suggested a place called Benguerir instead of Casablanca. Little disappointing for our silver screen dreams, but only fifty minutes away instead of a trek longer than our flight home. 

'Is there much to do there?' MD asked hopefully.

The Ticket Man laughed. 'No! You stay for one hour. Then you come back.'

We looked at each other. It was 60 Dirhams for the two of us - about five quid - so we decided to give it a go.

Our train was divided into carriages that had been tacked together from what appeared to be the wrecks of six or seven different trains. We found a six-seater compartment that seemed to be women only. It was hugely genteel. Second Class, where we sat, boasted air conditioning. Outside, a couple of little boys played football up and down the corridor. MD helped a lady to put her bag into the rack, unhappily cutting her finger in the process. (I only found this out later. MD - not wanting to turn her kindly gesture into a possible litigation issue - discreetly mopped the blood away.)

The landscape as we travelled was oddly similar to Courcheval, albeit red-brown, rather than snow-covered. Scraggy trees were dotted about and the occasional donkey, but hardly any other signs of life. MD fretted about us riding blindly into the middle of nowhere and some 'one-horse town', a phrase not heard since the days of the Wild West. 

An hour later, we were there. Leaving the station we found: nothing. The train station was in fact a short journey from the air base, so there weren't even shiny guns to look at. The place was deserted apart from a cart-driver and his one horse. MD, chuffed about her earlier use of Wild West terminology, bought our tickets for the return journey and then went outside to hire the cart. It had gone. 

Majorelle or Oundelle?

On arrival back in Marrakech, we headed to Yves Saint Laurent's garden, the Majorelle, for a bit of shade, some cheery pottery and an ice cream. Inspired by the sunshine and (I suspect) heatstroke, MD began making suggestions for a reinterpretation of the garden back in Oundle. In particular the colourful pots. It's true, they're charming, but I fear they wouldn't stand up to English countryside climate.

Making the compulsory scoot round Yves' gift shop, it felt as though we'd wandered into the Armani store in Milan in boardshorts. The shop assistants tittered dismissively when we asked how much something cost and, when I dared to pick an artefact up with my hand, one came up to stand so close behind me that I could hear him breathing. I smiled at him, flung the little wallet casually back amongst its fellows - completely destroying the clean lines of the display - and accidentally trod on his foot as I withdrew to reorganise their soap presentation. MD, for her part, snuck up behind him to stand in his way as he retreated, causing another completely accidental collision.

Having satisfied our anarchic urges, we left - not even shutting the door behind us.

The Bog Controller

For those here in anticipation of an update on the BOF and Pretty Neighbour saga, do not fret. There have been developments. But until they can be revealed in full, please distract yourself with today's trip to the pictures:

My ambient cellist friend Pegson (for details of former adventures see here) is a media darling, so evenings spent with him always seem to contain people who introduce themselves as being 'in the arts'. What can this mean? They seem sure it is impressive. Connected to something that occasionally produces 'art'. I digress.

For this week's jaunt, we (Pal, Pegson and I) ambled to the launch of a worthy new venture which was celebrated with the screening of a very non-worthy (though hilarious) new film.

Afterwards, there was a drinks thing on. Pegson and Pal said 'no let's not, it'll be dry,' but I, attired in BOF's cloak of belligerence, argued that we really should go rather than dashing in for the free film and sodding off. It was at a members club somewhere about. It was packed. Also it was for charity so there was no free booze. The signs should have been obvious.

In we went - Pegson and Pal mumbling aggressively to one another behind me. Secretly I was also keen because the club was near and I was bursting for the loo.

'You can't go up here.'

This I announced before negotiating the crowds to the most likely area for a loo-venue. There, by a flight of stairs, stood a tall surly waiter-ish man dressed in black.

'Excuse me, where would I find the loo?' I asked him, politely.

Chap: 'You can't go up here.'

KitC: 'That's fine, I just want to go to the loo.'

Chap: 'Up here is members only.'

KitC: 'OK great. Where's the bathroom please?'

Chap (getting hostile): Look. You can't go up here, it's for members.'

KitC (desperate now): I don't want to! I just want to find a loo!

Chap: Well you can't, you...

Happily, at this point, another similarly attired gent arrived, looking surly too, but slightly more helpful.

KitC (relieved): Oh hi. Excuse me, where's the loo?

Chap 2: ¿Que? [OK, that's made up. But it was something similarly blank. He continued:] I only just start work here.

At last, I found the lavatory. Unisex. Isn't that everyone's favourite loo genre? It lends itself so well to the inevitable moment when that man in the queue before you decides that your loo is the loo for him. In this case the chap after me was so emphatic in his belief that my locked loo was in fact free, that he managed to push the door open, while I was in there in flagrante.

I returned to Pal and Pegson. 'That's it. We've got to leave. Now.'

The gits (delighted at being proven right) insisted we stay. Lesson learned.

A Valuable Lesson

Enough said.

Learning to drive when you're twenty-three is a fairly humiliating experience all round. As Pimlico Chap pointed out the other day [not to be confused with Pimlico Guru - they don't get on. It's a smaller place than you'd think, London]: 'You have to learn to drive soon Kate, otherwise imagine it - you'll end up like one of those chavvy birds in council houses who are kept at home by their husbands because they can't go anywhere by themselves.' An odd and terrifying thought - but compelling.

So I took my Theory Test (again - turns out these things expire) and acquired a driving instructor (again - as above). And what an instructor old Baz turned out to be.

Driving in London is terrifying enough let me tell you, without the addition of a libidinous middle-aged sleazeball beside you providing a running commentary about 'the women' and his astonishing hit rate with them.

'Wow Baz, amazing,' I'd contribute, at half-hour intervals.

And, while I don't think I'm a bad driver (not in comparison with the others in Central London anyway), it is pretty off-putting when the man responsible for your safety spends half of your 90-minute slot playing Angry Birds in the passenger seat, and the other half expletively wondering how you managed to get lost / kill that granny.

He also seems to have some offensively strong addictions.

Baz: Let's stop for coffee then.

Kate in the Countryside: No thanks.

B: I'll buy you one.

KitC: No thanks.

B: Oh go on, we've been going for ages. O look - there's a Starbucks!

(KitC silent)

B (leaping from car): I need to smoke OK!

So I follow him across to Starbs where he makes an extended charade of his generosity in buying me my own personal latte. I am grateful. Or I would be - except I don't really want one. I want to learn to drive. I have friends for the latte thing.

Baz engages in some prolonged banterous repartee with the Starbucks ladies. I can't tell if this is for my benefit or theirs. No one seems to be enjoying it much. Except Baz.

As we leave, Baz explains. 'Those girls! What are they like?! They think I have so many girlfriends! (Modestly) Yes - I know. And I tell them "No girls, I'm a driving instructor" but they just won't believe me!'
 

Conversation like that money just can't buy. Oh wait.

A good day for Kates

While it is eternally perplexing to me that millions might not watch my wedding online or livetweet the action seconds at a time, it would churlish for Kate in the Countryside to ignore the Big Sloane Bash, so here it is - the view from Pimlico:

First, in Hello mood, here's some detail on my personal affinity with the BSB. My initials are KM, my first name is Kate and well, my walk to work traces the wedding route from the Palace which shows how particularly well-placed I am to comment. I'm practically Kate Middleton. If she had a job. Obviously. 

On my way to work on Thursday (Royal Wedding Eve) I amused myself by rootling around within the depths of my bag near Buckingham Palace and watching as police officers wiped sweat from their brows fearing terrorist threat. Gone are the days when a bearded half-Iranian friend and I would scurry past police officers and plot fictional plots in loud whispers yet evade arrest. These chaps looked so troubled that not even my unthreatening pink jacket could reassure them.

Regal.

Happily I continued unarrested, pausing only to admire the battalion of portaloos stationed along the Mall. Everywhere you looked were photographers in search of corners to capture. One in particular had taken up residence in my cheeky work shortcut. Believe me, dear reader, the internal vitriol I silently aimed at the hapless chap cannot have been good for my soul. 

The day itself brought out a fairly surprising level of bright-eyed enthusiasm from even some of my more cynical chums. When one started a Facebook group announcing his intention of camping on the Mall for Wedding Eve, I (wrongly) assumed it was a spoof. But when others started finding nice things to say about Beatrice and Eugenie's universally-derided-dresses, I knew that wedding fever was in fact a damaging social condition.  

BOF and I live on the cusp of the action, but our boho-Pad is so on trend that we have no TV with which to actually view it. BOF was at work, livetweeting from the office (the perfect place to assimilate the atmosphere…), so I ducked into a pub to see the Dress and munch regal brekkers. 

Inside, in the only room without a monster TV playing out the action, were a family of four with two young children. The father was steadfastly involved in his paper. His daughter, by contrast, kept hopping down from the table to scuttle into the TV bar. Each time, she returned brimming with excitement: 'I saw a princess Daddy!' 'Very good,' said her father, not looking up from his Guardian. 'Sit down and eat your toast please. Much more interesting.' Fighting an uphill Republican battle there I fear.

Later that day I celebrated the understated nuptials with some citrus ale in a microbrewery in Leyton, followed by garage music in the trendy east. Just as Kate would have wanted.