Hope and Greenwood

Mr G and I set forth in the Morris to partake of a jolly supper chez Bloomers. Bloomers is stout of both personality and girth. I would not trust him with the keys to my pie shop over a bank holiday, though I would be happy to leave him alone in a room with an exercise bike for hours on end.
He is also really scary, bellows a lot and is conjoined to his mobile. For all these alarming qualities I am rather fond of him and one day hope to beat him at mud wrestling where, if he is really lucky, I will come out on top.

I am introduced to his lovely lady wife, his honey-pink, edible baby and two Thai orphan handmaidens, perhaps they are going to indulge us in some post cheesecake love-you-long-time parlour games.

There are several well heeled (‘I haven’t been skiing once this year’) lawyers and the fashion designer Mary Finnegan, the preferred bling of all the women in Dulwich Village and beyond, and her husband Doormat. I am really looking forward to meeting this design genius.

We are lined up on a sofa, Mary, Doormat, Mr G and me. Mary is dressed in head to toe own brand, dartless capsule collection, and why not, it is free and she is not encumbered with breasts.

I do my best to engage in my normal jolly manner, but her opening, ‘I have no idea who you are,’ rather sets the tone and I withdraw to plan a retaliatory stinger for later.

Doormat and Mr G are comparing shoes. Doormat is very clearly wearing unequaled Grenson’s brogues at £250 a pop whilst Mr G is wearing their very poor relation over his acrylic Tesco socks.

‘Do you think we are wearing the same make of shoe?’ smiles Doormat. Has this man a scout badge for one-up-manship or is he as blind as Blind Billy? (Who once tried to put his tongue down my throat when I helped him cross the road).

Mary shifts her tiny backside in her 1970s flares and scowls at her husband. It is the scowl of someone who knows better. Any lowly flip flop fondler could see that Doormat’s shoes are the pièce de résistance, the shoes of Kings and fashionistas. I can feel the catwalk flame thrower of Irish scorn burning in her eyes. When she gets him home she will give him a tongue lashing and the cack filled colostomy bags of a thousand Royal College graduates will rain down on his sorry ass.

‘Do you think we buy our shoes from the same shop?’ repeats Doormat eagerly.

I smile, I take my time, here it comes,

‘Isn’t Primark amazing?’