Marylebone and St. James' Park

My menfolk went back to Leicester on Saturday and with nobody to please but myself, I decided to check on how the other half live and took myself off to Marylebone for the afternoon.

I walked up to Canary Wharf and took the Jubilee Line to Bond Street. I always think of the Jubilee Line as the poshest tube line. I know Piccadilly has bragging rights over Kensington but it’s just not as polished as its sleek, grey sister. Decanting myself from the tube I ventured in the opposite direction to begin with. I had decided to take myself out for lunch and wanted to see if Le Truc Vert on North Audley Street was still there. Technically I was trespassing in Mayfair rather than Marylebone but I took the chance that a) nobody would throw me out and b) it was still there. Sadly it has gone the way of all things and I must eke out the memories of the few times I got to eat there. I exited Mayfair swiftly.

Oxford Street is to be avoided at all costs and that goes double on the weekend, so I threaded down the side of Selfridges, skirting Portman Square where I was once offered a job at a very fancy estate agents and through into Manchester Square. I thought about going to visit the Fragonard in The Wallace Collection, but I was too hungry to stop for paintings so it was on with all speed to Marylebone High Street.

It’s been a few years and I was rather disappointed at the lack of choice when it came to food. Lots of my old favourites had closed down. The fashion at the moment seems to be for retro French style bistros and I just wasn’t in the mood. I drifted past tables brimming with people wearing loafers and artfully draped cashmere, feeling hungry and out of place. Too many men with ruddy cheeks and trousers to match for my liking. In the end I decided to take myself out for a picnic and dashed into Bayley & Sage, a well stocked deli with a fantastic selection of food to go. I plumped for a portion of Greek salad, some heritage tomatoes, a small French stick and a cinnamon bun with cream cheese frosting that was the size of a small car. The lady at the till supplied me with cutlery and a hefty supply of napkins.

I walked to the end of the High Street and settled on a bench in Marylebone churchyard where I fell on my food like a starving woman. Haunted by pigeons who didn’t receive a crumb, I was pleased when a Russian woman sat at the next bench and immediately began to feed them. I nearly got shat on twice by pigeons incensed at my inability to share nicely. The second time it happened it missed me by a whisker, splatting down on paving stones with a wet plop. The woman raised her head: ‘Lucky!’ she observed, before getting back to her hungry birds.

After they had eaten their fill, two pigeons stayed nearby, one, carefully grooming the other’s head and neck, while the one being attended to kept shutting its eyes in ecstasy. It was an Indian head massage for pigeons. Even I felt relaxed by the time it was over.

Marylebone High Street is the home of Daunt Books, which is - in my opinion, the best bookshop in the world. It’s a beautiful building in its own right. The fact that it’s filled with beautiful books is an added bonus. When I had finished filling my belly, I went for a browse to fill my mind. It was absolutely rammed and there was no chance at all of a peaceful browse, so I cut my losses and left after one too many people had barged past me, throwing piles of books to the wind in the pursuit of tote bags emblazoned with the name of the store. If you’re going to a bookshop to ignore the books and buy a tote bag there’s something wrong.

I wandered in and out of expensive boutiques, expensive charity shops and expensive everything else shops before diving down onto Marylebone Lane to visit V. V. Rouleaux to look at the ribbons and bibbons of every size. I always want to buy something when I’m there. I never do, because there is just too much choice and I get overwhelmed and run away.

There was a street fair/market going on outside. It was very much a rich man’s affair. Hippies in artfully distressed dresses worth more than a V. W. camper van were rolling cigarettes, lolling on patchwork chaise longues. Women in peasant dresses they picked up in Ibiza for a song, were crouched outside a boutique learning how to weave autumnal garlands. A string quartet were playing an assortment of classical hits while people stood around drinking wine. As I marched onwards, I passed a woman with her knitwear knotted around her shoulders, herding a coterie of immaculately groomed sausage dogs announcing to her companion. ‘I love this. It’s such a vibe.’ That’s how you know that nobody under the age of twenty-five will ever say the word vibe again unless they wish to mock you mercilessly.

I turned down onto Wigmore Street to pay a flying visit to my favourite chemist. I know it’s weird to have a favourite chemist, but it is what it is. John Bell & Croyden is the one. It’s been around for decades. Back in the day, half the window display was always exciting stuff that you would usually only find in European pharmacies, where chemists are much more mysterious and exciting. The other half was always plastic trusses and walking aids. They also used to have a significant display of old school swimming hats like my granny used to wear. Bright, dimpled affairs with chin straps and huge rubbery blooms that made you look like an aquatic floral clock. I took the kids in once and we all tried them on. They were splendid.

These days they have had a bit of a remodel. It’s still a huge, department store of pharmaceutical wizardry, but they have gone into private healthcare and cut back on the walking aids. I’m always amazed that the stuff that’s casually displayed on the shelves is so expensive. Shampoos at sixty quid a bottle just languish on the shelf. Face creams push over the hundred quid mark. God knows how much the stuff behind the counters is worth. I spent a very enjoyable twenty minutes pretending to be wealthy and then scarpered when the shop assistants started asking if I wanted any help. I thought about asking for a loan.

I wandered across Oxford Street and through to Piccadilly, window shopping all the private art galleries along the way. I popped into Hatchards, which was less busy than Daunt Books and had such a nice time browsing I accidentally on purpose came out with a book. I took it down to St. James’ Park and sat and read it. Well, I tried to read it. It wasn’t that it was a bad book, I was just too easily distracted by people watching.

I thought people would be excited by the promise of the pelicans that live in the park. I certainly was. It turns out that most people didn’t give a crap about pelicans but they were completely besotted by squirrels. There were so many people filming squirrels, coaxing squirrels and delighted by squirrels you would think they had never seen one before. The only exception was the man standing like the messiah performing a miracle, festooned with parakeets.

I went and nodded to the pelicans because I felt quite sorry for them. They turned their backs on me, which led me to believe that perhaps people had been shunned by the pelicans and had had to take solace with the squirrels as a last resort.