However, and I am truly sorry, this post is not going to be solely about the green shop. I hope you're not too disappointed. Honestly, I don't think I could get anything out of it other than what is above. I could try, but I'm not going to, because more changes have been afoot this past week...
Despite the fact that it's still high summer, with glorious, balmy days (well, ish - in a London sort of way) and blue skies (yes, again, ish) it would appear that the football season is on again.
Every year it takes me by surprise. Because, seriously, the last football season just finished. How is it even possible that they've started again? H1 and I didn't believe it, despite all the evidence - the hordes of people making their way into Fulham, the rubbish on the ground, the smell of takeaways in the air - bewildered, we looked around us, we listened to the stampeding feet and the roars coming through the air, and like reeeeaaaalllly slow people, we eventually came to the conclusion that yes, in fact, it was the football responsible. Then we swore. A lot.
Being a foreigner in London, you have to be very careful about showing your distaste for football, or so goes the accepted wisdom. I'm quite an open person, I don't do well with lies or secrets - so I'm pretty sure everyone around me knows exactly how I feel about it. Including you. It's not just that I don't get the game (although I don't - how can you feel passion for something when nothing ever happens?) but I just don't understand any of it. The takeaways! The rubbish! The nylon! How can one sport make so many people, grown people, people who should know better, wear such vast quantities of nylon?
I would question where all that nylon comes from, but I know. The reason I know is because across the road is a 'club shop' which sells football nylon for people who don't actually play for the club, but like to dress like they do. (In nylon). All I can say is I hope this 'shop' heavily invests in fire retardant every football season. Seems like a good insurance policy.
There is a club shop across the road from us, because we live near a football club. Not very far away, in the other direction, is another club shop, which - surprise, surprise - has another football club rather close to it. Essentially, our flat lies in a midpoint, an equidistant amount from two football clubs that lie in opposite directions. And they're not the funny type of football clubs, where four people show up when they play at home and sit on benches outside, shivering in the rain. I could respect that. No, these are big clubs, which belong to the Premiership (please don't ask how I know that word) and have fans, and everything. It is grim.
What this boils down to is that H1 and I are not football lovers. Yet we live really close to two football clubs. Our flat is probably the worst point in London for those who are not fans of the beautiful (yet lets be honest, intensely boring) game to live. And we live there.
It's a cruel irony, and every year, when the football season starts up again and scares the living daylights out of me, I reflect upon our decision and laugh, as I recall our conviction that the location was pretty much perfect. It is a rather wonderful thing actually, like looking back at how stupid you were when you were a teenager, and realising how much you've changed. Except without the change bit. Another summer nearly over, another football season back on, another nylon shirt sold. All you can do is roll with it and laugh, and so long as it's funny (and football will always be really quite a joke to me) it's all ok.