When a food hall becomes a museum of delights.

When someone so eloquently utters the words, “You are to enjoy it like a museum,” I am going to sit up and take notice. Every so often, amid the now ubiquitous headphone noise and mobile small-talk (‘Quiet Carriage’ this was not) my ears are treated to a snippet of conversation that not only inspires me but takes me on a journey of my very own.

Two exquisitely dressed women, as if taken from the pages of Madame Genevieve Antoine Dariaux’s, Elegance, are discussing, in detail, their trip to Harrods Food Hall. Laden with deep olive green bags, I am keen to find out what they have purchased.

“Did you see the way she sliced and packed it? Such care and attention. Ed will love it,” Sleek grey bob lady.

“It’s the hand-finished elements I like. Every piece perfectly executed. They’ll be great with a G&T this afternoon,” Chanel bag lady.

“You are to enjoy it like a museum,” sleek grey bob lady.

What will Ed Love, what was so beautifully sliced that it made for conversation? What hand-made things will be devoured with a G&T?  Temped to look in their bags – completely inappropriate!

I have walked through this famous food hall on a number of occasions, most often as a short cut to the toilets, but if I took some time to take in the wonderful items surrounding me, I too, think my visit would be more than a toilet dash. With a cultural display of all things tasty and divine, what’s not to like about this living museum of foodie delights?


Cupcakes and nail polish at 1pm

I am the proud owner of a Cath Kidston inspired picnic hamper which has yet to see the light of day – it was purchased at least three years ago. So, whenever I see a group of people carrying said item, I feel a sense of joy, as in my mind, picnic hampers = a long summer’s day!

A group of floral clad woman joined the train a couple of stops back possessing the most glorious wicker hamper full of beautifully hand-made cupcakes. I know this because as I type, their efforts are being rather competitively compared. One lady has even gone to the trouble of co-ordinating her nail polish, “The pastel yellow icing took ages to mix, wanted it to match my nail polish.”  Nods of admirable respect are shown from the group. I may’ve inadvertently joined in.

If I could capture this moment it would be the ultimate pick-me-up when tomorrow’s promise of rain greets us all.

Would the woman with the inflatable genitalia please move down the carriage?

Whenever I see a hen party I cringe. The noise, booze and mandatory ‘L’ plate accessories are simply too much to handle. Pack all of this onto a train, or worse still, a tube carriage, and the pre-marital excitement is verging on suffocating…or so I thought.

Yesterday evening’s journey home brought with it all the fun of a Friday night: excited theatregoers, families with super-hyper kids on the Haribo, an inflatable penis. I know what you’re thinking, who would be mad enough to give a couple of under 10s Haribo on a Friday night? Oh, the inflatable penis. Well, it was grinning from ear to ear, and with all that helium, was sure to be up all night! Much like those kids. Who said hen parties were tacky, with inflatable willies tempting all those brides-to-be, I say, let them travel!

If only Superman had used a public toilet…

I have made a life-long pact with myself to never use public toilets with automatic doors. Sooner or later they will malfunction and I have no doubt, I will be the red-faced person sitting there, dying of embarrassment – not a burden I am prepared to concern myself with. Naturally, I am therefore always a little curious as to those brave people who venture into these, quite frankly, terrifying contraptions.

While returning from a recent long-haul rail trip, a gentleman sitting a few rows ahead of me dared to enter the automated toilet experience. He had clearly taken part in a charity run; the sweat-covered sports shirt and carefully pinned 1042 number card were a dead give away. Without sounding too weird, he appeared to take rather a long time to emerge from the toilet, so I was relieved when he finally did. And what I saw could not have been more pleasing to the eye – if hugely ironic.

Our resident charity runner emerged from the loo in, wait for it, a Superman t-shirt! How bloody fantastic! I doubt he realised the symbolic reference of his outfit change, but I am now comforted by the fact that if I am ever taken short, Superman will never be far away. Why didn’t Clark Kent think of using a public toilet to transform into his alter-ego, Superman? Phone boxes are sooo overused.

The Godmother

The elderly woman in front of me is watching The Godfather on her iPad. Nothing wrong with that you might think. Let me elaborate: by elderly, I mean – in the nicest possible way – she probably witnessed Queen Victoria’s coronation, and when I say, “watching” The Godfather, I actually mean chuckling away to herself with every scene change. Correct me if I’m wrong, but last time I checked, Coppola’s classics were not comedic in any way, shape or form. Did I miss something? Slightly worried, tempted to move down the carriage.

Mr Kipling…Not suitable for exceedingly large breasts!

We’ve all experienced that unstoppable urge: our animal instincts take over and nothing and nobody will get in our way. Yes readers, I’m talking about the irresistible urge to down a Mr Kipling twin-pack.

As I made myself comfortable for this evenings commute home, an extremely well-endowed passenger (yes, I’m talking boobage) began to root around in her super-sized handbag for what looked like the answer to the meaning of life. In her case, a Mr Kipling twin pack Angel Slice will have to suffice. You could see her sheer elation (and a tad too much cleavage) as she began to open the wrapping.

A few minutes later, said passenger is still trying to get to her Angel Slices, the packaging is not playing ball. I am feeling her frustration, a well timed sugar fix can see anyone through a long journey home. As she struggles with those un-userfriendly ‘tear here’ tabs, I’m beginning to wonder whether the Angel Slices will survive.

And then, as if by magic, the packaging splits open sending the Angel Slices flying into the air. I swear this all happened in slow mo. What happened next, however, was priceless. As she sat, motionless, shocked to the core, the now falling Angel Slices landed, not on the floor, not on the passenger next to her, but down the front of her top! I have never witnessed such an embarrassing but equally well earned snack break. She deserved every bite of those exceedingly good cakes.

The weekend starts early…for some

“No, I can’t leave work early today. It’s not a bloody hobby, it’s a job!”

It’s nice to hear some people still possess a strong work ethic.

I would’ve believed her too, if it wasn’t for the cornucopia of designer shopping bags she was carrying, and the fact that it was 2.30pm. Someone’s enjoying the sunshine.