Portobello Road

You could describe Portobello Road as a quaint street. Although it’s not old fashioned as the word may imply, it’s everything other than that. Queer, definitely, because only in this road I’ve seen houses that are coloured pink, green, and yellow, all standing next to each other. It’s strewn with antics shops. You can get items from deserts of Africa, to claws of Alaskan Polar Beer.

There are also bars and pubs dotted around the street. You can find the usual Irish pubs, selling Guinness, Spanish Tapas Bars, even Thai Curry bars, Fish bars, and swanky, modern bars as you move towards Notting Hill. A wonderful street then, if I may say, to visit when you don’t have anything to do.

Today, without work, nothing much to do, I decided to walk all the way up to Portobello Road, a drill I’d never done before. It was a typical autumn day. A mild breeze was mingling with tepid sunshine. Ideal for a walk.

From Willesden Green, where I stay, I headed towards Kensal Rise. From there, I walked downhill, and in thirty minutes, I was surprised to find myself in Portobello Road. I’d always imagined I’d take at least an hour. The exercise had however rendered me tired and hungry. Lunch sprang on my mind. I walked, looking for a restaurant to enter.

I choose a pub. It had tables and comfortable chairs outside on the pavement. While I waited for my order, I wanted to drink a pint of beer and read a book I’d brought. The place seemed perfect.

The street was busy with shoppers. Portobello Road didn’t relent even on Tuesdays, when people are suppose to be working. London is a behemoth. People work night shifts, on weekends, have weekdays off, and some are unemployed, living in benefits. There are millions of visitors. You are seldom without any company in this city.

I sat down with Newcastle Brown Ale, and started reading my book, called On Beauty. I’d ordered Bangers and Mash Potatoes. The bartender had said the pub was busy at this lunchtime, I’d have to wait twenty minutes for my order to arrive. It wasn’t a problem with me.

After five minutes, a woman approached me, saying if she could share the table I’d occupied with her. Everything outside and inside wasn’t available. I didn’t mind.

I could make out she was on a lunch break. Although, she didn’t resemble anything like a normal officer-goer. Her jeans featured two small slices on the left thigh, revealing her pale skin. Her T-shirt was red, incongruous colour for anyone working in administration. Maybe she tended one of the antics shop. She’d certainly fit in there.

She put her glass of white wine on the table and pulled out a book. This is a typical London scene. Two people very amicably sharing a table, but refusing to indulge in any short of conversation. We'd rather clutch our novels. Enjoy the read. Than talk and befriend a stranger.

When my glass was half-empty (or half full!), my order arrived. The sausages were delicious. The mash was soft, and the gravy made the whole meal delectable. I finished the food before my female company’s order arrived, and I waited for the food to settle inside my stomach, reading the book.

After that, I walked around. I visited a bargain books shop and brought a book called Being Jordan. I actually have a funny story to share regarding this book. One of my colleague, last spring, had hounded to read the book. She said it was one of the best biography she’d read. Brutally honest. I’d resisted. I wasn’t reading a biography of a glamour model I detested. However, the two pounds price tag enticed me to purchase it, even though I knew if I asked my colleague, I could borrow it free. But I’d ridicule the book and the person who wrote it, my pride held me back from asking my colleague. I also thought the book deserved to be read. Her story needed to be heard, even though, everyone else by now had read it.

So, with two books in my bag, one a much heralded work, written by one of the most talented writers in this world, and another, a confession of a glamour model, I headed home.

Good place that – Portobello Road. I’ll ask my friend to join me there next Friday. I think a night out there wouldn’t be so bad.