My hipstamatic dont lie

Paris not flooded

In 1955 Paris was flooded, almost. The streets were filled with water, lamposts grew like flowers and all that remained of the cars was the horizontal space of their rooves. They peppered the watery streets like so many floating kitchen tables. None of these tables retained salt or pepper.

A woman goes to the butcher in her canoe. I am not sure what I would ride to work, an inverted desk? A bedroom drawer?

Secular Eruv

FINALLY.

This week I am all about washing lines, launderettes and greasy spoons. Bagel shops and bakeries can be glad to have made it to a close second.

When I say bakeries I am thinking of the ones you find in places like Leeds; tiny, crummy, a little bleached looking with wide open windows and sorry looking displays, bags of buns and eccles cakes. Nothing costs more than twenty pence and you can get instant coffee while you wait. The women wear pastel and oddly shaped tabards and sometimes, if you're lucky, there will be a bin of out of date Space Raiders or Monster Munch.

I am a bakewell girl myself but I was always tempted by the sturdy looking budnt cakes or even a cheesy scone. Bakewells come in silver foil caselets, cakes and scones in paper bags. Everything is labelled with a jagged flourescant price tag and at the end of the day (which if I remember rightly is lunch time) you can come away with a baked bargain. Oh Northern bakeries I miss you!