Stingray is a pizza joint on Columbia Road, we wouldn't normally go there but what the hell, it's populated conspicuously by new media youth, the sort in cheque caps and skinny brown jeans and big black crochet scarves and serious looks and that through the hedge backwards hair. They are the types who cannot yet afford Brawn down the street and sweetly lay their film scripts, treatments, or whatever, out on the tables to discuss.
It's a look, may be a whole way of life, that's so sweet it's almost Waltons, and none of them would be out of place on a '37 knucklehead Harley, her on the back with her hair bound washerwoman style in a tea towel, him in a duster, beard and goggles. Old? I could just see myself as Granpops. Still it did make me relish what it was to be young and so serious that if you split up you'd kill yourself, and I guess it's appropriate for them to feel that cool there rather than trying to do it in Bury St Edmunds. We were, after all, in the midst of the next generation of Beautiful Ones. They should enjoy that misery while it lasts.
In fact, thats exactly what they were doing. I have never quite witnessed a demographic who looked quite so conspicuously pleased with themselves.
Very good pizza, ice cream and house red.