There is sometimes a darkling pleasure in conforming to malign stereotypes.
This morning, like a good urban Guardianista, I filled the cats’ water dish with French mineral water.
Granted, we are currently without mains water*. The bottles of mineral water came, o joy, from the back of a lorry. After Sunday afternoon football on the common, I wandered over to the car park in the middle of the green and took my quota of 12 litres from the man on the flatbed.
As I remarked to Dr Biswell while phoning from the queue by the standpipe, it was one of those moments when the spirit of the Blitz came through; queues for everything; planes blazing low overhead; a burgeoning black market; everyone gasping for hot, sweet tea.
Thinking about it, that’s what London’s always like.
* For some reason, Thames Water’s news page is titled “We”. We what? We apologise? We will fix it? We are legion? Whichever it really is, it comes across as a nicely judged piece of corporate self-aggrandisement — we are that we are.