Fireworks

I’m sorry, but this global recession thing is just getting too damn personal. First I lose my lovely little part-time job. Then a nice restaurant in the village, Piaf, suddenly closes down with virtually no warning. And now I hear that the handbag shop, Jags, has also gone for good.

This is doubly sad as, not only did Jags sell gorgeous bags for less than stratospheric prices, it was also run by really lovely people, whose daughters went to my daughters’ school. What a terrible shame that they’ve had to close. I hope they’re not too sad, and that they can start up again somewhere else really soon.

When we went to Wales over the summer, and the friends we were staying with had named their pigs Goldman and Sachs, I really thought it was a little harsh. Particularly as everyone knew that Goldman and Sachs would shortly be appearing at the breakfast table in the form of bacon. Now, though, I’m thinking, it wasn’t nearly harsh enough. Next year  I hope they’ll simply call their pigs Effing Banker and Peeing Banker.

And, to add dire insult to painful injury, it turns out that the Brockwell Park Firework Night display has been cancelled this year. The Council can’t afford it because of savage, banker-induced budget cuts, apparently. That is a crying shame, as it’s a fantastic display that the whole of Herne Hill goes to and loves. And the fact that we get amazing unimpeded views of the whole show for free from Child One’s bedroom has nothing to do with my disappointment. Well, maybe just a little bit.

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