Portobellend

“Do you hear? We’re here to clear!”
Ahh, the bells that screech throughout Portobello Market. These days Portobello has more to offer then Saturday morning tomb raiders and record salesmen who swear they were in The Kinks.
Now among the terrible art-prints, cocaine-infused fruit and Japanese students with cool hair you can find French Girls. I mean: every second girl there is French. And I don’t mean girls as in females. I’m talking girls. A whole different walk of life to mere females.
Oh God, how I have suddenly had a renewed interest in French lessons.

When you get a crepe in Portobello, you don’t just get a crepe, you get 5 minutes of flirting with two especially lovely French girls. You tell them it looks good, they reach across the counter and whisper in your ear “I know”. I am a mere boy, right – but when I’m donning the old weekend clobber, I can pass from anywhere between 19-25. I’m not complaining. It’s all a big game. We play old, and then reveal our true age, to gasps and “Omg fuck off… you are not serious”. Of course French girls are too nice to say that. They would still invite you round to Maria’s for a threesome and pasta whatever your age is. Why should she care? Her brothers probably in ‘La Haine’.

It’s a bit like a fairground ride. You come off all giddy afterwards. You see a local gal and are suddenly sickened by the amount of orange fake tan and make-up.
But flirting with French girls. A whole other game. It’s the winks, the smiles, the “Pouvons-nous avoir un sourire svp ?”, the salutes when papa isn’t looking. They smile, act too big for your childish boy games, but you know within 30 seconds she will look back round to make sure you are still looking. And you are. She giggles.

Portobello is la deuxième métropole. Nothing wrong with that.
After seeing Baise-Moi recently I wasn’t too sure about French girls. But now, Gimme Danger Little Stranger.