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.