Sunday morning in Old North London is an exquisitely peaceful place.
Those noisy do nothings called road workers are off elsewhere, sleeping off their bloated wages paid to them for sleeping and noise making the rest of the week.
The students, the hope of tomorrow, have finally gone to bed after their late nights of bunka-bunka music.
So, with the dawn, there is the peace of the Forest City. You can rise up from your bed, smile at your mistress as she slumbers, and walk out to your front porch for a morning smoke, a coffee, or a decent cup of tea.
I have a residence in Old North London, and it is my place of refuge. It is a sanctuary, a short walk from parks, a short walk to shopping; and surrounded by mind your own business neighbors.
Walking in the woods, and which woods I will not tell you, I came across these forest mushrooms. If you recognize them, you know not to eat them. I did not pick them, as I do not pick things in the forest. I thought of telling my early rising neighbors, but, I realized, if they did not care about the other perils, in general, that live in the forests of the Forest City, then they would not care about these in particular. It is such a peaceful morning in quiet Old North London. Who am I to worry about the worries of others?
Aside from the deadly mushrooms growing in the woods, more deadly than any handgun, within easy reach of the thousands of children, women, people of color, and the other diverse assembly of Hyphenated-Canadians for whom Non-Hyphenated-Canadians pay taxes to soothe their white guilt over crimes fictionalized in socialist media, there are the deadly perils that grow unnoticed, walking the streets of Old North London itself. Having had the misfortune of living in such diverse places as Toronto, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, I have had my fill of gangbangers, disease resistant plagues, and texting drivers, and I know a crop of forest mushrooms when I see one; and I know that the other perils have now come to my sanctuary, my quiet hide in Old North London.
Those noisy do nothings called road workers, they are eating capital. Yes, they are somebodies relative, and the contractor is an old boy; but this sort of do not work for high pay and pension is the stuff of the evils of foreign places, corrupt places. It is better to experience the evils of the day as a voyeur, not a victim. London is a corrupt place, filled with place holders and dullards. Noisy ones, too.
The students, the hope of tomorrow, well the ones upstairs are quiet on weekends because they do their weekends in remand. During the week, they attend the university. On friday, the paddy wagon comes by when they show up late for their weekend away from society. I have been around when this happens; I have been around when the neighbors (the lawyer, the doctor, the rich retired farm lady) were around. Peaceful Old North London, nobody seems to care. Never ask yourself why the college boy at the noisy student house (whose ground floor inhabitant is a quiet fellow who wears a dragon ring) is packing off to jail every weekend; and, of course, the next logical question: what sort of creature of academia is he going to become, this felon in mortar board and gown. And, there are two of them upstairs who go to the pokey.
With the dawn, there is peace. The felons are sleeping in jail, the tax spenders are sleeping off their drunk in Ingersol. My mistress is asleep, and I am on my porch, watching the first dog walkers walk by. I know enough to not eat the pretty white forest mushrooms, nor to make eye contact with the felons on their way to their Bachelor of Arts degrees, nor to feel outrage at the municipal worker who digs holes, fills them, digs them all again. The mushroom will kill you; the felon will steal from you; and the dullard worker will stare and drool; I just never expected these things to find their way to London. But I have enough sense to avoid these perils in the Forest City, and I wonder at the reaction of the simple folk of London, when they realize that their sleepy hobbit existence has invited in the orcs of beyond the shire. Ah well. I will spin my dragon ring and wait to see their reaction. In a society that does not have free speech, there is not much more I can say, especially about the other perils that I see, and cannot talk about.