Walking down a street in Spitalfield's we came across these two dapper gentlemen in matching suits, walking towards us. One of them had his arms up, wrists sort of pointed foreward, forearms in a protective gesture, as if he was saying "Ew. Hoi Polloi, Plebians, don't touch me". I, of course, noticed this, as I somehow was in the exact positon on the sidealk to walk directly between said dapper gentlemen. I mentioned this to Julia. In a taunting tone of voice.
Found out five minutes later that those gentlemen were Gilbert and George, famous artists, subject of a very large exhibit at the Tate Modern, and also residents of the very street were were strolling down.
So much for my artsy knowledge.
Then, today, as I ran up Southwark Street to catch my train to Heathrow, I was cut off by a very large and very posh car, with a royal crest on top. I sort of peered in, as I was tired and was thinking maybe it was a really nice cab and I could get a ride to Heathrow, but, no, it was a member of the royal family, and I think it was a prince. A YOUNG prince.
I do wish the royal family would quit trying to run me over. It's getting tedious.
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