Monday's Life Class




Oh. My. God. The pain that is not having drawn for 3 months. Still having finished the lectures for the MA module for this term it feels good to go back and do something creative again. Gets better with practice (I keep reminding myself).

Top three = 5 min drawings. Bottom left - the first drawing of the night 15mins. Bottom right - last drawing of the night - 30mins.


Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.

All original drawings £25 excluding postage and packing (A1 sized). Or alternatively, A4 sized prints for £5 excluding postage and packing. For further details see the lifedrawing gallery or email me.

Reclaiming the City






Set out on a trip into town today - wanted to feel the city under my feet and get comfortable with that feeling again. The 73 took me past the front of Kings Cross, sweeping us past the cordoned area which was filling up with deposited flowers for those who died deep down under the pavement, a crowd surrounded it, complete with film crews and plenty of police. Shortly after we went past the top end of Tavistock Place, a huge awning erected to seal off the crime scene. Again at the top of the street a small camp of reporters and film crews, looking like they'd been there for some while. Police tape across the other side of the Friend's Meeting House signalling quite a considerable area sealed off against intruders. Roads closed to traffic. Coming down Gower Street evidence of cordons as we passed SOAS and the other side of Fitzroy Square.

I met with HS in Starbucks and we sat for hours drinking tea and watching the people pass by the window in front of us. Seemed to be a lot of tourists. Plenty of buses, plenty of crowds coming home from Oxford Street. We strolled across to Neal Street where the shopping was continuing apace. Eventually ending up eating pasta opposite the Opera House, drinking wine and soaking up the city. Watching the weird and wonderful arrive for some kind of do at the Theatre Museum (feathered hats, shoes only practical for standing in, white suits, naval officer uniforms, top hat), the audience arrive to the opera house (floral dresses with layered skirts, silk and satin), several hen parties stagger past. By the time we caught a 341 home again we were at one with the city again.

The Aftermath

I am bound to my fellow londoners caught up in the collective, not grief exactly, emotion, perhaps grit.

I feel distraught for those who lost their lives and for their families and friends. I am proud of those who helped, either because they rushed in, or because they were there when it happened. Our collective spirit is strong. I hope those in trauma can at some point overcome their fears and find peace again.

I'm not sure I'm at one with the 'they will not change us' blitz mentality at the moment. I feel fragile - largely because I didn't realise the danger we could be in, I was in the vicinity of the blasts, caught up in the evacuation but not in any actual danger ever. I only got scared when I got to work and saw what was happening on the news.

We've had the fear before, we've been a target on and off for years and we've had big blasts before. I think I had just forgotten that the danger was real. Today the danger feels real. And I'm going to stop watching the news now.

Getting Home





If I had known this morning I would have gone home from Kings Cross, wasn't until I got to work that I realised the full horror of what had occured. The way home was weird - got a train to London Bridge easily, from there the best advice was walk. People at London Bridge station were studying the departures closely, London Bridge itself was spookily empty of traffic for rush hour, just swarming with pedestrians. I tramped along in the sunshine. Eventually 141s started passing me on their way to London Bridge. I strolled past Moorgate, Old Street, Gainsborough Studio Apartments. Stopped for a coke at the Rosemary Branch. Pissed off the barmaid because I asked for some crisps after she'd rung up the coke - she threw them onto the bar at me (wish I'd told her there's no need for that, but I didn't). Then strolled onto Newington Green, where the buses seemed to be more boardable. Caught a bus from there to home. My ex-boyfriend got on the bus at Manor House and I wasn't able to get out of having one those conversations which are dutifully polite (hows your parents, sister had a baby, how did you get here, blah blah). Still I don't have to go in tomorrow.

Living the Travel Chaos

My house to Finsbury Park - all Moorgate trains stopping at Drayton Park. We all decant. Moorgate has either a. a defective train or b. power failure. Jump on a train to Kings Cross in order to catch the Northern Line. As we walk along the platform some german bloke is saying into his phone, "they're practicing for the olympics, and I'm going to be late", I have an overwhelming urge to deck him. The whole of Kings Cross is being evacuated it transpires when I get to the front of the station. Fire engines, ambulances, police. Masses and masses of people, all on the phone to their workplaces, some hanging outside McDonalds watching the TV through the window, surging in different directions - some towards Thameslink, some towards Euston, confused tourists with luggage standing inbetween.

I call the boyfiend. He says theres been an explosion at Liverpool Street - according to the shopkeeper he is buying a newspaper from at the time.

Rumours abound: 2 trains collided at Liverpool Street causing a power surge that has knocked out the whole underground network; behind me a woman on the phone tells a colleague that someone in the crush outside Kings Cross told her they saw people covered in soot coming out of the station; the network won't be working by tonight even; another woman is being told that their friend was behind a bus which exploded, dead people all over the place.

Crowds of commuters watch breaking news on TV screens in a hotel behind Kings Cross. People everywhere. Walking. Telephone network is busy and I can't make any more calls. Our determination to get to work urges us on - I'm on a bus watching whats happening out the window below me. It flashes past my minds eye that crossing town everyday to work is not great for my personal safety. A cop car flashes past going towards Kings Cross. Shortly after that another one flashes past going the other way.

The man sitting next to me is letting his leg lean heavily against me - my awareness of this grows stronger and starts to upset me the more I think about the chaos playing out beneath me. I'm feeling trapped against the window in my seat. I excuse myself and sit somewhere else.

An emergency response unit is parked outside Cannon Street. Still the crowds continue.

At Elephant and Castle the sign outside the station says - underground network closed due to security situation.

When I get to work someone else tells me their friend said a bus exploded at Russell Square.

Its all chaos. Nobody really knows anything.

BBC news - several injured in London Blasts
The Guardian - many hurt as blasts rock London
Ananova - Explosions reported on three buses
My Ace Life
pictures
Viper Squad Ten
aprosexic - see 7 July 2005 (can't figure out how to trackback)
Little Red Boat
Londonist
Mad Musings
Bomb Blast Plunges London into Chaos - Guardian newsblog at G8
Met police advice
London Underground Blog (be patient can take some time to load)
More a way of life
aardvark
Sky News timeline
Pfff: a response to anything negative
My Thoughts Exactly
Cyber-Satan
Weaselbitch

Here's hoping that all those of you who live, work and travel through London are safe today. Harriet xx



NOTE: the comments are misbehaving - I can't see them in the box but I can read them in my haloscan account - I have raised it, but don't know when they will deal with it.

London Gets the Olympics 2012

I wasn't expecting to feel like this but I'm actually excited by the prospect of the Olympics being in London. We watched them religiously as a family when I was younger but haven't followed them so carefully since they split up the winter and summer games. I want tickets!

Street Drinking

On a bench by a scrawny neighbourhood tree with a discarded pizza box to one side, drinking a can of speical brew through a straw.

Town

The market traders in Berwick Street are complaining they haven't seen it this deserted in ages, inbetween their "pand a strawberries comon...pand a bowl, pand a bowl, any bowl ya like" shouts.

"Its gay day," one says as an explanation.
"And live aid with that Bob Geldof," adds another.

Friendships

"Friendship comprises bonds of affection underpinned by a kind of unconscious barter for intangibles - you look after or amuse me now and you can trade in the goodwill for help or succour when you need it later. It's a system that recognises the impossibility of putting a precise value on anything interpersonal and allows for the flexibility and effeciency that human relations require." Lucy Mangan in Wednesday's G2

Its the give and take of friendships that keeps them going. We've all had those friends who always hang back at the bar, never buy a drink first, always split the bill equally (even when they drank the majority of the bottle of wine), who bring their boyfriend and treat the pair of them as one sharing the rounds between their one (two drinks) and you. Loss of balance makes these types of friendships tilt the balance to the point that they teeter on the edge of toppling off. I had a good friend once who treated me more like their parent which made me feel both old and overly responsible in an emotional crutch sort of way. IT couldn't be sustained.

With a good friend you know that when you buy them a coffee this week you'll get something back another time, even if that is just the pleasure of their company.

Storm Obsessed

We've just had a huge roll of thunder but there aren't even any clouds in the sky (well almost none). Perhaps its over the building and not showing in my window yet.

Storm

Crack and roar of thunder and lightning. Drops pounding the pavement. Water gushing in the gutters. Roll of thunder across the sky. Dark green air. Light like flourescents. Ill prepared people in their summer clothes and shoes. I'm not ready for my new birkenstocks to get splattered with rain, but at least I'm not drenched to the skin yet. Fork of lightning targets the corner of Euston station. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up prickly with excitment. Finally catch the bus. It washes gutter water over the pavement in its wake.

Later, watching the sheets of lightning flashing in the sky behind a church with a dome half way up Highgate Hill. A second flash of rain. The street becomes a river. All the fag ends from Highgate swept down to Archway. The lightning gets brighter and thunder louder as the storm gets nearer and nearer. The bus on the way home crosses Suicide Bridge and for a moment we are close to the highest thing around - lampposts on the bridge.

Standing at the top of the hill watching the lightning across the north east of London. Quiet now as it retreats. I cross the railway footbridge which must have been a torrent earlier - the debris of the waterflow evident like discarded silt of a river. In the middle a huge puddle that requires paddling through in preference to ruining the new sandals. Barefoot in the street. Lightning flashes. Smell of wet. Rather wonderful.

Long Hair and Swimming Goggles

When my sister and I were kids we were never allowed to grow our hair long. I am forever scarred by the fact that being the only short-haired girl in my infant school year, I didn't get a decent part in the nativity play (very conservative headteacher with very narrow minded views giving out the parts, in my opinion). Who knows what I might have been if I hadn't had this searing disappointment at such a tender age.

We compensated for our lack of hair in a variety of ways. I had a necklace made of limpet shells (the type you find on the beach with holes in them) threaded onto a piece of grey string which I wore on my head - it hung down in such a way that it banged on my back - this is what long hair felt like (I thought, when I was oh maybe three). And in our make believe games, my sis and I would wear tights on our heads and pretend the legs were bunches (good imaginations, you understand, are something to be nurtured).

I haven't discussed this surrogate hair with anyone other than my sister before and have no idea if this kind of hair-envy goes on a lot or we were unique in our affliction. However, reason to believe that it runs in the family - my niece (who at two and a half hasn't got the hair growing power to get long hair even if she wanted it) has taken to going out with a scarf wrapped round her head turban-style, like you do with the towel when you've washed your hair, pretending that its long hair. Oh and she teams it with swimming goggles (unsure of the reason but perhaps to look like Jackie O) which she refers to as gobbles. Long hair and big shades - my kind of look!

At the Checkout

The man in front of me is buying strawberry milk.

The man in front of him is buying a 12 pack of Saint Cervis Premium Continental larger and a 12 pack of natural mates condoms.

Contemplating Cake

In a coffee and cake shop, almost under the bridges by Borough Market I'm waiting for my friday night drinking companions. Watching the street, people mill about, large raindrops occasionally falling, the air thick and decidedly stormy, though the storm is not quite here.

I'm drinking cappuccino - sharp coffee, topped with frothed milk (nothing quite like the taste of steam-frothed milk) and eating a chocolate cupcake with rich dark icing, decorated with a shaving of white chocolate.

The shelves of the counter are laden with other delectable delicacies, frills of chocolate, flakes and shavings, summer berries glazed or dusted with sugar, a tumble of strawberries, things with a sprig of mint, tarts and gateaux and mousse.

The man next to me gets up to peer through the glass, after his girlfriend exclaims about a strawberry tart, he ponders for a while and then announces his mouth is watering over the Victoria Sponge.

I don't know why, with all the other delicious morsels on offer, anyone would plump for Victoria Sponge. Its a bland cake, often with sponge which is sort of grainy and airy at the same time, insubstantial (which I suppose could also be its appeal) and frequently dry. Its hard to bake a really good Victoria Sponge, its deceptively simple. To be right it requires cake flour, double sifted, and caster sugar. The initial mixture of butter and sugar must be blended really well until the mixture goes light and is almost fluffy, before any other ingredients are added. And filled with good quality raspberry jam (and cream). Generally I'd rather bake something more exciting.


The storm finally comes. A flash like a half firework cracks in the street - so fast it almost wasn't there - must have been a fork of lightning reaching down almost to the street. Low rumbling thunder and the heavy rain. The smell of rain after a long dry spell.

Open Letter

My Dear Neighbours (students, spaniards, foxes),

It is 2:30am on a Thursday evening, the weather is far too hot to sleep with a closed window, in fact its a struggle to sleep at all. I would like to point out that although it may be the close of your academic year (students), or mating season (foxes), or the midst of a rather ridiculous argument (spaniards), for those of us who are wage slaves and must work all year round it isn't yet the weekend and we have to be up tomorrow in time for work, so would appreciate it if you could keep it down a little, just until tomorrow you understand, when parties and loud music will be tolerated on account of it being the weekend.

Much appreciated.

(B*****ds - rubbing my nose in the fact I can't be out in the garden have a jolly time of it all through the blisteringly hot night).

Flies

Scourge of summer so far. The weather is beautiful (not great for working in but beautiful none the less). My big complaint is the number of flies. I'm sure there weren't so many last year. I currently appear to be cultivating them in the house, a number of varieties.

Blue bottles, the blundering big ones that bump into you (and die in closed rooms - I've got a what seems to be a morgue full of them in the living room).

Fruit flies (nasty tiny little things that run around on stuff while you try to swat them) infested on my two marvelous aloe vera plants. I expect it's because they are sweet smelling and have sap but I'd really like to get rid of the damn things.

Little black things that flit around the light and tend to hang round hot skin (ugh).

And although not strictly flies - the mosquitos (I've got three huge bites now) with that horrid way they have of dangling their bodies and legs, and such nasty intentions.

Yuk. Yuk.

Animal Lover

A girl clutches a pigeon against her chest, her arms crossed over it in order to keep it restrained. It looks out with its beady eye, forlorn. I marvel at her caring for an injured creature so despised by others. Particularly because it was one of those grubby dark grey ones frequently found in London. I think of her nursing it back to health, kept in a cardboard box on a balcony or windowsill. Its lucky she found it.

Gardening

Officially I think my arms are going to drop off, if the bites on my legs don't swell up and kill me first. Yesterday I mowed, raked and bagged the clippings, watered, and then repotted a huge palour palm from a quite enormous pot into a really enormous pot and carried it all by myself back into the sitting room (and I discovered two plants which I thought had died off at least two years ago have made an reappearance). Today I went with boyfiend to his small garden and lopped loads of branches, deadheaded a mass of roses, weeded, helped dredge a stinking pond and cut back a vine.

And on the bus on the way home I remembered that gardening is all about love, nurture, caring, watching the plants grow, their fronds unfurl, their vines extend and curl round things, buds form and stuff. Both the men in my life with some kind of interest in gardens (boyfiend and pops) tend to be chop-em-down types in the brutalist vein. More about clearing and neatness than natural plant growth. I'm trying to work on them both, with a drip drip kind of nuture. Hopefully they'll grow into it.

Friday Afternoon Argument

Outside my office window (which is open but high up so I can't see out) I imagine the scene - a queue of cars on the oneway system wait while some of them try to turn into Netto's and others want to pass by but can't, a bit of revving and a bit of honking, occassional snatches of music float up (and sometimes the all encompassing shake of a loud bassline), the sun is shining on the streets of Peckham, the market will be in full flow, a man will be operating the stinky rubbish grinder that sits on the corner of Choumert Road and Alpha Street, some men will be congregating outside Abbey's cafe. Suddenly raised voices, urgent, arguing but in a foreign language that I don't recognise, African of some sort, low and resonant but loud. The argument gathers steam, more people join in. It sounds like a gaggle of angry turkey's gobbling. It gets louder, more male. And then it starts to move along the street away from earshot. It fades into the distance but remains a quiet rumbling. A police siren. And then the honking and reggae on the radio come back into the fore-hearing.

The Threat

And following on a voiceover theme...

A voice, from somewhere in the back of the bus tells someone on the other end of the phone, "...you better believe it and don't you fucking forget it. Remember, I'm coming to see you and I'll break your fucking back, you pussy!" The phonecall ends. Shortly, another call, "is that fucking wanker with you? Na, I'm the master baiter but he's a fucking wanker and he better watch his back cos he don't know whats coming to him the pussy."

All the Islingtonites shrunk a little further into their jackets.

Ticket Inspection

We pulled in for a brief stop at Elephant & Castle behind a bendy no.12 which had decanted a number of passengers, who stood around in poses of defiance or resigned indignity accompanied by police officers and ticket inspectors, who it appears from their illuminous jackets, have been renamed (hear the deep american male voiceover now) Revenue Protectors. Revenue protectors!

Sharing the Street

There are people who are instantly memorable despite the fact that you can't tie them to a particular activity or venue and I mention this only because there are people you remember easily due to the fact you see them frequently at the train station or you buy a newspaper from them on a Saturday.

At Euston this evening I saw a man who I remember from some non-specific passing at some non-definable time. A short man, very little, could be Italian, could be Romany. Keen on the zipped sweater style jacket (more cardigan actually - leather patches on the front). Small pork pie hat. Slight disability - one short leg that he compensates for by walking on tip toe on one side, rather than wearing a stacked shoe.

Don't remember when or where but I've seen him before. Bet he doesn't remember me though. Probably didn't even see me!

Menswear

The young man behind the sweet counter tells his mother, "I went to have a look at the sportswear, oh and the men's casuals..." He's got badly bleached hair and is wearing one of those terry towelling tops with a contrast upper-chest yoke and a zipper to open the neck on hot days. I wonder if he was shopping in one of the department stores or Mr Byrite or even George's of Asda.

Supermarket

I don't often go to the supermarket on a Sunday, preferring usually to not go further than the front door - truely using it as a day of rest and total laziness. I have a much greater understanding now of the long Sunday's of my childhood where we slumped huffily round the house hoping one of the parents would for a moment put down the paper and entertain us, rather than expecting one of those involved and slow moving epic biblical movies to do that for them (amazing how long a day can seem).

Today, however, I was in need of some grocery essentials which I could no longer do without - milk, bread, oatmeal (gotten into a habit of eating porriage on the weekend - reminds me of my grandfather), which sadly meant I had to firstly get dressed and secondly face the shopping aisles. It does give one the opportunity to check on the progress of the new shopping pavilion (rumoured to be a mini-Ikea, Homebase and Dixons - I'm truely terrified what will happen to the traffic on Green Lanes if this turns out to be the case - its already gridlocked in Harringay).

Its not so bad when you know what you want. They don't move the supermarket around as much as they used to. I limit myself to a basket because I have to carry it home by foot. And I was just picking up the last item from the toilettries section when the door alarm went off and a stream of men from across the store ran out after what I suspected was a shoplifting suspect.

The checkout chicks and dicks were all a babble of excitement. One who had been in the chase had returned and was recounting the tale - he'd run to his car thrown the goods in and was attempted to get it started before the security guards and crowd of shop assistants got there. Shortly after this a man was marched back into the store and put into a small staff only room, guarded by a security guard and one of the beefier shop boys.

I recognised the man - he had been carrying some kind of electrical good (maybe a DVD player) around the corner of an aisle and excitedly calling out to what I had thought was his wife, "they have this!" in the opposite direction to me at one point.

The babbling carried on while waiting for the police and pending a little in-store investigation, searching for reciepts, questioning the perpetrator. The security guard at one point rushing over to the entrance to accost another person who must have been a known shoplifter, wheeling him round and accompanying him off the premises.

Anyway, despite having the slowest checkout girl in possibly the history of checkouts I was still all packed up and ready to go before the inevietable conclusion, so I left before the cops arrived.

Pullover

Police pull over a blue soft top BMW at the bus stop in Wood Green High Street. Two of them emerge from their van and get the driver out. They stand talking to him for bit pointing at the back of his car. He stands between them with his arms crossed.

A third policeman gets out of the van and inspects the front end of the BMW, while one of his colleagues inpsects the back - pulling at the boot, touching the numberplate it comes off in his hand. It seems to have been attached with double-sided sticky tape (the back dotted with suspicious looking white squares).

One of the policemen starts writing out a ticket. The one with the numberplate rocks back and forth on his feet the way policemen are prone to do.

It starts to rain. They wind it up. When the blue car drives off it doesn't have a numberplate on the front or the back. It goes left. The police van follows it.

The Urge

I haven't had it in a while but sometimes there is this overwhelming desire to reach out and just...

Pick a loose strand of cotton off the back of someone's jacket or trouser leg or something.

Today sitting behind a chap on the bus I had this desire to run my hand over his recently shaved head - the hairs were very short, defined, his scalp visible underneath but I knew it would feel softly bristly. I could feel it in my palm. He didn't look the sort to be worried about his hair being messed up. The longer I sat there the harder it became not to. So I got off.

London Bridge to Waterloo East

Big Dave's Gusset
sprayed on a derelict building.
Chimney pots of Borough.
A black cat sleeps
like a king
on a discarded sofa.
A platinum blond
watery blue eyes
fluffs her Marilynesque hair.
Sunlight golden on brick.

BB6 - The Angsty One

I'm afraid its got me.

Today they all seem to think that it would be best to have-it-out with all the housemates they have a beef with.

There's been Kamal going at Maxwell like a dog with his jaws locked. Kamal I initially liked but who tonight is blotting his copy book. Maxwell who I disliked because he was too laddy but now I'm have sympathy with him because he seems not to want to argue but is being driven to it.

Then there's been Science macho-ing at Roberto in a sort of face off which Roberto doesn't seem to want to take part in, if only he could get a word in edgeways. Science's method of debating involves avoiding eye contract at all costs, talking loudly over the opponent and punctuating all sentances with "ya get me?" There is literally no way to argue with a person like this - determined to be right even if they are being ridiculous. Again, I thought Science was a preferred character, however, his inferior debate technique has put him out of favour. Roberto - I thought a bit too smooth, but again finding a bit more sympathy with him following his attempts to dissolve a situation that was being boiled out of proportion.

The older chaps take to the kitchen and clean up after all the arguing yoofs.

Half the house are types who need to shout the loudest, and feel that in order to go forward things have to be talked (nay argued) through. Its like watching kids arguing - having to have the last word, never listening to the other party and departing when they feel they have won, only to go back to their preferred group and deconstruct it all only to end up feeling just as pissed off as they were before the showdown. Pointless. I think so. Screeching washer women the lot of them.

Makosi like all good royalty speaks about herself in the third person. Manipulative, yes. Could she have stopped many of the rows today? Yes - all that angst ridden hyperbole by Craig and Scary Mary could have been diffused if she had told them about her secret mission (which remains a secret between herself and Kamal). Shit stirring. Definitely. And then complaining that everyone is going on about her big bum, which could probably be abaited at least a little bit if she didn't go round only in knickers all the time.

And the tit wars.

As I drift off to sleep it looks like a lot of aimless souls wandering about in the night one minute trying to find their friends and the next attacking their foes. Little bundles of barbed wire. And its only day 7. I'm exhausted.

Big Blogger

It rains, the camera swings across the garden and focuses on the chicken coop and then the pool. A fly crosses the lens. There will be drunkeness, nudity and and...writing? Looks like an event brewing.



(Quick you get to nominate the 'housemates').

Evening Standard Headline Shock

Many times I have been tempted to write about the shockers that are Evening Standard Headlines - I even started making a list of them once but today I found this collection and figured I don't really need to. Just remember, lifes not like it is in the newspapers (it paints a terribly violent and dangerous picture, it really does).

Celebs in the Street

Coming out of class sauntering along by Russell Square in the evening light electrified against a dark grey sky I passed Ricky Gervais and pal. Somewhat thinner, without beard and much trendier than on TV. I pretended not to notice (its the Londoner way, y'know).

Sitting on the bus watching a beautiful asian girl with a very large nose and a middle aged middle class couple (he wore blue blazer with gold buttons, she had a laura ashley collar and sweater - quite out dated really) struggle with their luggage from Euston to Angel. A woman got off at Angel who had sat on chewing gum and it stretched from the seat across two poles, round to the door before it broke - imagine if you'd managed to do that at breaktime - would've been the talk of the playground (it wasn't even 3 wads of bubblicious which was always more stretchy).

Garden

I took the opportunity to lie in the garden this afternoon. A great treat for a city dwelling office worker. Joy of feeling the firmness of the earth against your back including the lumps and ridges of our less than perfect lawn. The sky was active today, white clouds moving across the blue, the edges like fractals swelling and thickening as they moved past. An ant carried a dead colleague across my paper, only to drop him and he was caught by the wind an whisked off, much to the distress of his transporter. Tits, sparrows and greenfinches got reaquainted with the feeders which I discovered were being emptied at an alarming rate not by them but by the gymnastic dexterity of our squirrel neighbours (so I moved them all around to put them off for a day or so). Our student neighbours on one side were chatting and laughing in their kitchen, and occassionally the boy who likes to sing burst into song (he's got one of those deep resonant male voices - good for song and carries well). On the other side our gardening neighbour was at work tying cutting rolling. And far away a bass thrum from some loudly played music, probably a Finsbury Park event.

I miss time. Summer holidays that were mrerely 6 weeks long seemed like an eternity. Mind filled with inquiry stuff, finding out about the world. Trips to visit the grandparents - two weeks of nothing but running around, playing in the creek, swimming in the sea, walking acros the heather. No plans. No arrangements. No diary. Nothing but enjoying the world around you.

The White Shirt

The man in the crisp white shirt transfers four perfect black finger prints to his upper arm sleeve from the crevice his fingers nestled into when he leaned his forearm against the doors trying to acclimatise to the tube carriage, which was more sauna than comfortable travelling compartment.

River Crossing

The air is thick. Expectant. Sky a heavy grey. Stifling being underneath it. Crossing the Thames, the water is choppy. Pleasure boats, tugs and barges are tied together in a central mooring between Blackfriars and Waterloo bridges.

An orange dingy powers its way across the river, bouncing off the oncoming waves, at times making no contact with the water at all - flying in fact. Lone man drives the boat with fury. Reminds me of that James Bond film where he bursts through the MI6 building in a boat.

When he gets to the other side I fully expect him to jump out and run after the bad guy, who he will recognize by his pale linen suit and bad mustache and the fact that he's carrying a briefcase that is handcuffed to his wrist. The briefcase will tick with an activated bomb inside. Our man will get there just in time to have a bare knuckle fight with the bad guy and difuse the bomb.

Sadly I think he's just the river police and not an international man of mystery.

The Huddle

A huddle of people are crouched down by a link chain fence. White dots surround them. A toddler wanders off unattended. Surreal scene as we approach.

As we pass by I see 3 people attending an injured dog that is laid flat out on the grass. Dabbing at him with cotton wool.

And then we are gone. Left to ponder the details.

Shakespeare's Globe

Invited to a meeting in the Globe Balcony rooms I was disappointed to discover we weren't in the actual theatre but in a buildng to the side. Did have lovely views though, and I interested myself with the evening shadows and a glass of wine whilst waiting for the meeting, longing to be somewhere else.

Right Royal Eurovision Roundup

Coming late to all things pop - being as I wasn't allowed to stay up after 7.30 until I was easily 9, and certainly wasn't allowed to watch low-brow shows with lewd dancing like Top of the Pops (70s era - Legs and co and Hot Gossip, never mind the ear-splitting music) - it really isn't a surprise that there is no long family history of Eurovision watching. Lately, however, in keeping with other people's family histories I have caught the whole shebang a couple of times.

The thing that always gets me about this song contest is how little the music really matters, and that actually thats a good thing because it is generally absolutely abominable. This year was no exception. It seems a Eurovision song needs one verse (preferably sung in broken English) and a chorus which can be repeated several times in every increasing crescendo. Very now was kettle drumming, often multiple drummers in unison, and if not kettle drums other drums. Female catawahling was making a big comeback. As were girls who would prefer to be glamour models.

I am leaving it to other more musically inclined people to provide a detailed analysis of the music. I am listing instead, anything that struck me about each performance:

1. Hungary - all about the one short trouserleg. Sung rather flat.
2. UK - Javine, a Beyonce-alike who probably would have benefited from having another boob falling out incident as in the semis.
3. Malta - all about the big red lace dress.
4. Romania - silicone tits, Stompified act (dustbin lid drumming), an inability to dance due to the uncomfortably high heels. Sang loudly (presumably to overcome the tuning problem).
5. Norway - Oh my god! The Grandson of Kiss, black lipstick and silver catsuit.
6. Turkey - gold eye shadow and makrame hanging from the sleeves of her blouse and a song with a weird sound like a pirate radio station is sharing the airwave.
7. Moldova - a little bit chumbawumba - really should have been left back on the beach where they were discovered.
8. Albania - barbie in white with red frills.
9. Cyprus - one for the boys - tight white teeshirt, much groin groping and grinding.
10. Spain - spanish skirt twitching, great backing vocals by some dancing singers who looked like tame Pogues members.
11. Israel - boring slow song by another silicone beauty - huge trained frock with no back.
12. Serbia & Montenegro - boy band, almost sung in the round. More crazy drummers. All a bit over-excited.
13. Denmark - song that took us away from the high volume wailing and heavy drumming. Bit more relaxed. Bit more like a normal song.
14. Sweden - psychotic smile, bit swing, bit soft rock, bit west end musical. Girls in Elvis suits.
15. FYR Macedonia - back to the drums and a chap with very poor posture (wierd stoop - could be that the pink jacket was too much to live up to) and the dancers were like hookers from a cheap bar - straight off the pole.
16. Ukraine - Ukraine's answer to Eminem. Chant for freedom.
17. Germany - in the rock chic vein - big power, thrashing guitars, and absolutely crap lyrics.
18. Croatia - intense dracula a-like flanked by some lovely peasant virgins.
19. Greece - the favourite - dancing men and rhyming couplets.
20. Russia - singing was rather flat. Good use of the vocal echo though.
21. Bosnia & Herzegovina - Abba tribute by 3 blond glamour pusses, Bails said they sounded a bit Diana Ross. Shoulder shaking in time with the drum rolls.
22. Switzerland - bad girl rock.
23. Latvia - boys ballading on stools with guitars. Clean cut boys. Bails' pick - she said they were singing a nice mellow song, getting away from all the screaching.
24. France - wearing canary yellow and strutting at a pace too fast for the song.

After the round up reminder we were keen on the witch ladies from Spain and the souly-pop from Denmark. However we were thinking it was going to be between Israel and Greece (right kind of women, y'see).

And the voting confirmed it - Greece won. But it really is much less about the music than who you share borders with or want to remain political friends with. Therefore bottom of the table were Germany, France and UK. We'll never win again! We are marginalised in Europe!

I'm Addicted

Ever since I noticed that a craze was happening (thanks to DG) I have harboured a secret growing addiction to Sudoku. Today I discovered that the Guardian's version gets harder and harder as the week goes on - today was labelled No: 011 Difficult.

This suprises me for a number of reasons, mostly because I never think of myself as a maths person or a number lover of any kind (I blame school and the fact that it too 3 attempts to get a C at O level despite the fact that everyone always thought I knew the stuff off pat in class). I was scarred (school is good for that). Anyway, I think its because I like pattern and its a lot about seeing the whole at the same time as the parts, if you know what I mean.

London Bridge to Russell Square

Happened to be sitting next to where Dave was standing on the underground, had a quick conversation about the family, growing baby and finding routine (always a pleasant suprise to bump into fellow bloggers in the flesh). Shared a carriage with a man in orange with his headphones threaded through the flesh tunnels in his ears. Was concerned about a foreign girl who stuck her hand between closing tube doors in an attempt to make the train. Someone in the lift needed a bath really badly. Got smiled at manically by a man wearing a rosette on his lapel which I was staring at (couldn't decide if it was me that was being odd or him - depends on who was staring the worst, I expect). Internally smiled at a tourist obeying the red man despite it clearly being safe to cross, looking quizzical at the rest of us crossing towards her. Wafted by someone else who needed a bath and smelled like an ashtray. Managed to get to class on time. Phew (always a dash from Peckham to here).

Celebrity Love Island

David Beckham sits on a fake desert island, shading himself under a fake palm tree, reading the paper. Victoria is wearing big Jackie O sunglasses and suppresses her yawns. A woman in a lairy teeshirt shoves a half-pack of love hearts at me with an ad for the next round of celebrity reality tv. Do we really need it? Its Friday morning, its London Bridge Station. And the Victoria-a-like isn't even that good (David, on the other hand, is remarkable, although he doesn't appear to be able to dribble a ball, even though it is a papier mache coconut).

Happy Birthday

Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday dear Elsie!
Happy birthday to me!

3 cheers for everyone born on the 13th (and yes we're aware that its Friday the 13th and that freaks you'all out but we are very clearly not having bad luck today.

Homeward

On my way home this evening, strolling up my street, passed by a little oik sitting on a wall showing off to his little brothers (he must have been about 11, they were younger) and he called over to me, "hey I like your red hair" and as I turned about to smile he said, "it would look good round my dick". And I was shocked into silence, failed find a good retort, or even wiggle my pinkie finger accusingly. (Hate that thing when you are stuck for words!). Pah, the yoof, don't know what they're coming to.

Monument



I'm out to meet a man about a dog. Well not really. I was out to meet a man about two drawings. Or rather he was out to meet me about the drawings, being as they were in my possession, as it were. Meet you at monument. My favourite long-columned statue, well monument, it can't really be called a statue since there isn't a person on top of it, but the golden flames are a fine, nay great, substitute. Only briefly had that fear that what you think of as monument others may think of as the station, front of which might be the entrance you can't see. The exchange went smoothly - one brown roll for a white envelope. And the deal was oiled with liquor, and the measure of which make me somewhat tipsy (blame it on my shockingly bad tolerance). He told us a story about Scunthorpe Council who installed a firewall and banned all swear words and found they couldn't send each other email anymore.

nightfall

the moon
a sliver
in a pale blue sky
light fades
through dusk
to night

Visitor Explosion

Some weird shit was happening last week - a massive explosion of visitors referred from particular pages - they came up as lists of links and read sort of like the chapters of a book. Turns out they are religious. I found one which was claiming that London was a place of ghetto filth and poverty, with no speciality architecture and that those of us living here and reveling in the squalour of the city were children and grandchildren of the Ghetto.

Honestly, I love it. So there.

Birthday Meal

It was Bails' birthday on the 3rd, we were too busy to meet until this evening. We stopped by the Hoxton Apprentice for a leisurely meal and a couple of cocktails, sitting outside in the evening sunshine. Loverly. Much excitement when we arrived becuase Bez had arrived just before us and despite the fact that everyone was Hoxton trendy they couldn't help but exude that kind of excitement reserved for celebrity spotting (most uncool, honestly, celebrities really are two a penny in London, pah!)

Love sitting in this serenity watching the people in the hubbub of the bar across the street, all crammed into an open space fenced in by Grolsch netting. One outside section was being cleared to make way for the entrance to a subterranean bar which was hosting a press launch of something and a private party. A group of young men arrived all dressed to the nines with those sort of messed-up, could-be-70s, could-be-the-evolution-of-the-hoxton-fin haircuts, all the trendy men's styles were here both hair and clothes. I reckoned a band. Bails said, "but if that's true where are the instruments?". I said, "they brought those earlier, did the soundcheck and then went home to get dolled up, doh!" She really had to agree.

Meanwhile a group of young people came and sat down for a bottle of wine - 2 girls 2 boys. On returning from the loo one excitedly exclaimed that Bez, yeah Bez was inside. What inside here? Yes. Really? Yes. When did you see him? When I went to the loo (obviously these weren't the brightest young things in the matchbox). The conversation quickly went on to something else. Everyone excitedly talking about travel, work, places in loud voices. One boy started on about playing poker. And like when you hit on anybody's obsessively favourite topic managed to drone on about flushes, straights, betting, getting a hand, to the point that he could have been a stamp collector.

Labour party campaigners from the polling station up the street passed by wearing plenty of stickers and rossettes.

Bez and his stick-thin girlfriend left the restuarant and the group of four stood up to crane over the railings to check out where he went (literally next door it transpired, "Oh Bez lives there! I was going to live in that block," Mr Poker exclaimed).

Whilst we watched the queue for the private press launch party grow, kept under control by a bouncer with bigger sunglasses than any of the must-be-cool guests and a tequila girl (cowboy hat, pinstripe jacket with screenprinted logos), the young people started one of those conversations that begins, "Oh we're getting too old for that kind of mid-week partying". It transpires they ranged in age from the ancient 21 to 24.

Labour party campaigners walked back to the polling station. Presumably been on a knock around.

And then Bez came back out with stick-insect girlfriend and stick-insect friend to join the queue. Cue more gushing and trying-not-to-stare staring.

We left in order to get back to our beds, certain that it must be way past our bedtimes (being 35 and everything - well I am almost, Bails is already, cos like she's older than me!)

Interview

I managed to give a not very good account of myself today in a bid to get a job. Not holding out much hope. I'm feeling like I'm a jack of all trades and a master of nothing. Been questioning what exactly it is that I would like to do now. Maybe set up a business making coats (rather season work I would imagine), or run a bar which would cater exactly for my idea night out (absoutely no experience of that). Or maybe I could grow plants for a living and spend my days looking out the window. Always a bit of a downer when these things don't go as well as you'd like.

View from the Tate

One day last week I went to a meeting in the Tate Modern - arriving at 8.50 had to stroll along the Thames for a short while and waste some time looking at the view. The meeting was on the sixth floor in a room with a great view of St Pauls - a view that is largely obscured at street level.

Saturday Riders

Its my misfortune to have a job that requires occassional evening and weekend work. This saturday morning was one of those days.

As I approached the tube gates at Kings Cross with the usual haste I was overcome by a feeling of being a bull in a china shop. And then it dawned on me - the tube was full of the underground equivalent of Sunday drivers. Everyone was on go-slow mode, not sure of where they were going, having to slow-down to peer round corners and at signs. Tourists standing on the wrong side of the escalator. People with large rucksacks. I kept finding myself almost falling over people - something to do with the fact that I automatically go into commuter rush mode when down in the tube (never travel on it at the weekend if I can possibly help it). Easier at the time of day to get a seat though.

Transformation: a post for Harry

Bails had an extreme realisation: she no longer needed dreadlocks to feel like herself. Made an appointment that day at the hairdressers and within a week was reborn, free from the constraints of locks (and praying that she had in fact done the right thing). A week on and it seems that yes, change is good.





Things I didn't know about really knotted up hair:
It took 3 people the best part of 3 hours to comb out. There was stuff in there that looked like the reminants of the beach at Valencia last August. The combing out process was done dry. Once combed out the hair had to rest before it could be cut - time needed: 2 days.

Boy Trouble

I'm sat next to a woman in the depths of despair. We sit facing backwards by the bend in the 73. She attempts to muffle her chest-wrenching sobs and snotty tears with her hands. Middle of a relationship breakup, snorting snottily into the phone to a succession of girlfriends who are attempting to level some calm.

As I step out of the bus at Newington Green I catch the strains of a different conversation, "but, like, d'ya fancy 'im?"...it'll only lead to trouble.

First Lecture

I think I might be an anti-intellectual. I find myself in the midst of class feeling frustrated by the other students' intellectualising, or their attempts to out-smart each other, or their need to bring everything back to their own work, or their inability to transfer knowledge across to other situations. I'm an inverted snob. Having spent my entire school life being one of the swottier ones I now feel like I'd rather sit in the back and not do my homework. I'm hoping to get over it soon.

9th & Hennepin

And I've seen it all, I've seen it all
Through the yellow windows of the evening train...

From the overland up above the street, through the window of a smart warehouse apartment in Borough, a man packs a bag, grabbing clothes from the wide low-slung kingsize bed and patting them down inside, his hipsters hanging just a little bit low revealing a whisper of builder's bum.

Blogging Year 2

Oh my gad! My second blog birthday is upon us.

Right in the middle of a total blo(g)ckage. I've been thinking a lot about how In the Aquarium may have changed over the second year of its existence. My little sis made an observation after her last read that it has changed a lot - more descriptive and 'deep' (her words) and less light hearted and funny.

Particularly lately, work has been harder. I'm tired. Less enthralled by going out. Staying at home more, staying local more. Almost like the 34th year has brought great change - my restless self has learnt to be more controlled, considered, settled. Much less need for constant motion, excitement. Like I've become an observer of life rather than a participant. And yet, and yet. I have a yearning for being entertained, for doing new things in new places, finding other more exciting scenery. I think its the fact that the search for excitement is so often disappointing, great expectations dashed.

I have a feeling this is reflected in the writing here. I feel like I've had fewer ideas, fewer exciting experiences. Less to laugh about.

And then there's been the hemorrhaging of blog buddies left right and centre (hey Elsie, Mr rather more Invisible Stranger, My Ace Life who I still visit to see Floella Benjamin popping up). I miss you all.

BUT. I intend to rediscover my life. Its a couple more weeks until I reach my most dreaded mid-30s (hating every minute of being over 30) and I don't want to be bored or boring any more. Dad's old adage, "only the boring get bored" rings in my ears. I intend to look with new eyes at the things of old. I intend to go on holiday and recoup some enthusiasm. I hope I haven't driven you all away!

I started an MA in January, the first module of which was in computer mediated communication. Whilst trying to figure out how CMC can help students learn and teachers teach I have discovered that I like blogging as a medium for computer mediated communications better than the software we were using for this module. I like the fact that I feel part of a community of bloggers; people come back over and over and comment; that I can tell that there are more visitors than those who are commenting (my stats tell me so - hello to all you lurkers out there); that every once in a while a new person comes along and makes contact - making the whole thing feel like its gathering steam. I feel a great attachment to my fellow bloggers - my favourites are linked on the further reading column, some of you I have met in the flesh - which has always been hugely enjoyable. :-)


[Incidentally, isn't it weird that the spell check in blogger doesn't know the words blog or blogging!]

Two Pair

On a narrow balcony in a block of flats two men cut metal poles in half. One holds the poles while the other weilds the chainsaw, sparks flying off the balcony onto the grass below. This looks a little dangerous me thinks.

A couple of houses away a man in a grey suit stands outside the front garden and takes a photograph, through trees, of the other man (also in a grey suit) as he stands by the doorstep posing with one hand in his trouser pocket. Two estate agents? They don't usually pose in the photo. Perhaps its a new purchase.

Grey Skies

Grey clouds swirl past the window left to right threatening rain and/or hail.

Occassional black birds pass right to left, and back again.

Bright blue plastic bag passes left to right held fully inflated by the wind.

Reminds me of The Red Balloon - fab film (and book I had as a child). All black and white apart from a red and a blue balloon.

The Fingersmith

(Not that version, My version!) Some man gets on the bus pushing a sleeping toddler in a buggy with one hand, a rucksack slung over one shoulder which he is trying to keep up whilst talking on the phone. My mind makes a comparison to those men you see parking their cars (cars with powersteering) whilst holding and talking on the phone. Trying to do important things together without due care and attention comes to into my mind.

He parks the buggy in the alloted area and then comes and sits by me, which I think is strange because the bus isn't too crowded and this isn't usually a seat of choice for baby carers. He acts a bit weird. He keeps thinking I'm looking at him when I'm not really I'm just looking past him at the street on the other side of the road. Then he starts shifting in his seat, ever so slightly so his back is towards me. His rucksack in covering his lap and leaning on my leg.

then I become aware of the faintest of tickling sensations on my thigh, close to my coat pocket. I shift. He shifts. I feel it again. When I move my hand down it goes away. I get my pass out of the other pocket on that side. The tickling starts again.

I feel sure he's checking my pocket out. But I have a slight doubt. I am relieved I never keep anything in there. But when I get off I feel violated in a creepy kind of way. And everyone in the street seems to be behaving like freaks. I can't wait to get inside where I can get away from people.

Public Personal Habits

Number One.
The Public Nose Pick.

So we return to a subject I've comtemplated with some disgust several times. This time to consider what could possibly be considered 'acceptable' for the length of a public pick.

In my estimation a public pick should be swift, over before it has really got going, only long enough that it can still be mistaken for an irrespressible itch having to be scratched.

On no account should it be used as an alternative to a hanky and involve persistent deep digging. In both nostrils. With contemplation of finger. For ten minutes.


Number Two.
Female Grooming.

Today the train was delayed for over half an hour. So I had to ride the tube for a considerable number of stops (in comparison to normal). I always manage to forget that there are women who are unable to get all the necessary grooming tasks done before leaving home and have to do grissly things like clipping their nails or curling their mascara-laiden eyelashes with torture implements whilst on the tube on the way to work.

This morning I watched a woman brush her hair (not so bad). And then something else caught my eye.

When I looked back she was angling a mirror to see what must have been offendingly dark chin hairs so she could tweeze them out. The tweezing actually pulled the skin before the hair popped out. It reminded me of a cruel thing I learned in biology once about ageing skin and how it looses its elasticity, proved by pinching the upper hand skin of my mother vs myself to see which sank back quicker AND some art film which used to show constantly in the Great Eastern Dining Room basement bar where a man put hooks into his skin and had a crane lift him across some landscape hanging by them. One of those hideous sights you can't quite tear your eyes off.

Monday's Life Class




The model was 7 months pregnant. Interesting to draw. Poses were longer - so she didn't get so tired out with all the moving around - first one a 20 min pose, then all 10 minute poses until the last one which was 35minutes. I quite like it but its sort of too smooth by comparison to some of the others. I prefer the marks to be a bit more interesting. I missed the short fire poses which really help to loosen you up.


Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.

All original drawings £25 excluding postage and packing (A1 sized). Or alternatively, A4 sized prints for £5 excluding postage and packing. For further details see the lifedrawing gallery or email me.

Regent's Canal Stroll




In search of lunch we went over to the Narrow Boat Inn. Unimpressed with their menu we decided to walk along the canal to Camden, certain we would be more in luck there.

Its mostly tranquil along the canal between Islington and shortly before Camden. Quiet. Walking along beside the green slick water. Passing locks, canal boats moored, aquatic birdlife, fishermen and other towpath users. The gas towers that used to mark the skyline in Kings Cross have all but one been removed, mass building work happening in its place bringing the channel tunnel link closer. The water was very high and gushed at some rate through the overflows on the locks.

On making it to Camden we were thrust into the mayhem that the market has become, all tourists, youths, noodles and tie dye clothing. We stopped by Camden Lock to decide where to head. A man close by was packing up his folding chair - a man with a mass or rings through his face, ears, head and neck. A face painted green and red to match the tattoos smothering the rest of his body. A body exposed to the air on this warm spring day, no trousers just silver pants.

We crossed the market to walk up the main road towards Chalk Farm in search of the perfect menu, failing to find it, we found ourselves at Marine Ices, behind the painted and pierced man who somehow had beaten us there and was eating a single cone sitting on his folding chair by a lampost on the side of the road.

Marine Ices - great ice cream, a favourite of my mother who would treat us on occasion in the early 70s after swimming lessons at Prince of Wales Road Baths. We never had a double cone like we all did today though.