London Calling

So, I went to London for a few weeks and stayed for months and months - as one does.  I was staying with a good friend, Margo, from high school who lived south of the River Thames in Clapham.    Margo and I were friends with two Brits, Val and Christina.  Margo, a talented musician, led a band that played in all the right places and had a hit that was moving up on the charts.  

Our little clan would go out, look fabulous, dance, laugh ourselves silly and cause all sorts of havoc. 

Val, an artist, had that fabulous David Bowie, Tilda Swinton, British androgynous look.  Christina was born in Africa, her father a general in the British Army was stationed there.  She had polio when she was young, Africa being one of the last places to eradicate the disease.  She has one leg shorter than the other and wore a shoe to correct the height difference.  After the first second of meeting her you forgot about it.  Christina was vibrant and alive.  Christina's sister circulated with the royal crowd.  Christina had a little shop in Clapham that sold buttons (called badges to the Brits) and everyone congregated there.  At any moment of time someone was making tea, drinking tea or clearing up the tea. Refusing a second cup of tea because I was a little speedy, Christina said, "You sound like a bloody foreigner." To which I said the obvious, "I am a foreigner!"  

One special night we were heading to a party, given by a friend of Val's.  Supposedly it was to be a great party and we were particularly sparkly.  It was on the outskirts of town and Christina drove her van.  We got a little lost, circled back, reviewed the map, and traveled and traveled.  It took quite a long time, but finally we arrived.  We charged up the stairs to the party.  It was fun and not quite what I expected, but what is?  

After about an hour or so, Val said, I have to tell you something.  We're at the wrong party!  Somehow after all that searching we landed on a party, just not the right one. Whose party was it?  The Hells Angels.  Of course we didn't blink an eye at the preponderance of motorcycles or leather pants. They were fun and welcoming, and no one asked how we knew the hostess, including the hostess.  We aimed for a party and we found one.  So we stayed.

I'm not sure how we made it back home, perhaps the Hells Angels gave us a convoy.  Seek and Ye shall find.