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Big train vanilla chai My mother told me "Buy yourself a lot of beautiful dresses in London!". So I decided to patrol the Covent Garden area this time. I wanted to see a pair of shops of which I had visited the websites. My inspiration for shopping was not at its top walking down Long Acre... I tried something but the size or the price did not fit me. I finally reached "Arrogant Cat" on Monmouth Street and I found it quite "could be my style", but not enough to buy something this season. In the meanwhile big drops of water started falling on my little streetmap, which soon became spotted and my stomach stroke noon, so I decided to stop at a Pret a Manger on the way and think about my "what to do's" in front of a salad. There was a place I wanted to see. It is called "Rare and Vintage Guitars" on a small road crossing Charing Cross Road. When I got there I didn't know I would have found the place of sin. All the zone is full of music shops. I visited them all and I finally understood why I was not inspired by buying dresses that day. I had a malignant, obscure, sinful idea I was nourishing inside my head during the past few days. What could bind me to the town of London as an indissoluble blood pact? (Apart from making love with an English boy in town - but this didn't happen) I bought a guitar. A small classic guitar, 3/4 (the size fits me!), the perfect travel instrument for busking in the tube. drunken moms xxx

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Gimbal ring replacement mercruiser Many things were told about this idea. I told everyone I wanted to present my latest album "Gloucester Road" someday in the tube and everyone seemed very proud for me. Some comrades of mine wanted to call the BBC for the special event, labelling the concert as "an Italian in London, singing a political concert, the first extreme right-wing concert performed in the tube!". When I took that little guitar in my hands I suddenly remembered why I was there. I had decided to leave alone for London to look for myself in serene solitude... hmm, yes, why not, in a place like London. Bringing my books about electronics with me to study late at night or very early in the morning, away from university classes, away from my family and my parents' continuous quarrels, away from political martyrs and people who count if I say the right number of words (right, according to them), away from the phone calls of the person who first cheated me and now persecutes me and turned my life into a nightmare. Looking for the genuine... why not, in a place like London. Don't ask me who Samuel Johnson is... I know so little about him, but I know he said "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life!". Apart from donating my cd to the London Transport Museum and visiting other museums, I wanted to follow my instinct. I needed myself! I missed myself! During the week I had known new incredible people, met some friends and missed others, thought a lot when I went back to my microscopic Indian hostel room, eaten a lot of apples and discovered the raspberry (I did not starve - as someone insinuated. I actually spent less than 6 pounds for food and water during the whole week!). I didn't want to make another "in family" political concert among people who mostly or "mostly apparently" do think like me. I didn't want to make the big scandal on tv (as someone suggested). I wanted to busk in the tube in front of the most various people, avoiding photocameras and camcorders, avoiding the comrades and the celtic crosses. Only me, my new guitar and the unexpected. So I switched my telephone off, went back to my room to try some new song before the great event, I wrote the lyrics I didn't remember in big letters on my light-blue notebook and then I went out.

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