The Devil Wears Primark

I’ve discovered something about myself since moving to London.

Nothing spiritual. No beautiful enlightenment, no sudden epiphany, no shining star existing in the centre of my being.

I’ve merely discovered my inner bitch.

I know I’ve touched on the subject of London transport with you before, but lately I’ve been spending much more time on buses and tubes after my laptop broke and I know find myself commuting into university daily in order to use their computers. I found myself mentally quoting and wishing I had the same panache and power as the delightful Miranda Priestley (a fictional draconian magazine editor, for those who perhaps don’t recognise the name, who appears in The Devil Wears Prada) in response to those that insist on taking up the entire pavement/road/tube station/world with their slooooooooow pace.

“By all means, move at a glacial pace, you know how that thrills me.” were the exact words I believe, and my goodness, they are apt.

Except with me, I don’t wear Prada. Please. I’m a student. So, this brings me to my title. The Devil Wears Primark.

That’s right, transport brings out the demon in us all, but particularly me. I find myself glaring balefully at all those in my way, slithering my way inhumanly through gaps that a cat would struggle with, overtaking with little consideration for any I leave in my wake and grumbling if this is made impossible.

Short post today, in a brief dissertation break as I desperately rewrite all the data I lost in the aforementioned laptop episode. I’m not even sure if it really makes sense, after hours of staring blindly at a statistical programme my ability to string together a coherent sentence seems to abandon me.

I wish I could go back to the chocolate fountain restaurant: the subject of my next post.



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