Tripping Around... London Town

The Fourth of Six, Short and Senseless Stories

Tripping Around… London Town

Stanley Frothing-Allover was just moments away from losing his mind. Perhaps it was just as well too, he was the kind of chap constantly entertaining, yet to be discovered, aspirations, but even this began to fizz and frazzle as he shot down Shoot-Up Hill… and then dipped under Overhill Road. By the time he swung a left into Wrights Lane, such reflections had become memorials to chasm and void… and even more so, as he stole upon the perimeter of Central Street, where profoundly confused, he was unable to Park Lane, as Bryanston Pickle looked to be in a right old Square. Minutes later, so it seemed, he was mooching down mustard Piccadilly and observing the vermin in Jermyn… before bumping into a weighty fella, name of Gym, on the east-side of South Square. His mind racing now, he stooped under Crouch Hill, pledged New Bond Streets with a bloke called Lloyd in a Road of Black & Horse… and then, quite by Chancery Lane, stumbled upon Highgate, Southgate, and then Charlton Gate… Sing it folks; 'Any gate will do.'   

This was becoming a lot of fun… and more and more so when he met a follicly challenged fella in Wigmore Street… and then onto Barnet Fayre… but stopping to kick at crisp bags, fluttering like butterflies, somewhere in Russell Square. He bumped into a Nunhead in Covent Garden; what a woman she was… but very Peckham Rye… and yet, just as her Upper Clapton's were within Galleons Reach; suddenly a spat of weather in Rayne’s Park made her very Vauxhall Cross… and she had it away on her Bromley's. There was time for a quick hand of blackjack at Pontoon Dock, then shopping in Wapping and a tense Roehampton down the Thamesmead… before resting his whacked-out Arsenals on a pew, somewhere near Kew. He joked and hoped with young Albert Bridge, they smoked Mayfair’s, left-field of Westfield and what about the rootin’ through Tootin’… and it was there, that an Uber driver named Brent, became Cross… then drove to Bushey for a haircut.

There were Woods of Crickle and Bounds of Green, Lakes of Mort and Farms of Chalk, whilst on top of Hills, Herne & Forest, Messrs Barnes & Eltham, were being very poetic about their Deptford - William Street Wandsworth, Eton your Hertfordshire out.

The day was flying by. What a town it was. Walking randomly, he Tottenham Hailed a Hackney carriage and became very Stockwell… the driver did not know the way; bunnying away like that… what an Old Kent Road he really was. He stopped for Bread at Mill Lane, took a Bow at Bromley… and the All Saints of Poplar were Prince Regent, Royal Albert and Victoria Dock… and close by, a Chapel of White and Stepney of Green were quite some way to Richmond and Sheen.

He was on fire; drifting around, he crossed Mud Chute Harbour, falling right up to his Putney Heaths and entirely Westminstering his Bloomsburys. Then he went straight, via some Gate, along with a mate, then onto New Cross, where all became ever so lost. At Hyde Park Corner, he cornered and hid… picking a Heath of Black in a Park of Holland and then trimming the Bush of Shepherds. Then a dish of fish, which Turnham Green… and felt right Royally Parky with folk all squealing in Ealing. Now unclean in White City, he courted with pity, the Baron of Earl, on his way to meet young Vicky Park… and then eating warm rolls, with other lost souls, down on the side Street of Baker… and somewhere nearby, a big Rabbit Pie, right up the Elmer’s End of Warren Street.

And now, near barren Wood Lane he heard that squealing in Ealing so Maida Vale for Royal Victoria that got right on her Hackney Wicks. Meanwhile, somewhere on Clapham Common, St Oke Newington was busy Swiss Cottaging St John’s Wood with his more than ample Plumsteads. If you promise not to tell… it was really Mr Hampstead Frognal, a Lord of the realm if you will… and that is the Gospel Oak truth. There was the spotting of Notting, of Hills and of Gates, an Arch made of Marble and a Water full of Loo; then into the East and the West of Ham with a fella called Rick, a Man of Worth, currently living in Lewisham. The Euston’s, of Peri in the Vale, were Acton the goat, somewhere near Plaistow " scene that it was… and in Dollis on the Hill, Regents of the Park were selling summer grown Turnpike Lanes, Swiss Cottage Alperton and Strawberry Hills forever.  

What a huge town London is, Stanley made his merry way to the Grove of Arnos where he hailed the Seven Sisters for some hard core, Upney Hornchurch. Sometime later, he skipped, whistling, past houses made of Brixton mortar and felt his West Brompton’s positively bristle… he was Morden happy… and those Royally Observed Seven Sisters, he Feltham all. Suddenly, Sir Nine Elms saw Saint Pancras, Cheyne Walk by heading for a Quiet Monument with his Selfridges… he looked extremely Charing Cross; and still those Seven Sisters would not Totteridge and Whetstone off… it was all becoming very East & West Dulwich!

His mind was an explosion; with sparks, and with flares, and with fresh au lait, while scoffing on ripe conference pears; He heard moggies in mews, saw vicars on pews, then ran through the walks, talked the talks, endured the spills… and shook himself free, of life’s many ill’s. He shimmied and shammed; did that Don of Lon, 'Stanley.' He had traipsed, faceless, all over town… and with a beaming grin too. Still riding the light fantastic, beaming un-harmonic chaos indelibly, into & onto synapses; all those crazy names. He just had to marvel. All this slapstick in residence, everywhere he went, all in his own back yard… and all amplified, more than amply, by some kind of triple spot acid tab, inadvertently swallowed with his Cocoa Pop’s earlier that morning after forgetting he had stashed it there.

Oblivious, and whistling Happy Birthday, he bowled enthusiastically out the front door to pick early morning flowers for her big day - she would surely, be stoked. Now, some twenty-seven hours later, he raced home toward the Bottom of Pratt, feeling fatigue begin to master whatever day it had become. A nameless dread gnawed at him, burrowing with determination, tunnelling, imposing a mighty will upon his rapidly weakening mind " he was a helpless lost soul and somewhere uncertain en route home, he began to feel a Great Titchfield Street and passed out.  

Would she ever forgive him!

Author's Note

Playing upon Place Names of London