Bear with me a moment.
Falafels aren't everyone's cup of tea, but they can be just the thing when you've got up a bit earlier than usual, eaten a banana and a slice of cake with your coffee, and driven the undemanding 50 miles to Notting Hill for reasons of Herself's. With time to kill and a gnawing feeling in the inner man one might easily go to the falafel place 300 yards from one's old gaff, on the junction of Portobello Road and Tavistock Road, just where the overhead Westway crosses the quarter.
It's run by a grizzled character, Israeli I think but he could come from anywhere in the Eastern Mediterranean, who could be any age between 50 and my age. The falafels are great, not too expensive but a bit messy to eat in the car if you aren't careful. Today though he had two heartbreakingly beautiful little delicate Thai or similar girls working in the place. London is always an aesthetic orgy but they made my day, no kidding. I asked where a wicked old geezer like him had found them and he thanked me politely.
No one I wanted to see was at home. Had I been younger and more of a sensemilla addic I might then have phoned a spade street dealer of my fairly recent acquaintance, described my car and where I was and waited for him to turn up with some dodgy looking but not-too-bad Jamaican grass, not of course the world's best deal but just the thing, along with a pint at a pub down on the A24 to accompany Herself's massive glass of French red, to ensure a relaxed and competent smooth drive back. But I'm far too grown-up to have done anything like that.
Nevertheless we got home safely. The jalopy's going nicely but it could do with an oil and oil filter change and a dose of red stuff.
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