spruced by marlene

Oh, London. We hadn’t see each other in too long. I’d almost forgotten how dear you are to me. You reminded me again this weekend. When I picked up two pounds of Weekend Guardian in the morning and the news agent called me “luv”, six times in one minute. When I had afternoon tea at Liberty. When I bit into a scone with clotted cream. When a Martini tasted like a proper fucking Martini. When Bill Nighy walk past me in the street, double-breasted suit, pocket square, brogues, couldn’t have looked more British. When I stood in line for the changing rooms at Topshop in Oxford Circus, surrounded by that hum of frenetic shopping you only hear there. When I flicked on the TV to Match of the Day. When I walked across Leicester Square at night and kept passing those London girls, in their violently high heels and skirts up to HERE. No tights, of course. Tights don’t really suit you, London. Neither does restraint. You’re a bit too brash, too fast, too rough. But I love you for it. Let’s meet again soon.

None of which has anything to do with Poppy Delevingne. Well, almost nothing. She’s wearing sunglasses from House of Holland here, a brand that could only be from London. The writing says: “Cross my heart, hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.” Why? Who knows. But putting that on a pair of sunnies strikes me as delightfully eccentric and, you know, very British.