'When I get my hands on that whistle I'm going to shove it so far up your arse it'll go out of sight.' Not me speaking, but a carnival-goer to her friend.
I draw in a dance studio where members of Paddington Arts and Elimu Mas Resurrection are getting made up. I'm biased but they seem to have the best costumes and the most beauty queens.
|Face painter in the street|
On the way home I encounter a boy of about ten standing inside his front gate. He is selling use of a lavatory in the high-end property behind him for £2 a time (and fancy cupcakes).
'How much did you make yesterday?' I ask.
'£270,' he says breezily. 'You should try it.'
Batala London, a swaying samba reggae band of about 200 drummers, sounds like the end of the world. Bring it on. It's preceded by a flotsam of selfie-takers.
Two exaggerated blondes toil at the coal face of Beach Blanket Babylon for the duration, smiling in high heels and selling shots of pink liquid from heavy bottles strapped to their tiny waists.
I hear the Spice Girls being played inside.
More pictures if you scroll down.
|Wings to one side, looking out of the high window|
|Miss Carnival International Model (left)|
|A rich couple looking neither right nor left|
|And that's it for this year|