Pimlico.

Contributed by on 04/05/12

“So, do you have your passport?” she asked.

“A passport to Pimlico?” he replied, with a smile.

“A what?” she laughed.

“It’s a film, I think,” he shrugged.

“Where’s Pimlico?” she asked.

“I think it’s in London, maybe,” he replied. “It certainly sounds like one of those London places. Like Portobello or Piccadilly.”

“You don’t know, do you?” she teased.

“I haven’t the foggiest, but I’m fairly sure it’s in England somewhere,” he nodded. “It’s one of those old black and white films; you know the ones, where everyone speaks very properly. You know, one of those Ealing comedies or whatever.”

“Have you seen it?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Then how do you know what it’s like?” she laughed.

“I don’t, I guess I’m just assuming, I’m sure I’ve seen a clip at some point, in a documentary or something,” he shrugged.

“So why would you need a passport to go there, if it’s in England?” she asked.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s some weird dystopian future in which Pimlico has declared itself independent and set itself up as an anarcho-syndicalist commune, in which everyone takes it in turns to act as a sort of executive officer for the week?” he suggested.

“In an Ealing comedy?” she looked sceptical.

“I’ll admit it doesn’t seem likely,” he conceded.

“Anyway, back to the question at hand, do you have your passport?” she asked.

“Oh, apparently not,” he replied.

“But we’re at the airport already,” she frowned.

“Bugger.”

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