Hackney on a Monday 
I am surviving on lots of bananas that cost one pound a bowl at the markets and Iceland (as in, the supermarket) alcohol, 50 pence/hour internet, and back on the IKEA fold out bed in Wendy and Deno’s living room. The number of times I’ve picked up money on the ground since my arrival is amazing. Five times in two weeks – that’s got to be a record. Although Deno reminds me that one pence coins aren’t actually money. But they are.
The Tube on a Tuesday
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(……. …..…..….. …...)(……. …me....….. …...)(……. …..…..) …...…..)
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Brick Lane on a Wednesday
I caught up with Daiv finally. We haven’t seen each other for about four years – it’s a miracle that we are even in the same town at one particular given time. He’s doing great by the way, not that any one will need to worry, he’ll always be as old as the day I met him at the back of the kitchen at the Copthorne. We were tucking into curry in Brick Lane when randomly joined by a bunch of artists who are friends with his artist friend who he stayed with when he broke his leg in France. Daiv had to teach the next morning and left early so I stayed on partying with these guys. We found a manga gallery in a basement before going to one of the guys place which is upstairs of his a futuristic furniture shop. It reminds me of a mini version of the warehouse that Jane and I used to live in on Marion Street in Wellington all those years ago, kind of industrial and post-mod. He had a collection of really interesting knives and tropical fruit. There was lots of Balkan music as far as I can remember and my new friends and I danced around the table mimicking a medieval sward fight except we had tongs and broomsticks instead of axes and cross bows. I remember spotting a fox (although I used the word “wolf” at first) pounding the pavement from the window – it was a skinny lanky orange thing, a lot bigger than I thought, with haunted eyes and spooky Beijing-opera style marks on its face. It gushed when it saw me and disappeared into the night as quickly as it had appeared.
Post Office on a Thursday
I ventured up north of Dalston Junction to collect registered mail from the bank (see previous post). Dalston Junction is a big mixture of African, Indian and Turkish communities and has a chaotic and eclectic market scene during the day. Up the road towards Stamford Hill it’s a little more quiet with quaint little cafes and book shops. Further along near the post office there is a large orthodox Jewish community. Its actually the first time I have actually ever seen men with curly side burns and top hats and black suits like they wear, and hear Hebrew being spoken. Its quite an amusing sight on the main street seeing one of these guys riding around on a bike pass a girl in the brightest in your face red patent leather shoe-boot which has forced her to walk like a pigeon with her eyes semi closed behind real Guccis. One block back a couple of “Emo” boys in tight jeans and floppy hair were sucking away at their cigarettes outside a bakery where two plump Turkish ladies with big aprons making pancakes on a big flat pan. This is grassroot London at its best.
Soho on a Friday
Soho on a Friday night reminds me of Bangladesh on a Monday morning – crowds of people swarming around the footpath and the road, rubbish and puddles of water all over the ground, construction holes here and there, beggars sitting in the corner, and rickshaws lined up in rows waiting for a rich customer and his mistresses.
House Party on a Saturday
Emma took me along to Keat’s house warming near Archway. It was a fun but long night, so in summary, I had the most delicious grilled mushrooms with bluecheese in the world; shots of something that appeared to be absinthe; had a few puffs when I said I wasn’t ever going to do it ever again only last week; pashed some random guy when I said I wasn’t ever going to do it ever again only last week; skidded along the kitchen in my Kurt Geigers; … on the way home I ‘interacted’ with some people who were eating a piping hot meal on top of a filthy rubbish bin, had a discussion about tellytubbies, the war on terror, and the fact that Robin Hood is Dead with a guy from Nottingham on the bus back home; found five pounds in my bra. Emma and I spent it on some head scarves the next day at Spittalfields. So it was well used to say the least.
Museums on a Sunday
This is part of the new installation at the Tate – Shibboleth by Doris Salcedo or affectionately known as The Crack. It had some fascinating effects on the people around it.
I am surviving on lots of bananas that cost one pound a bowl at the markets and Iceland (as in, the supermarket) alcohol, 50 pence/hour internet, and back on the IKEA fold out bed in Wendy and Deno’s living room. The number of times I’ve picked up money on the ground since my arrival is amazing. Five times in two weeks – that’s got to be a record. Although Deno reminds me that one pence coins aren’t actually money. But they are.
The Tube on a Tuesday
(……. …..…..….. …...)(……. …..…..….. …...)(……. …..…..….. ….....)
(.. …..…..….. …...)(……. …..…..….. ….....)
(……. …..…..….. …...)(……. …me....….. …...)(……. …..…..) …...…..)
(…... …..…..…..….. …..…..….. …. …..…..…....…..…..)
Brick Lane on a Wednesday
I caught up with Daiv finally. We haven’t seen each other for about four years – it’s a miracle that we are even in the same town at one particular given time. He’s doing great by the way, not that any one will need to worry, he’ll always be as old as the day I met him at the back of the kitchen at the Copthorne. We were tucking into curry in Brick Lane when randomly joined by a bunch of artists who are friends with his artist friend who he stayed with when he broke his leg in France. Daiv had to teach the next morning and left early so I stayed on partying with these guys. We found a manga gallery in a basement before going to one of the guys place which is upstairs of his a futuristic furniture shop. It reminds me of a mini version of the warehouse that Jane and I used to live in on Marion Street in Wellington all those years ago, kind of industrial and post-mod. He had a collection of really interesting knives and tropical fruit. There was lots of Balkan music as far as I can remember and my new friends and I danced around the table mimicking a medieval sward fight except we had tongs and broomsticks instead of axes and cross bows. I remember spotting a fox (although I used the word “wolf” at first) pounding the pavement from the window – it was a skinny lanky orange thing, a lot bigger than I thought, with haunted eyes and spooky Beijing-opera style marks on its face. It gushed when it saw me and disappeared into the night as quickly as it had appeared.
Post Office on a Thursday
I ventured up north of Dalston Junction to collect registered mail from the bank (see previous post). Dalston Junction is a big mixture of African, Indian and Turkish communities and has a chaotic and eclectic market scene during the day. Up the road towards Stamford Hill it’s a little more quiet with quaint little cafes and book shops. Further along near the post office there is a large orthodox Jewish community. Its actually the first time I have actually ever seen men with curly side burns and top hats and black suits like they wear, and hear Hebrew being spoken. Its quite an amusing sight on the main street seeing one of these guys riding around on a bike pass a girl in the brightest in your face red patent leather shoe-boot which has forced her to walk like a pigeon with her eyes semi closed behind real Guccis. One block back a couple of “Emo” boys in tight jeans and floppy hair were sucking away at their cigarettes outside a bakery where two plump Turkish ladies with big aprons making pancakes on a big flat pan. This is grassroot London at its best.
Soho on a Friday
Soho on a Friday night reminds me of Bangladesh on a Monday morning – crowds of people swarming around the footpath and the road, rubbish and puddles of water all over the ground, construction holes here and there, beggars sitting in the corner, and rickshaws lined up in rows waiting for a rich customer and his mistresses.
House Party on a Saturday
Emma took me along to Keat’s house warming near Archway. It was a fun but long night, so in summary, I had the most delicious grilled mushrooms with bluecheese in the world; shots of something that appeared to be absinthe; had a few puffs when I said I wasn’t ever going to do it ever again only last week; pashed some random guy when I said I wasn’t ever going to do it ever again only last week; skidded along the kitchen in my Kurt Geigers; … on the way home I ‘interacted’ with some people who were eating a piping hot meal on top of a filthy rubbish bin, had a discussion about tellytubbies, the war on terror, and the fact that Robin Hood is Dead with a guy from Nottingham on the bus back home; found five pounds in my bra. Emma and I spent it on some head scarves the next day at Spittalfields. So it was well used to say the least.
Museums on a Sunday
This is part of the new installation at the Tate – Shibboleth by Doris Salcedo or affectionately known as The Crack. It had some fascinating effects on the people around it.
(ops, I think uploading this thing just caused the whole internet lounge to crash... shikes... watch the space... here is a non moving pic in the interim)
..............................hhhhheeeeeeyyyy presto!
A parallel universe of London also exists in the form of an ant colony in the Natural History Museum, see the 24/7 live feed here. ITs fascinating, I promise!
http://www.nhm.ac.uk/kids-only/naturecams/antcam/index.html
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