Waving not drowning

I'm on the train that passes his house and on the phone to him at the same time. He comes outside and waves at the train as it goes past. I'm in the third carriage first doors I say waving back. He laughs. I laugh. The woman standing next to me sees him and also laughs. Did you see me I ask. Yes he said you're wearing a grey teeshirt or something. I am. Tenuous connections, fleeting but lovely. I bet the whole train saw me he says, we have to stop doing this shit. I hope not I think smiling. 

Waiting for the bus

I'm impatient and it said 5 minutes before any bus was due. I started walking and a man started talking. Couldn't be bothered to wait for the bus either? no. It's been a long day and I don't feel like waiting.

How far you going? Not really sure. 

What do you do? Work for the Council. 

Doing what? Contracts management. 

Admin then? Largely, I agree. Boring then? Somewhat. 

What do you do in your spare time? I make pots, and... Blog a little. And take photos. Quite a bit of extras I think. Haven't thought about that for a while. 

What kind of pots? Big and odd. 

Do you sell them online or anything? Not sure anyone would want them. But I'm trying to persuade someone to give me an exhibition in Peckham. 

Anyway we've talked a lot about me. What about you? 

I used to work with young people but didn't like it as I got further into management and now am trying to set up as photographer.

So these interesting conversations about people trying to do some self employment type work. It makes me think about what I intended to do when I started out at the beginning. Some kind of artistic expression. 

Finally, he said, I've walked past my bus stop twice now. You must go back I said. Yes he said. We went our separate ways and I'm thinking of what I will do next. 

Bored boy and the German tourist

The bored boy is driving his toy car over the back of his seat and behind the neck of a German tourist. The German tourist flicks the back of his neck with slight irritation. The bored boy's car drives across the seat backs to his mother's shoulder. His feet press gently against the German tourist's apple green samsonite suitcase so that it rolls slightly on its four caster wheels. The German tourist rolls the suitcase off the bottom of the bored boy's trainer soles. The car drives back across the seats and down the arm of the German tourist, whereupon the bored boy's father nodded to the bored boy's mother who knocked the bored boy's feet off the seat and apologised to the German tourist who pretended it was okay, even though it blatantly wasn't really. 

Bananas

After Friday prayers at lunchtime men stream out of the local mosque and flow back up towards Rye Lane. Multiculturally Muslim. And eating perfect yellow bananas.

Dressing your age

I can't decide whether it is better to be mutton dressed as lamb, or lamb dressed as mutton. Lamb doesn't often dress as mutton but I've seen a girl outside in a gold brocade jacket with a brown blouse underneath with a knot detail at the neck. Lady Di-esc. She looks like she has come out in her granny's clothes. 

Morning, Love

Young couple on way to work in the city. He in a suit, she in a beige mac. A standing crushed together on the train morning. His head is down looking at something on his phone. She leans her forehead against his. He presses against hers. Looks up. Finishes with the phone, and puts his arm around her. They read the Metro together. No words, just actions. 

Cobblers

Bought a lovely pair of sandals with a slight heel from that jumble sale called TKMaxx. Wore them out to the theatre and the heel pad of one came off. Took them to the cobblers in London Bridge. Nice man. Said they were very summery and wouldn't I be wearing them later? I said it depended how long to fix them. Timings didn't fit in but I would collect them tomorrow. 

On collection we had a similar conversation about wearing them. I looked around the workshop area - there were spike heels in black with studs, and flesh toned ones in patent leather and a kitten heel on the counter getting glued. I wondered if he had a shoe fetish. A cobbler with a shoe fetish. Could be the ideal job!

Indulgences

So today on the quest to find the perfect black leather jacket for a man with a 46inch chest I was on Bond Street, playing at being a rich woman shopping for her husband. Being very contained and not balking at the outrageously large prices of said jackets (£1600 anybody? Someone must be buying them). The shops are decidedly empty here - none of the crowds stacking up on sweatshop-produced cheap shit from Primark. No, these are shops with charming sales assistants and security men who open the door for you and wish you a very pleasant evening. They sit you down and parade their wares for you, checking prices and sizes and telling you all about the fabric. 

In Fenwick I tried on brassieres. One of them worth £145. That's more than I've paid for any item of clothing I've ever owned! Nice though. Very good fit. The shop assistant thought so also as she burst through the curtain unannounced and told me that there was good room in the back, cup size was perfect and my tan looked very fresh. I forget what it's like in these kinds of shops - extra helpful! A little bit over zealous! 

And it all shut down well before late night shopping finished on Oxford Street. No need to work for people who can afford such items, perhaps. 

Loud

The cafe is full of shrieking babies. A man across from me raises his eyes to the sky. The mums are getting ready to leave - it takes them 10 minutes of talking baby to each other excitedly about swings to leave while the babies continue at the tops of their lungs. 

When quiet descends the conversation of three people making film proposals fills the space. The pitch is about the moon and reaching up to show longing and desire. Beautiful they think. Cliche I think. Then there is something about a person holding up a cheese and a dolls house and a family that just sounds naff. Advert perhaps. One of them is going to start doing the sound scapy stuff. Doing diaries, around half term, loudly. Pretentious students.  Or perhaps pretentious film people who deliver courses. 

Birthday

It's my birthday today (actual birthday not blog birthday). Not been posting much because my computer has broken and I need a new hard drive. There are posts I need to do - like about my fabulous trips to Ghana and most recently Greece and stories of life and love and tribulations, ceramics and work, London, Athens and Accra. I'm going to be better. Because I'm 43. And I don't want my life to pass me by uncommented upon! 

I wore yellow to work today. They've not seen me in anything other than black before. It was somewhat controversial and deemed worthy of much comment. 

Lunchtime Cafe Musicals

On the way to the cafe the brief display of sunshine was replaced by threateningly black clouds.

Two mums sat chatting with their babies and buggies. A man and his mum having coffee. Several lone eaters with the dregs of hot drinks. A woman opposite with splendidly black shiny hair and a thick fringe had ordered the same as me.

Egg Mayonaise and salad sandwich on brown. Deliciously reminiscent of the 70s for me. Picnics and homemade sandwiches. Very evocative. Walking across Regent's Park's Inner Circle when mum's flip flop stuck to the heat-moistened tarmac and broke.

Black clouds led to a hail storm. Mum and son chatted about the radio weather on the way down predicting this for London. The mothers gassed on about the inanities of life - messing up the recording of their favourite programme which they were bereft about because it had just finished. Waiting for a lull in the weather to leave. When it arrived they walked to the door. One of the mums sang, oh it's still hailing and I'm not wearing appropriate clothes (in the way people do when they are alone). The last words swallowed by the wind as the door closes behind her. The remaining cafe occupants burst into a round of spontaneous laughter which she must have heard as she put up her sweatshirt hood - she blushed and laughed. The other mum had an umbrella which promptly turned inside out in the wind.

Wet Saturdays

It's been raining. Outside the Tarmac is black and shiny reflecting back the headlights, tail-lights, street lights. People huddle under umbrellas and plod along the wet York paving stones. Not so many people out for a Saturday as you might expect in Upper Street. Sky is pitch black. No visible moon.

Value of cigarette butts

A homeless man outside the Southbank Centre takes the inside compartment out of a outside ashtray and empties the stubbed butts into his pocket, presumably to smoke as they are later or to extract the tobacco for roll ups. The value of other people's discarded rubbish.

Summer time

I forgot the advantage of longer light in the evenings from the clocks going forwards. The joy of getting out of work while it is still daylight and it lasting until after 7pm. Summer is coming even though it continues cold and grey.

Rich Mix

Walking out if the cinema two women are sitting in a window sill talking about one of their relationships. SH said When you hear people talking they are almost always talking about relationships. We pass a man on the phone, that's not what I said, that's not what I said, he is saying. See? It's familiar, that's not what I said, ok I did say it but that's not what I meant. 21st century angst.

Meat-eating Vegetarian

I became a vegetarian aged 17 (I'm 42 now) because we learned about intensive farming in Geography and as a moralistic teenager I decided enough was enough - I had to make a stand on behalf of animal husbandry. Didn't touch it, or even really crave it, again until Christmas 2012. I had been debating it internally for a bit - felt like I needed it. Then I had some. Bacon. A mouthful. It was full flavoured and a fantastic texture in the mouth. Then after that a burger. Beef. Succulent. And this weird head clarity. At Christmas dinner my dining companions nearly fell off their chairs in shock (many of them I hadn't told) - which came on top of me wearing purple and extremely high heeled shoes - it was all a bit much for some of them to take in at once.

I still basically think of myself as a vegetarian though. Just one that eats meat with great delight. I am especially fond of beef. It's the best in the visual clarity stakes. And steaks are probably my favourite. I have even had veal escallop for old times sake. As a kid we used to go to an Italian trattoria near my father's office where that was what I always had. With lemon squeezed over. I used to love it. Cruel but delicious.

I have recently discovered I am slightly anaemic and have low ferric acid levels - which might account for the cravings. Not feeling guilty yet despite there being some ardent veggies in my ceramics class at the moment.

Liberty

There is something satisfying about clacking around the beautiful wooden floors of Liberties on a Friday evening looking at clothing too expensive to buy made of impractical diaphanous fabrics that are tied onto rails with security tags that chirrup like birds when they are stretched too far (overly sensitive I'm told by a shop assistant).

In shoes a man sits and reads a paper. I try to decide which woman browsing around the shelves at the edge of the room he is with. Quite uncertain. From the balcony upstairs I spy a shop assistant having a brief intimate chat with him whilst looking furtively over her shoulder and toying with her hair. Waiting for home time then rather than bored on a monster shopping spree.

Help

A man offers to help a woman carry her buggy down the steps from the platform. He is gone long enough that he probably helped her all the way to street level (Peckham Rye has no lift or escalator access and is a high rail track). He returns to the platform slightly breathlessly from bounding up the stairs. The first thing he encounters are two cute young women dragging three huge suitcases between them. They are looking for a lift. He catches my eye, because we both were watching them. We laugh. He sees his train approaching and then chivalrously offers to carry one of the cases down one flight because his train is coming. You're a star one of the girls says at the bottom. He bounds back up in time to board the train. Breathless again. I'm still smiling. Gentlemen exist - always ready to help damsels in distress, or at least discomfort.

The Brits

So Georgia's bloke helps building the TV set at the Brits where they do the interviews. Sounds like a shaggy dog story. Anyway - he had free passes to the after show party (the one at the O2 rather than the ones where the A listers were papped drunk) and he gave them to Georgia and she gave one to me. To get into the awards ceremony itself he said I needed to just walk with him and pretend I worked there. In an unusual choice for me I was wearing a yellow dress and pink high heels (the girl who always wears black this is) so decided I would just large through the doors and security like a celebrity and nobody said boo to the goose. Opened doors for me and waved me through. We stood by the entrance - could see all the celebs squeezing through to get out for a fag, get interviewed or go back stage to present awards or perform. Lots of them were extremely short. I felt like a giant, particularly with my diminutive companions. So Sharon Osbourne looked like a witch, Ben Drew was hanging with a man in a beautiful blue silk embroidered suit and kept popping out for a fag - I was disappointed he didn't win anything, I think Johnny Depp although I wasn't sure if it was a look alike, Robbie Williams also surprisingly short, Damon Albarn who was accosted by a worker fan and behaved impeccably like an old mate on being accosted, Jessie J in a practically frontless dress. Amongst others including a woman in a silver frock that made it into most of the papers - wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen - so easily could have been a boob falling out of it. Fireworks, light shows and plenty of stage direction. Time for a break, please be back in your seats in 2 and a half minutes ladies and gentlemen the next song starts gently and we need to have quiet. At which swathes of people from the tables ran for the toilet/smoking area/VIP bar and didn't make it back in the allotted time.

After the close - dead on 10pm we went to the after show party - free rides on a carousel, dodgems, a medical tent where they plied you with pill packs of jelly bellies, cake with syrup out if a blood bag and I took a Damien Hirst chocolate skull out of the medicine cabinet. They made me wear blue bags over my shoes and tried to take my blood pressure. Then we went to the oxygen bar and breathed deeply through flavoured water (slightly light headed). Watched the reportedly worlds strongest woman lift two men on her shoulders with two swings on a yoke. Later danced on a Damian Hirst spotted dance floor with lots if producer and tv exec types in suits and crazy moves from the early 80s. Bad dad dancing rules ok. At 11.30pm the sensible of our party departed but I never want to go once I get there and missed my last connection and had to catch the night bus. On a school night. Stoopid! But fun.

Averted disasters

Spent the night at Mr's, took my rucksack with kit for swimming later today - on the crowded train stuck it in the overhead shelf. Telling self several times not to forget it. At top of the escalator at Moorgate I realised I had left it there (highly susceptible to forgetting stuff at the moment). Ran back down to the train begging nobody in particular for the train not to have left. Running up the platform towards 3 train workers calling out don't let the train go - I've left my bag on it!
Why did you leave your bag?
Don't know!
What was it like?
Black rucksack
Did it have anything on it?
No. Oh yes - timberland.
Oh sorry madam, he said grinning, it's too late the train is locked, as his colleague brought the bag out of the office.
Relief!