Thursday, July 10, 2008
"I'm not f***in' doin' that... it's disgusting!"
For our last night at Devonshire Road, we could think of no more fitting tribute than to get kebabs from the local shop and sit on the benches underneath our window and eat them. Since we've been living here we have been plagued by the people who spill out of the pubs late at night, stop off at West Kebab over the road, and come to the only benches on the High Road (the ones directly underneath our bedroom window) to eat them. They're drunk, and loud, and we can hear the piercing voices of the laydeeez spiraling upwards through the night as they refuse their drunkenly murmuring boyfriends one lewd request after another.
But since we've lived here, we've never tried it for ourselves, so we thought we'd have one final fling before moving away. And according to Jules, it was "the best kebab ever." You can see the infamous storefront of West Kebab just over Jules' shoulder. Long may it wave. For readers joining us from America, a "kebab" in England is what Americans call a "gyro sandwich": shaved spit-roasted lamb served on pita bread with creamy sauce, lettuce and onions, and hot chili. Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelicious, but even more so when you're drunk and need something greasy to soak up all the beer bubbles.
Here is what the kebab's-eye view of our apartment is (the two lit windows at the top are ours):
Oh, to think long nights of tossing and turning are over! No more Saturday nights, sleep eluding us as a gaggle of screeching harpies chew on their sandwiches and crab at their boyfriends from the street below. Picture if you will the sight the next morning: crushed beer cans in the shrubbery, puddles of sick on the pavement, somebody's bra tossed carelessly aside. Fare thee well, West Kebab and your dizzy punters. May you all live long and prosper.