Blackberries and carnivals

Not to be smug - just a tad, perhaps - but had one of those idyllic weekends: long walks in the sunshine through a beauteous village and its surrounding woods. Then blackberry picking - collecting a haul big enough to attempt Ramsay's blackberry meringue pie (not picture perfect result but still delish). Even made home-made beetroot soup too. Lazed, ate, read the papers. Finally reached the end of being on holiday or even wanting to be. So got the train back to London on Monday night. Couldn't have come home to a greater contrast: the tail end of the Notting Hill Carnival. We waded against the groups of revellers wendin their own way home and felt quite left out without a joint in one hand and a can of Stella in the other. An impromptu disco was taking place on the pavement by my flat and I had to push past a crowd of Japanese tourists sitting on the front steps. By 11pm the party was over, bar a few stragglers shouting drunkenly and the odd tooting horn. The next morning the streets were cleaned, although there was a broken bottle of wine and a thousand fag ends on the steps. Ah, home sweet home.