Getting Lost In Your Own Town

Last night, cycling up Shaftesbury Avenue as the street lights came on and the theatres swelled to bursting (or, at least, one imagines), I overtook a fellow cyclist. We were both pedalling furiously in the direction of the City, but as I passed him, I was startled to find that a) he was Boris Johnson, Mayor of London (the guy who attempts to hold this crazy town together, not the one who dusts off a ridiculous piece of head gear and waves a sword in front of HM The Queen at state functions), and b) he was letting off a string of expletives into the night.

Of the two facts, I'm not sure which was more arresting; the fact that I had just overtaken our Mayor (the blonde thatch exploding out from under his helmet gave him away), or the fact that he was swearing fit to make a sailor blush. I doubt Richard Curtis and Billy Mack could have done any better. I looked for headphones, expecting to see that he was on a call to some poor minion who was getting an earful for a misdemeanour, but it was apparent he was simply swearing at the world at large. "Is that Tourettes?" I couldn't resist asking. Boris looked over at me, had the good grace to look abashed, and asked if I knew where the Shaftesbury Theatre was. At this point, my ghast was truly flabbered. Isn't this the city he's been running for a handful of years? And where were aforementioned minions? Surely its someone's job to make sure this man at least knows where he's going and how to get there when he grabs his bike helmet and dashes out of the office on a windy autumn night...although I suddenly recall a play I was in in April, for which Boris had a ticket and didn't show. One wonders if there is such a person on the payroll down at London HQ after all...

Before I get smug, I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the Shaftesbury Theatre was either. Presumably 'on Shaftesbury Avenue' would be a reasonable guess, but that would be to presume too much about the logic with which London was created (none, I believe). I offered to Google it for him. (Actually, according to Google,  its that dubious building that stands across the road from the Oasis gym and pool, just beyond the Google offices, and offers up baffling musicals. The current incumbent is 'From Here To Eternity', which I daren't comment upon until I have actually seen it. I don't see that happening anytime soon; there's too much good stuff on at the National lately.) I could see the potential headlines scrolling through Boris's mind as he considered my offer..." Lost Mayor Rescued By iPhone-Toting Female" would have been a contender, as would have "Blonde Told Me Where To Go". He declined. But, in a gesture that really shouldn't have been charming, he shouted over his shoulder "So sorry about the bad language!", before blasting off into the night. I giggled my way home.