Chelsea — “Nothing is forever, to live is to suffer, please give generously.”

012 : Andrew Flynn on the King’s Road, Chelsea
Born in the 20th Century in London. Andrew Flynn currently works as a psychiatrist Why London? Because The Smoke gets in your eyes. He digs the following London bits: the view from the top of the Number 3 as it crosses the river, the way the Thames smells and the relief of surviving the Elephant & Castle roundabout on a bicycle. He is, however, a bit miffed by the price of beer, the tat on Oxford Street and the terror of facing the Elephant & Castle roundabout on a bicycle. For more info on Andrew Flynn you should send an email or visit Soulcomposting.

image: Andrew Flynn
“Nothing is forever, to live is to suffer, please give generously.”

It’s the first day of the Peter Jones^[1] summer sale and the rain has not let up all morning, varying only it seems in its intensity. I can see each outward breath condensing into dandelion-fine white mist on my way to the parking ticket dispenser. It’s the end of June but it could easily be October if it were not for the green. I’m sticky damp by the time we get to the store where nothing, it is said, is ever knowingly undersold.

The sale is a disappointment. I suppose there’s a special irony about sales: the stuff that’s discounted is the stuff that won’t otherwise sell. If you like something you see - I mean, really like it - then the chances are it is indeed a truly likeable thing.^[2] And, because of its inherent universal likeableness, it will inevitably, as night follows day, lack the little red tag that says: ‘Today you have been blessed’. Also, my excitable waist-high shopping companion only wanted to look at the toys. And it was crowded. So very, very crowded.

As we trudge back through the rain along the red brick streets, clutching our solitary duvet cover, trying to find where daddy left the car, I reflect on how we’ll laugh about this later. Irony, like fine brandy, is best enjoyed when it’s had time to mature, I decide.

The traffic is crawling along the stretch of the King’s Road in front of the store’s facade. I have a few moments to study the man in the red cloak and sandals holding a bucket and a sign. He must surely be collecting money, but he makes no approach to any passer-by, doesn’t even rattle his vessel. Sir Alan would most definitely not be impressed. He stays rooted to the spot, sometimes shifting his weight to the other foot, sometimes glancing up and down the street, but little else. I notice then that his is the calmest face here. I like to think that his sign says something spiritually wrong-footing like: ‘Nothing is forever, to live is to suffer, please give generously’.

But maybe he’s not collecting money at all. Perhaps he’s collecting a little bit of the suffering that passes in front of him on the pavement. With the rain and the traffic and the frustrations of the PJ sale, trade will probably pick up soon. He might even need a bigger bucket. I suspect there’ll be one on offer in the basement.

referenced works

The Peter Jones shop was founded by Welsh draper Peter Jones, and has been at its current Sloane Square location since 1864. The company website claims that the residents of Chelsea consider it to be their ‘local corner shop’. This says a lot more about the residents of Chelsea than it does about the similarities between this posh department store and a newsagent’s. Only someone with servants would believe you could buy a pint of milk and a copy of Heat there. ↩

And a shop with a department called, I’m not joking, Footopia can only be crammed with intensely likeable things. The idea that the concept of feet can, even in jest, be associated with a place of supposedly ideal perfection is disgusting. Just ask the girl who files down the Duchess’s bunyons every Tuesday. ↩

location information

Name: the King’s Road
Address: Sloane Square, London, SW1W 8EL
Time of story: Morning
Latitude: 51.492499698989036
Longitude: -0.15934467315673828
Map: Google Maps

commentary

020 “There’s not going to be enough pavement to go around.” — Evelyn Owen

019 “Then our eyes flicked back together again, and a tear was gathering on her cheek.” — Stephen Ledger-Lomas

018 “One of them shot me 'die hippy' neon rays from under his star-shaped glasses.” — Dylan Carline

017 “I often wonder how many of those photographs I have popped up on.” — Gemma Barder

016 “'Thank you, London!' cries possibly-famous scruffy lead singer.” — Jen Paton

015 “Around us, drivers beep their horns and pedestrians trample on my clean jumpers and skirts.” — Emma Hardy

014 “No chance for bloomers and wigs to outnumber tracksuits - we were on our own.” — Cecilia

013 “Then the unthinkable had happened. We met and became ‘friends’.” — John

012 “Nothing is forever, to live is to suffer, please give generously.” — Andrew Flynn

011 “The taste is salt water, and the rubbery texture never-ending.” — Janet Nesaule

010 “I pressed the side of my hand to my forehead, pointlessly.” — Tim Wood

009 “His voice falters, but refuses to capsize.” — Benjamin Mmusi

008 “A hollow understanding of togetherness wrapped around everyone.” — Zoonie (or Cait for short)

007 “In amongst the railway arches and Victorian masonry, the dead spaces remain intact.” — Richard Kovitch

006 “A big scruffy bloke began watching.” — Joseph Ridgwell

005 “Why did I feel so warm and fuzzy inside?” — Yuki Nakano

004 “I smiled and nodded in an informed and knowledgeable way.” — Pictorial Soup

003 “Bobo-the-hobo, swag, mighty mezz. It's all there right in front.” — Craig Mod

002 “To my shame, I realise I am crying.” — Jayne Newton Chance

001 “Her skirt snaps in the wind like a flag.” — Heidi James

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