I go on a small journey of discovery to try to clear my head. Down to Picadilly Circus where the bus conveniently turns around the right corner to the left and drops me off in front of Waterstones. Waterstones is one of the biggest chains of bookstores in England, but for once Waterstones is not the quarry: I am looking for more genteel prey. For a block beyond Waterstones lies Hatchards, a bookstore of quite different character: Hatchards is By Royal Appointment or whatever it´s called, here shop the Queen and Prince Phillip and other of their kin. I have never been before, but always like finding new bookstores.
Hatchards turns out to have very tasteful interior with wood panelling, but not too much of it, and discreet bookshelves (yes, they can be, trust me). Not many people in here, yet very attentive staff and a feeling of class. And no, repeat no books standing with On Sale-stickers on them, or ”2 for the price of 1”. I walk up all the way to the fourth floor, slowly ambling through the rooms. Delightful place.
In one room I find all the books on theology and religion, with a table of books about the recently beatified (made into a saint) english cardinal Newman, whose home-church I passed on another bus. It had a huge banner of him down the front. It was probably there that the Pope went and held service to present the beatification. The pope left only last week, and if you want to have a strange, very unreal experience, try glancing into a shop window only to find yourself eye to eye with 30 different versions of the pope, done as poster, tablet, statue and 3D in all different sizes. I´m sure I was traumatised by it. I might need medical assistance. Preferably with a pretty nurse.
Anyway. I digress. In this room in Hatchards, on one of the shelves, were two shelves full of boxes. Curious, I walk closer. To my surprise I read that these are boxes full of communion wafers, done by a small manufacturer somewhere in the country-side. Communion wafers. The ”flesh” of christ. On the third shelf up, in a central London bookstore. Well. Yes. Why not. Whenever you need them to give to your flock, you just pop in to Hatchards. How convenient. Will that be with a nice rosé wine to go, vicar? And some dark chocolate? It´s sinfully good, if you pardon my wicked pun, tihi.
A small packet of the normal ones cost 7 pounds. For the health-freak, there were even wholemeal communion wafers, which for some reason were cheaper, at only 5 pounds (Christ on a diet?). The prices on the bigger boxes I didn´t check as I was laughing so hysterically inside I thought I would snort out loud. I walked off instead, up to the next floor.
An hour later I pop into a small café I know where they serve Devon Cream Tea. It´s a bit expensive for my current wallet, at 5 pounds 50 (about 65 Swedish Crowns, 9 bucks) but very nice for a Sunday.
On the bus on my way back, I look out at the rain that covers the tourists and the sidewalks. As the bus goes deeper back towards Oxford Street and the West End, the windows fog up. On the window next to me, I draw with my finger, sudden acts of kindness. When I get off, I see the writing up there on the window, left reinforced with my breath. Bus 10 continues on to King´s Cross station, carrying the message out into the city. My guerilla compassionfare keeps on fighting its war without borders or DMZ´s. We will never quit. Karmic commandos to the fore (and thanks for putting a name to my existence, Neil).
The rain keeps falling in light sheets of drizzle, and suddenly I find anger in the city, like you sometimes do, almost like it hangs around in clouds and you walk into them and out of them, wearing them like a king´s mantle lent to the court jester to gibber and jabber in. Suddenly, everybody seem to walk too slowly, to get in your way by intent. I realize I´m getting tired and hunch down in a Starbucks for some final work before heading back, out, out into the suburbs surrounding the Smoke.
