Hampstead

David Mitchell (a literay genius, as far as I'm concerned), said this of Hampstead:

'The elevator doors open and you're suddenly out into a leafy street where even McDonald's had to tone down their red nad yellow for black and gold, to help it blend in with the bookshops. Old money lives in Hampstead. The last of the empire money. They take their grandchildren on birthday trips to the British Museum, and poison one anothers' spouses in elegant ways.'

Well, on our trip up last weekend, I saw no evidence of poisoning, but there was old money in abundance. Apparently, one should always check the charity shops when in London for a rare find; in Hampstead, you are confrotned with tweed suits, sensible heels, and shelves upon shelves of paperbacks. I did find a tialored tweed jacket (to be worn ironically, of course, with a minidress and coloured tights), but my friends convinced me it wasn't worth it; as J put it 'you just never know with charity shop tweed jackets- someone might've died in it!'

Apart from the charity shops, you had all of your usual high street fodder- big belts and big jewellery and big bags and tiny clothes. And, of course, chic overpriced eateries, which entice you with window display desserts, and then demand extortionate amounts of money for sub-standard icing.

And, of course, a little diamond shopping- well, a girl needs to treat herself every now and then! Sadly, I blew every penny I have in the madness that is the January sales, so I was merely browsing. It was slightly heartbreaking, seeing all of those shiny pretty thigns sparkling the mid-afternoon behind the plates of glass. I'm a bit of a fan of shiny things- Hell, I'm a bit of a fan for anything that involves blowing alot of money at once...