the empire fish bar
had no pasties. none! you’d think
there was a war on.
Shepherds Bush on a Sunday afternoon. A lone market stallholder sits in the sun, tanning his clothes-rails, while I wander home with my chicken, basmati rice, lime, onion, tomato and hot pepper.
My thoughts were on food. Sadly, Greggs the Bakers chooses not to open on a Sunday, which seems like a criminal waste of pastry sales to me, but there you are.
The Empire Fish Bar will have a Cornish pasty, I thought, but no!
I had to make do with a beef pattie which, although very nice, seemed insultingly small.
Sundays, of course, are, by tradition, a religious day of rest, though thankfully we have grown up and moved away from the times when no-one worked at all on a Sunday, and at least in the UK, most of us are relatively free from the rather pointless social obligation of having to attend church.
Still, Sundays for me bring back memories of my teenage years and a whole day without public transport or shops. Occasionally I would walk into the town, which would be deserted, and sit on a bench watching the tumbleweeds rolling up Regent Street toward Woolworths.
That was then, but the ghosts are still there.
When I got home I started my Curried Chicken and spent a couple of hours writing.
Ken and Diedre have been conspicuously absent from ‘Coronation Street’ lately, which leaves life on the street a little dull. I am bored with the psychological problems of the Peacocks, particularly Oor Clurr.
She needs a good shouting at and a bowl of scouse.