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Buggies, buggies, buggies


Buggies, buggies, buggies, Emily’s playing up, Harry put that down, the buggy won’t fit in the boot, buggies, buggies, fucking buggies. Sometimes, Peckham’s nu-fam-fam vibe gets a bit much. It’s difficult to sit outside, swilling a latte without a fucking Lottie or Georgina barging their tandem buggy into your chair. “Buggies, nappies, schooling…” they snort at no one in particular, before trotting on, pushing an overly pampered wretch in a fucking Ralph Lauren onesie.

Sometimes you’ve got to give that shit a swerve and head to Brixton.

So, yesterday I’m banging round Brixton with a hangover. Achy, tired and feeling like my head is home to a nest of disappointed dogs. I paid a visit to a craft market, where a couple of my boo’s chumettes had a stall and were busy embracing the capitalist dream, by tying a flowery ribbon round it. On that, if you’ve got wall-space and fancy a handmade noticeboard direct from London’s fashionable Londinium, go check the merch at Parlour and Co. – your boo’ll thank you for it.

Anyways… for this arduous assignment, I was busting a new (for new read, end of season) EG T-shirt with wheels on it. I grabbed it from the Peggs and Son sale. For me, it brings to mind the Penny-farthing motif from The Prisoner. You know, cos of the wheels. Remember? No? Whatever.


Outside of the combats, hat and shoes, all of which have had play on this site before, I was wielding a new bag. It’s a colab between Garbstore x AXS Folk Technology. The G Store have had these for a while but the price went down to 50 in the sale last week, and I really like robustness of the thing and obvs, the fabric clash.


So, I found myself in Brixton, facing a wall of organic mummies, nudging their buggies at me. Infants in Gap caps, stared me down, from the safety of their blankety cockpits. Bags of excrement swung in unison from the handles. “Buggies, schooling, nappy-rash…” Like a genius, I hadn’t considered that the best place to escape nu-mumminess, probably isn’t a craft market selling flowery stuff.

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One of the mummies asked if I wanted to hold little Barney? I said sure, and presented her with my usual 16-page disclaimer – it legally protects my garms from excreta, dribble, snot and puke. She declined to sign and our business was concluded.

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