Boiled eggs and Tuna salad sandwiches.

This is the view you get if you are a millionaire; a member of the new London kleptocracy living in expensive riverside flats.

Mind you, if you were living at Chelsea Harbour which is further upstream to our left, you’d be a Russian Billionaire.

This is Imperial Wharf; it’s just gangstas and dealers, thieves and everyday businessmen.

These are the yachts - over on the other side of the river you can just make out the helicopter landing - nice and convenient.

We’re boiling eggs and Robyn’s making dozens of Tuna salad sandwiches. There’s Lager and a cigar.

Mmmmmmmh!

It’s a party.

We’re on our way to The Imperial Wharf Jazz Festival. It’s here every year, St. George the builder/property speculators put it on for us specially.

Last year it was such a big deal for me; if you’d offered me a concert (Jazz, that is) to die for, that would have been it – the amazing Larry Stabbins (of Working Week fame) and The James Taylor Quartet – purveyors of Soul, Jazz and Funk on the Hammond organ.

It was also such an achievement just to be there.

Today?

I’m OK for a little while, when I wasn’t last year.

And I made it back too and that’s special.

This afternoon I’ll be uploading some photo’s of the day – it was fun.

It was a lot of fun!

Neil Harris

(a don’t stop till you drop production)

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