The Fag Hag has been doing a spot of work up Chelsea way of late (I can’t elaborate further but I can exclusively reveal it does involve a Russian, some human excrement and a glass coffee table) and Fag Hag Mum came over all wistful when she heard I was stomping around in my blister-inducing slingbacks on her old manor.
‘Your father and I got married at Chelsea Town hall,’ she said, looking nostalgically out of a window like a Jane Austen character (if Jane Austen characters lived in Muswell Hill and wore ecru cardies from Gap). ‘I know Mum,’ I replied, ‘I’ve seen the wedding portraits. You’re 6 months pregnant, dad’s holding a fag and the one guest is some acid casualty. Hardly the denouement to a Richard Curtis rom com’. She carried on undeterred.
‘We used to love the Kings Road. Is Fiorucci still there darling?’
‘No Mum. It closed down in about 1989.’
‘Oh. How about the Chelsea Drugstore?’
‘That’s a McDonalds, Mum’.
‘Oh. What’s happened to the bit where the punks used to hang out?’
‘There’s a Maison Bertaux there now’.
She suddenly looked up in horror. ‘Has it really all changed that much?’
‘Well one things constant – it’s still full of total cunts’.
‘Oh’ she replied. ‘Thank god for that darling’.