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But it just goes to show: don’t judge an area formerly within the County of Surrey by its moniker.And, stepping off the South West cattle cart stuffed with workers in various stages of mental undo, my Oyster in the red because the agent at Finsbury Park had grossly underestimated how much it would take to get to Zone Six, I got the sick sensation of maybe having to eat my preconceived notions. in Surrrrr-bi-ton,” I sneered into many an ear prior to the event, laying out insult and injury in turn. It was even further south than Clapham, and might not even be in London. ” I moaned, already totting up how much it was going to cost on my pay-per-go.As the ancient Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan is represented by a prickly pear on which a snake-wrestling eagle perches majestic, so Surbiton’s glyph, going by title alone, should be a bowl of towny soup going cold, with Waterloo choo-choos and Pooterish commuters drowning in the gloop.It was the blackest of nights, as if designed to set off the dazzlingly white, art deco station, with its elegant rectangles and romantic sans-serif fontage, to best advantage. Closing my eyes, I sensed cocos nucifera, hummingbird and murdered starlet on the breeze; until an ear-cracking wind slammed into me, knocking the fantasy out cold (I hadn’t worn a hat, lest I get hat-hair for the date(s)).
I was already fifteen quid down from having signed myself up to “Date in a Dash” in the first place. “Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound,” I sighed, scuttling off into the bathroom to squidge dye on my roots, “you can’t make an omelette without cracking eggs.” To be fair, the town’s founding fathers should’ve given the place a less synthetic name.She’d died her hair Bratislava Red but, despite her make-up, looked wan. Fresh-torn from an eight-year relationship, I was still an open wound under my sticking-plaster smile.