The Notting Hill Years

I have been a bad blogger. The problem is the move. I shall never do it again. I shall be taken out of this flat in a box. The coffin will be picked up by Selfridge's and delivered to an old lady in Tooting who ordered four garden chairs. And - I may as well come clean - I now live in Notting Hill, though I have not yet filed for citizenship. Apparently I need a thorough knowledge of bad novels written within half a mile of the tube station. I am already getting used to avoiding the herds of wild estate agents that gallop and howl in the streets and the groovy couples maddened with indecision at the fish shop where they sell sea bass at £963 a kilo. But I shall adapt, though the Bayswater ageing rocker wardrobe will have to go. I am thinking neo-seventies - flares, suede jacket, silk scarf, that kind of thing. I can't get used to the food and I may have kleftiko shipped in from the Halepi, the excellent though eccentric Bayswater Greek patronised by Branson, Nige and others. Meanwhile, I shall watch out for Hugh Grant and report my first sighting here. But now I must go for my first language lesson.