You may remember that chez les tigres, Friday is Omelette Day. Well, it is if we are not otherwise engaged, for example chasing half-way across Britain (or lately, Europe) on a courier run.
As usual, we went to the friendly little Italian-run cafe round the corner from Tigger’s workplace. Tigger has her Spanish omelette (yes, a Spanish omelette in an Italian cafe!) with salad while I have mine with chips. Salad may be healthier but chips, well, chips is chips!
Today the weather is serving up a solid helping of that rare commodity, rain. It has rained all day, an annoying rain that is just a little too heavy to brave without an umbrella and I do so dislike carrying a dripping umbrella on the bus and the tube.
After lunch, I left poor Tigger to do an afternoon’s work and nipped home. I managed to get a front seat upstairs on the bus and took a few photos along the way. You can see the wet conditions in the photo above as we cross London Bridge.1
When I reached home, I met my neighbour from the flat above, on his way out. He gave me some disturbing news which I will say more about later.
A sensible tiger would have stayed at home in the dry but when was I ever sensible? To misquote a certain C.J., “I didn’t get where I am today by being sensible.” So off I went, wet weather notwithstanding, to meet Tigger from work. We did plan to make a certain purchase at the Old Street branch of Argos but put it off because of the weather.
That didn’t stop us dropping into Starbuck’s at Liverpool Street station, however, for coffee and cake. Well it is Friday and so I think we deserve a treat.
I don’t know what use the premises served before Starbuck’s occupied them but notice the ornate carving around the mirror over the fireplace. Perhaps this was once part of a hotel, long since turned into other things.
I took the photo with my phone camera in order to remain inconspicuous. However, I forgot that the flash was turned on… Oh dear. Fortunately, no one objected.
Now for my neighbour’s bad news. Do you remember the episode of the Fungus of the stairs? It took a long time and a modicum of annoyance but the problem was eventually dealt with. Or so we thought.
Being something of a handyman, my neighbour was exploring the common area of the house, looking for somewhere to store his tools. First, he discovered fungus on the stairs…
and proceeding further, he came upon a nice big cupboard, just right for storing his tools, but guess what was lurking inside…
… More fungus, a big pad of it!
I suggested that my neighbour might like to call Partners for Improvement in Islington, who are responsible for carrying out repairs but he suggest that I do it. I was not altogether surprised.
There are four households in our block but, without there ever being a vote on it as far as I recall, I seem to have been elected unpaid concierge. My phone number is in the phonebook of every works foreman in the borough. Our doorbell is the first to be rung when they want access.
It’s funny in a way and I at least find out what is going on and who’s doing what and why. So I have someone coming to look at the fungus next Wednesday, some time between midday and 5:30. In the meantime, I keep looking at the front door, half-expecting to see a fungoid tentacle feeling its way into our flat…
1Note for American readers. Americans often think that the famous turreted bridge designed to fit in with the style of the Tower of London is London Bridge. It isn’t. It is Tower Bridge. London Bridge is the relatively unremarkable bridge to the west that connects Southwark with the City. If it is any consolation, some provincial Brits have also been known to make the same mistake though they should know better.