it is not the notting hill of popular concept , that comfortable cornucopia of middle-class bookshops and organic cafs and out-there markets that notting hill only exists in the interiors of the minds of the people in the interiors of the terraced houses , in those oak kitchens and breakfast bars of the broadsheet browsers , where men masturbate then moisturise before they cycle to new-media non-jobs , and do a little coke with their chablis on a saturday night , not knowing who bought it or how or when or who from , while their pr-plastic girlfriends cant come without reaching for the rabbit .