Pride

I don’t need a new kitchen. Of course, I’d like one, but I don’t need one. Yet, we were among the first across the threshold of a kitchen design shop opening on Finchley Road this morning because one of PY’s colleagues was involved in the opening. So, after we’d bought a quick breakfast from Waitrose (closing next week for improvements) and eaten it around the corner, we approached the big balloon arch and, at noon, stepped over the threshold. The showroom is beautifully done; I wanted every kitchen and all the appliances. There was a cooking demonstration, and I even wanted the oven. I am less convinced about the current trend for textured walls (it reminds me of the wallpaper in my bedroom as a child), but can I have everything else, even the doorway disguised as a kitchen unit?

We headed home via central London. It’s Pride Day, initially London’s response to the Stonewall riots in New York City, and it has since evolved into a major annual event celebrating diversity. And, of course, it’s grown to an all-day (weekend?) event. We watched the parade for about an hour from Piccadilly, following it down Haymarket, and I don’t think we saw half of it. It’s a joyous day of rainbow colours and smiling faces.

But we couldn’t stay out as we headed home for a turnaround to get to Streatham for dinner with Mark, Rob, and Eleanor. We stopped to buy a bottle of something chilled at the Aldi in Streatham, and when we left, Tesco’s Pride float, shown in this photo, was passing—a much less colourful sight as it trundled home without the celebratory crowds on the back.

It was a delightful evening that, once again, involved us dancing until the early hours. I was also introduced to ultrasonic cleaning; my glasses and ring cleaned up really well. I must remember about these.

It was one of those nights that required an Uber to get us home—a fifteen-minute, £33 ride that got us in at 3:50 am.