Elvis found in London shop window!

Long before hippies, the hips of Elvis. How they swivelled. My dad, in his old-age, would enjoy listening to Elvis, particularly his love songs. Love me tender, love me true. When Dad died the priest asked what music we’d like at the funeral. I said, ‘Elvis.’ The priest laughed and, sorry to say, I joined in with his laughter. We resorted to the usual plaintiff hymns. And, now years later, I regret it. Should have gone with the mellifluous voice of  the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll and not the strangled rendition of a tired old hymn. 

Putting a spell on you

I’d never noticed the whacky spelling on this defunct business in Peckham until the other day. I would guess that it was not lesions that were on offer but driving lessons. In any case, the collision of one word with the other would turn off most learner drivers.

And how about the bonkers sign in Abu Dhabi offering univeersity research, forigen translation and overce (now that’s ingenious) calling. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be searching out their advertised help with my curriculan vitae. 

Rasta Man

As soon as he recovered from a coughing fit, this gentleman, an elderly Rasta, lit a large spliff and puffed away on it to his heart’s (if not his lungs’) content. He was one of many characters at Shepherd’s Bush market yesterday braving freezing weather and flurries of snow.