In Peckham last night to watch Green Lantern at the Premier Cinema (myself and friends Si and Nik are Tuesday regulars there because it’s £4.99 a ticket). With 30 minutes to spare I stopped at local Wetherspoon’s pub The Kentish Drovers for a spot of dinner (it isn’t worth going home first so I usually grab something there or round at Simon’s house in nearby Ladywell).
I chose a table, perused the menu and strolled up to the bar.
But before I had a chance to order the lady behind the bar was concerned to point out to me that “We don’t have steak knives.”
My mouth sort of flapped up and down for the couple of seconds it took to remember where I was and realise why The Kentish Drovers in Peckham doesn’t have any steak knives – unlike every other Wetherspoons pub across the country…
Ahh, Peckham. I am fond of you, but lord knows why.
I suppose it’s a side-effect of having lived around there for years and being a regular visitor to your cheap cinema.
That, and perhaps an inverted class snobbery that sees me, a married middle-class office-working Guardian-reading home-owning father of two, clinging onto a teeny-tiny shred of street cred.
If, that is, people still say “street cred”.