Morning Coffee

There's this arsehole in Costa's with a group of 7 management students. They are having morning coffee and he is lecturing them (Australian) with gems of cliches from what seems to be an American self help management manual. He just loves the sound of his own voice. His students make lots of notes. The men take him very seriously and the women laugh at his jokes.

At another table a man shows his friend videos of his golfing in Scotland holiday. 

Morning make over

She's 40ish wearing a blue suit and doing her makeup on the train. So far she has the panda eyeshadow done and is colouring in her eyebrows.

One of those floating seeds drifts past. She catches it, closes her eyes, makes a wish and releases it.

Then the mascara, looking like torture, flick flicking the brush over the lashes. Curling them with the tongs, eyelid peeled slightly revealing the eye white. Things that should be confined to the bathroom. After that consealer, and then lipstick.

Olympic Hangover

I miss the Olympics. I miss the buzz in the city - all the upbeat happy people sitting around the parks watching big screens. It felt like being on holiday even though I was working. The weather is overcast rather than sunny. I miss the back to back coverage and all the sporting cliches. And the athletes and their amazing feats, wins and losses, emotions. It's sort of lonely in the city now.

Square head

Three Italian people sit down at the cafe next to me. See this man, one woman says, he has a square head. The Russian would have had a square head like that. I look. He certainly does have a square head. I giggle. She notices and laughs embarrassed at being caught bitching. Its a description, isnt it? I can only agree. They carried on talking. He had pale but broad big shoulders, nice legs, very muscly. Nice man. Big square head. Sounds lovely!

What Olympic sport are you built for?

Getting into the Olympic spirit wondering what sport would be easiest for someone in their late thirties to get into. Something less punishing like... Shooting or archery? No need lots of skill. Boxing? Not at this age. Weight lifting? Need strength.

The only sport I was ever any good at was swimming but not in a competitive way.  Never was fast enough - graceful of stroke but no speed. So not built for speed. Handed a massively heavy weight and told to curl it - it was all I could muster not to drop it on my foot. Not built for stength either then. 

What are you built for then?

I could only come up with pleasure. I can be witty, passionate, demonstrative, generous, willing and find quite stupid jokes funny. Might also be built for creation - I like making things, am fairly good with my hands, designing stuff. And although I haven't had any children I have been told by a couple of older people that I was lucky to have good child-bearing hips (one man told me that it was the most common cause of death for younger women in his village - the difficulty of childbirth from narrow hips). Nice to have some appreciation of my wide arse! 

Also I've always been missing that competitive drive that sports people need to make them strive to be the best. Don't know what happened to my dose of it. 

Dirty Books

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Sport, sport, sport

OMG - the Olympics is great. So many great results for team GB. So many crazy sports that I'm suddenly into. Like the kieron (with the wind up motor scootist leading the field), or the omnium elimination where a massive crowd of bikes try not to be last over the line. And Phelps in the pool. And all the posh rowers and sailors. GB women being fantastic. Amazing track and field last night - Jess Ennis, Mo Farah and Greg Rutherford, golds.  And now that great posturing macho testosterone charged 10 second  explosion - the 100 metres. Love it.

It's so exciting.

Update 2210

All hail his awesomeness the fastest man on the planet. Bolt.

Après Work

Friday. Love Friday. The sun was shining, warm afternoon glow. Me and a mass of tourists were hanging in the Southbank. I bought some books in Foyles in the basement of the Southbank Centre and then headed to Los Iguanas to wait for Bails. Ordered a Cuba Libra which unfortunately came as two-for-one. I sat with my two drinks at the window looking across the outside dining tables. Waiting.

As I waited an unseen pigeon that must have been on a ledge of the bridge (restaurant is nestled into a bridge arch at Hungerford Bridge) pooped onto the cutlery laid on a napkin of the table in the corner. Bad table, I thought. I wouldn't want to sit there. Mental note to self.

Later when I was starting my second drink and Bails had arrived we were watching the second group of people on the poopy table. A woman and two male companions. Divided only by a large window it was almost as if we were sitting at their table. They pretended not to notice us. Until the woman, swirling her drink managed to flick a chip of ice into the neck of her shirt. Ooo cold. Attempting to pull it out, all five of us laughed. Shortly afterwards one of her friends was pooped on by a pigeon. Gross. She laughed. He laughed. I thought he took it well. Better than I would have. Bails said at least it wasn't a seagull - from personal experience she says their poops are huge. Double gross.

When we were leaving the woman wrote a note on her phone and showed us through the window: bet you weren't expecting the entertainment. No indeed. Up for a laugh some of these tourists.

Mens Water Cooler Moment

Have you been watching the Olympics?
I sat down on the first day and watched six hours of cycling. I'm thinking what am I doing, I don't even like cycling. And it's carried on pretty much like that. I've come  into work for a rest to be honest with you. I'm watching sports I have no interest in, never had. I mean archery. What am I doing watching archery?
How much of the beach volleyball have you watched? *Nudge nudge*

Evening Chill

Walking along old street from the roundabout, it's a warm summer Olympic evening. A couple pass me - he's tall and broad wearing half a suit, in his shirtsleeves. She at first appears to have very broad sloping shoulders until I pass close enough to see he has lent her his suit jacket, which fits her like an oversized coat. 

Longing

The sun goes down in a clear sky - orange orb with an orange glow. Dipping below the trees across a park's paddock, recently mowed, sparsely populated with a couple of groups of people. In the sky planes cross like comets trailed by their exhaust. I'd like to be on one. Going somewhere. Anywhere exotic would do. With a beach and some sea. No pressures.

Loafing

Three young men hanging out in the Brunswick Centre (it has now lost the centre from its name - probably in a rebranding exercise - calls itself The Brunswick). They chat. One of them ogles the legs of a woman (30ish) wearing short shorts and high heels. Surrepticiously. She may not notice the individuals noticing but I am sure she knows she has the power.

Lunchtime seduction

A man and a woman meet in Costas for lunch. He arrives first and chooses a table, securing it with his suit jacket slung over the seat back. He joins the queue. She arrives, he directs her to their table. She has brought in a sandwich from Pret a Manger. She takes off her jacket and sits down. He brings over hot drinks and moves his chair closer than 180 degrees around the table. They talk. He seems keen. He reaches out a hand and strokes her thigh under the table, comments on her dress, moves his knee into a position where she will feel his heat through their clothing. She doesn't touch him at all. She seems contained. She puts her hands together in her lap. He looks into her eyes while they talk, taking large bites of his sandwich. And all too soon it is time to leave and get back to work. She brushes crumbs from his trouser leg before they get up. And then they go.

Beatroot

Eating small box of food in Beatroot on Berwick Street. It's a pathway. Lots of people passing in both directions between Soho and Oxford Street. Records shop fans, gays and tourists. The fruit and veg men are rearranging their stall.

A couple - bears (big moustaches and bald) each carrying a chiwauwa. An older man in shorts and walking shoes with bare legs telling his companion that you can also buy false eyelashes there (wherever there is). Three youths walk past, double take, walk into Beatroot and come straight out again (probably carnivorous). An old lady in purple and white ankle boots and white fur collared coat.

Yo! Where is everyone?

It's 10 o'clock. Working late. Popped in on the way home to save cooking.

2 cucumber maki
1 vegetable yakisoba
And a pumpkin karaoke

Just me, five staff and 10 sad plates of food going round. They are going to be chucked. 

It's hard eating slippery noodles with chopsticks. But they are hot and freshly made by a very attentive chef (nothing else to do but wait for closing). 

Used to go to the first one in Poland street and after go to yo below which had the added advantage of ashtrays that sucked the smoke inside them - great in the days of smoke filled bars (remember them - coming home stinking of fags and having to wash your hair before bed because the smell coming off it kept you awake).

Saturday

Shopping in town - bumped into the architect who designed the renovation to our building at work with his beautiful wife who was a bit taken aback by our greeting (perhaps a bit warmer than might be expected in Habitat sale room). Walked over to Apple store for a new headset and the assistant gave me one because there weren't any boxed up ones - making it free - nice. Now in the ICA listening to funky jazz with a mixture of arty types, photographers and clients working and stragglers from London Pride which is in coming to a close outside (main event over, peripheral venues overflowing).

Cycling in the wind

At the end of a warm June day cyclists criss cross the intersection where I'm sitting. The wind is blowing up the sleeves of my jacket and chilling my armpits. It's supposed to be cooler tomorrow. With showers.

Yoko Ono Private View, Serpentine Gallery

I've gotten here too early - I'm a guest at the regular old Private View for the plebs and there is still half an hour of the Special Private View (for the Special People) before I can go in. I've persuaded the lady with the list to let me into the compound to sit and get a drink. (Don't want too much mingling of the plebs and the VIPs). I'm trying to see whether I recognise any of the special people, but at the moment I'm not sure that they aren't all plebs waiting for our time... Maybe I should get nearer. They've just relaid the lawn and there are stewards on every corner trying to keep the crowd from spilling onto the grass.

There are rich Knightsbridge people here - you can tell by the clothes and the shoes and the mwah mwahing on air cheeks. There are some fabric designers sitting next to me talking about clients, contracts and designs.

The Work

A film, in real time, of Yoko's eye staring you out. She doesn't blink for a really long time. Finally she closes her eye, slowly. It looks painful to do it. Then it opens again and starts staring once more.

Two films showing opposite each other. Both called cut piece, one from 1965, the other from 2003. The audience is invited to cut the clothes off Yoko. She is still and deadpan. People snip small bits of fabric off. Until someone goes for it and cuts something big off (in 1965 it's her slip which reveals her brassier, in 2003 it's her skirt which leaves her sitting in bra and pants). These things happen quite far into both films and by that time I was outraged by someone coming up and exposing her so suddenly. Somehow the 60s version felt more exploitative.

Fly on a nipple film - totally freaked me out, and some other woman standing next to me. Close up of bottoms walking - reminded me how I like that bit of a person. Quite like to feel a bottom as it walks along (if someone will let you!)

New Cats

So last weekend, Susanna and I drove up the A1M to Glaisdale in the North York Moors to collect my new kittens (its a long way to go for a cat but they are bred by Susanna's uncle and come from a very good mouser - which considering my most recent affliction at home was important in the decision making).

The kittens were decidedly stand offish while we were staying in Yorkshire. Didn't like being touched much but did play with string. Getting them into the box wasn't as difficult as I expected and they didn't make a peep all the way home (5 hours). Let them out at home and they promptly hid. I'd forgotten from the previous time we got cats that they did that.

For the next 2 days I gradually tempted them out (the girl likes cooked chicken, the boy eats anything) playing with corks on string (excellent simulation of a mouse I think). They still are stand-offish though - its hard not to feel rejected when they hide the minute you come in their general direction and hiss with arched backs if you put a hand in their direction.

Its a week now - I've managed to stroke the boy - his purr is fantastic. The girl is still shy but at least has stopped hissing.

The Most Irritating Laugh In The World

She's sitting very close by with a big group if friends and her laugh rings out loudly like a machine gun. Waaahhahahahaaa. Haahaa. Ah hahahaha. It's like that Billy Connelly routine about the primordial laugh that exists in each of us that comes out when we least, and most embarrassingly, expect it. Only hers is always like it. Gunning for us with laughter.