I’ve known this neighbourhood for over thirty years. Many things have changed and yet some things seem to never change. Now it’s phenomenally multi-cultural like never before, with dozens of groups represented, and yet as always it’s still so strongly Jewish that most shops are closed on Saturday, Jewish or not. For lunch it was either a Star*ucks (please never) or the Bedouin Lounge.

So, I had my falafel wrap amongst the hookahs, the heavy maroon carpets, and the amazingly modernized belly-dancing videos. I didn’t think belly-dancing could be made any more erotic than it already is, but my heavens, they were fantastic.

The Aphrodite Health and Beauty Salon has been renamed the Goddess Health and Beauty Salon. I went in and asked why. The girl shrugged, mumbling “Nobody knows who is this Aphrodite”. At least she pronounced it right – she could have said Afro-dight, which sounds like a hair-relaxing gel.

The library is still going strong and has not reduced its hours. In fact it has made them much more flexible. Also unchanged is the lovely antique clock a few doors away, high above the attractively ornate brickwork. It still reads 4:30 as it has done for years.

The Iranian guys who run the cheap plastic shop have still not found either a wife or a girlfriend for the youngest of the brothers, and he still doesn’t seem to mind that they discuss this fully with me  – and possibly everyone – every time I go in. In fact, they usually ask me if I know anyone I can introduce to him, but I’m always useless. Maybe it’s just their schtick, or whatever is their equivalent word for schtick.

Then the oldest brother always starts clowning around, more and more, until finally I smile and ask, “Excuse me, but are you talking shit again?” and they always collapse laughing and applauding  Nice guys, selling terrible rubbish, but it’s cheap. The added value is the entertainment factor.

Final scenario:

“You have a good hairdresser,” I said the little old lady waiting next to me at the crosswalk. She looked wonderful, head to toe, in a way I couldn’t even if I tried.

“I get it done right there,” she said, waving her cane at a place just around the corner. “I’m going there right now.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I go every week. Otherwise it goes curly.” Funny, how the curly try to straighten and the straight try to curl.

“You’d look good curly,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed placidly, and the light went green.

Bye-bye North London, for another year or so.