West London Girl

Portobello Girl Ventures Up North

August
12

'She rings the Tibetan Bells, the agreed signal for him to entertain her, and wonders what she’d like him to do'

WLG is on holiday. Her friend Portobello Girl steps in to tell us about her exploits up North.

Portobello Girl is at a loose end. Having brought her current squeeze up to her Cumbrian retreat, ostensibly to work, she’s wishing she’d just suggested a straightforward dirty stop-out. She’s so bored watching him re-master old jazz records it’s putting her off her stride. What with all that musical focus and smug efficiency she’s beginning to wish she’d left him at home. Attention span has never really been her thing, and watching his enviable focus is just demoralising.

Tying Tibetan bells round his neck and ordering him to dance a little court jester jig proved a short-lived yet rewarding distraction. But he’s back to Charlie Parker now, and PG is missing Selfridges.

She can’t get her head around the sartorial codes in the Lake District. Over breakfast in a local café, she was perturbed to find all the other customers in fleeces, anoraks and walking boots. Berghaus and The North Face appear to be the designers du jour, with Regatta and Peter Storm a close second. Suddenly her carefully co-ordinated outfit of patent knee high stilettos, skinny jeans, cashmere sweater (with embellished jewelled shoulder pads), slouchy calfskin jacket, and permawear Ray Bans didn’t blend in as well as she’d anticipated. PG wears trousers or jeans approximately once a year, so when packing in London this alone had seemed a considerable concession. Another nod to quaint, rural style came in the form of supersoft Fenn Wright Manson cashmere. But when faced with the reality of horizontal rain and locals in waterproofs, her supersoft sweaters felt decidedly inadequate.

As her thoughts turn to this evening, she wonders if she’ll find a watering hole where people don’t wear walking boots and beanies. Looking across at the Musician, she also wonders whether jumping him would prove more entertaining. She’s not really in the mood, but anything’s better than watching him bop along to the sax solo he’s just cleaned up, introverted and smugly content with his spliff and coffee.

PG briefly ponders what this says about her; that she begrudges another person’s organisation and efficiency. Wishing him to be as uninspired and bored as her seemed indicative of some deep-seated Machiavelli schadenfreude. Dismissing this thought, she decides he’s just inherently boring and best kept as court jester. She rings the Tibetan Bells, the agreed signal for him to entertain her, and wonders what she’d like him to do…

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