A few weeks ago: We are sitting at our computer screens at work, beavering away, when through the open window comes the sound of Allanah Myles wailing out the chorus to "Black Velvet" from a van stopped at the lights below. I haven't heard this song for about a hundred years, and had completely forgotten how much I loved it as an angst-ridden pre-teen; and how truly bad it is.
The office cracks up at this unexpected 80's flashback.
Tuesday morning, 9:05am: Cycling over Southwark Bridge, I catch a snippet of a phone conversation from one of the grey-suited corporates walking in the opposite direction: "Yeah, sorry mate, I was just listening to some soft cock rock..."
Surely your love of a little bit of the Bolt in the morning is best kept to yourself? And it raises a whole host of questions for me: namely, who was he talking to? His boss? His girlfriend? What possessed him to admit that out loud? Also, do Coldplay count as SCR as well as MOR?
Last Thursday night, Charing Cross station, 6.27pm: A guy wanders by in full 1980's Axl Rose regalia, with leather studded jacket, skin-tight black jeans, white reebok pumps with their fat tongues standing up, and massively permed (possibly even highlighted) hair cascading down his back. Judging by his bellicose expression and wide-legged swagger he's never even heard of the word "irony".
A final random observation: It never rains in London between the hours of 8.45am and 9.15am. Brilliant! I can ride my bike every day, and no matter how heavy the skies, no matter how dark and gloomy, it just never rains at that time. Ever.
Thank you God, for these small, puzzling presents you seem to enjoy handing out willy-nilly. Now get cracking on my love life already.