I pretended that I lived in "Liberty's" today , blaming an OCD complex for the copius amounts of identicle books and furniture I owned ; assuming an old lady in a wheel chair to be my mother; adopting a Japanese tourist as a maid, the usual japes of a londoner with time on his/her/it's hands, or feet, or hip-bone ( hip bones are the most extraordinary things, I feel sorry for fat people that don't have them) . . .
I felt like I was recycling life into some sort of fantastical machine, taking 50cl of liberty adding an ounce of fraternity, and seasoning with freedom ; viva le carnaby street. Kissing random unknowns in the lift, and lamenting a champagne bar below the ground. I could have been at a car boot sale, if not for the 'Aryan' helpers, trying to force the final solution down my throat in the guise of silver plated cufflinks.
I was rather taken with a plastic moulded bathroom stationary holder , pencils for teeth brushing , quills as loafers , ink under the eyes , but resisted the urge to purge my lunch on the price tag. All the while impressed by the continuity of the music, between rooms, and between floors, a marvel of the modern age lost to tune-tailored mood boards on an epic scale - Gone With the Wind on the Radio, replaced by Hancock's Half Hour on Tape.
I must have radiated the aura of cottaging ; a young man, who I can only describe as ' French' withdrew after what seemed like 2 seconds, pinching the tubes to avoid urinal rash, but he saved his dignity, however, failed to take my Liberty.
