London – A Vignette

Last Saturday afternoon, Andrea and I were wandering along Piccadilly, noseying about, enjoying the sights.  It was really rather beautiful.  We passed Fortnum & Mason on one side, The Royal Society on the other.  We strolled by, spoiled by high end, luxury shops and gorgeous, Georgian architecture coming in from every side. 

On our journey, we approach The Wolseley.  It is very chic, very establishment.  It is supposed to be an exquisite place to eat.  I cannot say. I have never been there.

There is a doorman outside.  He is ludicrously dressed in an elaborate black suit and hat.  He wears gloves.  On this bustling Saturday afternoon he is busy scurrying up and down the pavement with one of those brush and dustpan combinations on a long pole.  The pavement, as far as pavements in one of the busiest capital cities in the world goes, is immaculate.  I wouldn’t say I’d like to eat my dinner off of it, but I cannot see why he is in such a tizzick.

He is so concerned about the state of the floor that he never once looks up.  We watch him with interest as we pass by.  On the wall of the restaurant, next to the door, is a brass name plate with ‘The Wolseley’ emblazoned on it in black and gold.  We notice a scrap of paper, which seems to be stuck to the bottom corner of the plate.

We are intrigued.

We are unable to see what it is, as there is a slight breeze which is blowing the edge of the paper away from us.

We stop when we draw next to it.  We look at it carefully.

We laugh.

A lot.

It is a postcard advertising a prostitute’s wares.  The sort you used to find plastered all over the inside of telephone boxes.  It is quite a high quality one.  Instead of a dubious black and white line drawing it has a full, colour photograph of a well endowed young lady with a smile like a horse and a gigantic, uncovered, free range bosom.  Her telephone number is emblazoned across the bottom.

Meanwhile the doorman scurries backwards and forwards, still picking invisible crumbs up from the pavement with his dustpan and brush.

It would never do for anyone to think that ‘The Wolseley’ was a dirty place.

No.  That would never do.

Advertisement