The Ice Cream Men Cometh
A couple of weeks ago a friend and I met at the bar at The Gherkin.
Like myself, he is much more Soho than City, more online than on-a-ridiculous-bonus-scheme.
And sure enough we were surrounded by a braying sea of pinstripe in the heart of Insurance-Land. My friend was wearing a light-tan jacket, white shirt, blue jeans and brown shoes. And err….so was I. Looking like a pair of ice cream salesman at a funeral, we stood at the bar marveling at the fact that each and everyone of the league of extraordinary blue-suited gentleman would pay for his drinks by card, whether it was for one pint or a round of six. Thus making the process of getting a drink as time efficient as amateur chop-stick night.
Now, here I sit on the 8.17 from Basingstoke and sitting opposite me is a chap wearing a light-tan jacket, white shirt, blue jeans and err…brown shoes. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s read The Daily Mail cover to cover I’d say media was his game. If you walk around Soho in the sun today, which I highly recommend, you will see, among many much more attractive sights, lots more middle aged media-folk in the identical get-up.
Just don’t ask to by an ice cream from them.
Note to self: stop taking pictures of strange ice-cream salesman. The wife will get concerned.
July 23rd, 2009 at 12:22 pm
I protest I was that man selling ice cream…. no not really! but I was in jeans, white shirt and jacket (blue) elbowing my way past all the media types and downing numerous Peroni at Soho 40, Greek Streetlast night.