Bourgeoisie Hell Kitchen

I only come into the Princi Bakery occasionally. In a lot of ways its a truly wonderful location. Big communal tables, boisterous atmosphere, eclectic music, free WiFi, and the cakes? Well let’s just say I might skip dinner tonight.

The problem is that come a sunny Sunday afternoon, it’s bloody full of bloody bourgeoisie and their bloody screaming children and their bloody strollers. How am I supposed to conduct my shabby decadent techno-bohemian life style if these people and their devil spawn will not sit down and shut up.

How do these people get here anyway? Teleport? We are in the middle of Soho for dogs sake. There is no SUV fit parking for a mile in any direction and I never seem to see them chivying their herds of progeny between the reckless Boho masses on Old Compton or Wardour St. Is there a tunnel in here from Chelsea or Notting Hill?

Its not just that they are annoying, although they are. It’s that they seem so distractingly out of place. It’s SOHO. This area has a long standing tradition of bohemian rebellion from the relentless capitalist drive of this wonderful city.

French intellectuals reading slim, leather bound volumes of Flaubert? Marvellous, fit right in. Coke frenzied media executives rabbiting on about the next BIG thing? Wonderful, I can tune out that noise no problem. Flawless Southern European Escorts coolly readying themselves for a night debauch? All for them, they give me something to look at lustfully that doesn’t contain 1,000 calories. Working, professional couples, their 2.75 offspring and mobile catalogue for Mothercare?

Please no.

These people seem to be making do until they can afford the weekend place in the country so they can get away from the “dreadful crowds in London”. This would be funnier, or at least less sad, if I hadn’t overheard someone actually saying it.

Grinding Teeth.

Those dreadful crowds? Thats YOU love. Could you go to the country sooner? Or at least get your children to STOP SCREAMING? Is that really so much to ask?

That you so very much.

My apologies to my single father mate, S (and other similar folk). His daughter, L, is perfectly charming and would be far better behaved in these circumstances. Unfortunately for my ears, not everyone raises their children as well.

Sadly it’s not just the calorie count that keeps me out of Princi. Although my waistline should be thankful.

– Post From My iPad