That Sacred Triangle thing continues to unfold madly. It's properly riveting, although a trifle sleep deprived due to over zealous ‘to-do’ list composition including late evening cinema visit, so keep nodding off. One more session and will have consumed it. Dave, Lou, Iggy, those crazy guys*... Finished World of Leather/Ages of Man piece, the conclusion being literally penned on the 38 (more of this bus later). Think is gonna be alright perhaps, The Literary Stripper said she liked it, The Sunday Times Style just need to print it, the blighters.

The 38 bus route on Shaftesbury Avenue, Cambridge Circus. So different, so the same.


It's all very Swiss this time of year for us kettle-fanciers, and been writing about how fashionistas look at watches for the vaunted QP magazine, the chicest watch title in Europe. Talking of Swiss...I’ve become a collector of breads. It’s a transient sort of hobby. I get emotionally attached to certain loaves. They come, they go, at least it keeps you on your toast.

In other carb based news, I’ve also become an Alpen addict. It happened so quickly, like with many addictions these days. Not during the days, you understand, but undercover of nights. My stomach and bladder have formed an alliance. Bladder wakes me up in the night, while stomach gorges on Alpen. It’s a Swiss based Sporadic serial insomnia. (Bread picture to follow).

Vintage Vacheron Constantin.

Days are better structured. I had a nigh-on perfect working day yesterday, mainly due to correct transport decision. A nine a.m. call time in Archer Street, Soho, reminded me of the job I had on Shaftesbury Avenue nearly twenty years ago. I worked in John Anthony, a men’s designer label boutique, (and unofficial boys club HQ for the early Nineties). I caught the 38 from Clapton Pond, and breezed happily all the way to Soho. Got more work done with pen and paper than would in whole morning plotted in yard on Mac. Jumped off bus where used to spend my working week including Saturday. Dean the Arsenal fanatical window cleaner walked past with his triangulated ladder and cloth, just like he always did. “Alright Tom?” he, said, as if it was 1993. Nothing had changed. Except perhaps twenty years of No.38 buses passing by on our faces. At once so different and yet so the same.

Berwick Steeet, Soho.


Stubbs will always be out in The Metropolis.

PS. Another sacred triangle that seems equally important right now is the 38, the 56 and the 243 routes.

*gotta find out somehow if Dave rumped Nico, in which case all three of the triangle will have been through her sacred triangle. Just a thought.

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