The Sun Never Shines On The Tube. NEVER!

Sunglasses worn on the tube has to be one of the most irritating sights in all of Christendom! Spotted six such cretins on today’s journey and not a white stick in sight (there were two fools with un-ironic rock star pretensions in my carriage alone). We are underground! For the entire duration!! The nocturnal subterranean world does not require any additional shading…it’s plenty dingy as it is!?!

Admittedly the lighting is a little harsh on the tube itself – I'm sure the Guantanamo detention centre must use the very same light bulb supplier. However only Stevie Wonder (& friends) should be permitted to be seen in sunnies down here. And even an undisputed icon such as Mr Wonder would have the good grace not to wear his accessorized with an air of woefully miss-placed smugness!

Bad enough to push them atop your head like some Sloaney headband, but to actually proudly sport them with brazen bravado makes me want to commit acts of random violence. Chiefly to their appalling sunglasses!?!

Mostly they are of the Wayfarer and Aviator variety, typically coupled with a pair of espadrilles and an ironic trouser turn-up, so you can probably deduce what type we are talking here. However there was one Marilyn Manson-wannabe whose transgression I'll permit, purely on the grounds that his sunglasses were at least covering the majority of his face, so in turn doing a major service to society...

Boat drinks to the naked eye!

Last Night's Fireworks at Brockwell Park...

For reasons I am completely at a loss to explain (and exceedingly annoyed about!), Blogger has removed its video function, so I am unable to present the footage I loving shot last night (i.e. pointed my shaky Sony at...). The fireworks were moved this year from Clapham Common to Brockwell Park, to celebrate the bicentenary of the Grade II listed Brockwell Hall, and the location change certainly seemed to have deterred the crowds, which was just dandy with me! No stampeding hordes descending on Clapham and rendering the entire postcode a no-go zone. Apparently the festivities kicked off at 4pm, but we rocked up about 10 seconds before they lit the fuse on the first firework at 8 o’clock and then promptly exited as soon as the last bombette had faded in the firmament – happy in the knowledge that my council tax has been well spent for another year.

Boat Drinks Brockwell!

The Great (Guinea) Escape...

I love the idea that this tufted twosome have hatched the great escape and are currently scurrying off into the sunset. Fur-clad versions of Thelma & Louise, who have said ‘so long’ to the hutch and are heading for far greener pastures. Or maybe even back to Guinea! And yes, I do know they don’t actually hail from Guinea, before any members of the British Cavy Council (where genuine G Pig fanciers flock - check it out, it exists!) start bombarding me. However I hadn’t realised that HRH Elizabeth mark 1 had been a proud owner of one...

Anyway, enough of ‘pets of the rich & famous’. I'm sure there are some grief-stricken youngsters who are desperately missing their rotund rodents, but I'm not sure I could bring myself to "capture" the errant cavia porcellus as instructed; partly because I am far too carried away with the notion that they are a latter day Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Pig.

But mostly because I am not exactly warming to the slightly dictatorial tone of this ‘Lost’ poster. Where are the pictures of weeping kids? Photos of the AWOL pair?? The heart-felt pleas for their safe return??? They don’t even bother mentioning how much they miss them!?! I’m starting to suspect that there is more of a touch Kommandant von Luger about the author of this sign. I mean for all I know, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot could have sprung themselves from some animal testing lab, secreted away in the backstreets of Balham. They’re not called guinea pigs for nothing!

Putting all that aside, the cynic in me fears that their owners may want check with the Fox family at number 43...

Boat drinks Bonnie & Cavy Clyde!

On Closer Inspection...

Even the most sporadic of visitors to this blog/diatribe will know that I am rather partial to a sign – preferably with a hefty dose of homespun wackiness!

Whilst walking around my ‘manor’ on Friday, I spotted a number of these beauties dotted around. My first impression was that they were as hopeless in their artistry as they were in their pursuit of their long-gone belongings.

But on a closer inspection, I saw that the ‘artist’ had in fact added a rather masterful detail to proceedings. Note the despondent face on the lost ID – genius!

Somehow I doubt his quest will result in much success, but one can only hope that whoever found/stole the wallet sees these and relents...

Boat drinks Picasso!

London from the back of a Boris...

I took a ride on a Boris today. Or to be more accurate, I spent my lunch hour gleefully pedalling through Regent's Park in unseasonably warm September sunshine. 'Glorious' really does not do the day (nor the journey) justice.

Although the enterprise was not without its tribulations...

This was only my second encounter with a Boris. The first really should have put me off for life.

For my original excursion, and not being a fully paid-up member of the scheme, I had to opt to use one of the street terminals reserved for us casual commitment-phobes (read 'wary type with visions of being crushed beneath a bendy bus'). The instructions were that bizarre combination of being both seemingly straightforward and bafflingly complex. Too simple, if there can be such a thing!

Anyway, with release code in hand and my 10 minute window of opportunity rapidly dwindling, I entered the 5 digit code and attempted to disengage my loaner from the docking point. No dice. The light would turn a tantalizing amber before plumping for an obstinate red, like a miniature HAL 9000 (yes, him again!). I tried numerous docks and still no green light. Then one eventually relented (it could probably pick-up on my increasing desperation by the manner in which I savagely jabbed in the code), but alas this was yet more torment as I couldn’t actually remove the whacking great beast (much like the bike's namesake!) from the ever unflinching dock. However I refused to be bested. After numerous attempts to disengage the vexing velos, plus one irate call to the service centre, emancipation was mine!

And the minute I was astride my chariot/clunky cycle, I forgot all about the woes and weeping. It was marvellous…

Just to explain for the uninitiated; ‘Boris’ is the widely accepted slang shorthand for the Barclays Cycle Hire scheme – pay-as-you-go bikes, available to hire at various docking stations around the city. Pick-up, pedal off, and then park-up at any dock that suits. This initiative was inaugurated by our (not so) beloved mayor, Boris Johnson, hence the moniker. Despite the demented antics of drivers in the city, Londoners have taken to the scheme with gusto; to date over 7.4million Boris's have been hired since launch in July 2010, although yours truly was a little late to join the party...

(grudging) Boat drinks Boris!

The Journal Years...

I have kept journals for as long as I can remember. You won’t be surprised to learn that this has been a rather haphazard and inconsistent affair, but I have always enjoyed venting my spleen and committing to paper whatever was getting my goat that day/week/month/year. Only recently I was perusing some of my earlier tirades and found the following. Hope you don’t mind my sharing one from the archives. And yes, I know it has absolutely bupkis to do with London...

I had to stop writing for a moment and watch Desperate Dan plunge his latest victims into the drink. To the uninitiated, Dan is the impressive brute who runs the water sports concession here on Alymiros Beach. He looks just like he’s walked off the pages of The Dandy, albeit with a tan that would make mahogany feel pale and insipid. Plus he wears the tiniest Speedos to have ever been manufactured!

Dan drags people around the Bay of Mirabello on bananas or ringo’s, taking a great deal of pleasure in semi-drowning his unsuspecting customers. But I think he gets the most joy from blowing his whistle sharply at anyone that steps out of line – be they a child that has tried to have a cheeky free go on the iceberg slide or more typically his long suffering apprentice, who regulars feels the wrath of Dan. Yesterday a wizened little Chinese gentleman appeared on the beaching touting something we couldn’t fathom until we spotted the poor man giving Dan’s enormous frame a massage. Would be like trying to work the knots out of the hulking hide of a rhino!!!

The Hotel has lived up to its two-star status. The shower is a farce – I’d probably feel cleaner if Sam dribbled on me! The owner’s wife and cronies gather early every morning to squawk energetically, seemingly right outside our bedroom door, so a lie-in is right out of the question. It does however have a rather nice balcony to retreat to at the end of a sun-baked day. It also presents us with a great view of the quayside for a prime bit of people watching. There’s a restaurant directly below us which provides a surprising amount of entertainment, as we watch the Maitre d’/chief hawker try to literally drag in business from the pavement. He has several methods of coercion, but some nights his powers of persuasion are more potent than others. Unsurprisingly, we have yet to eat there, but I’m quite tempted by the idea of merrily strolling into the place without him having to utter a word of enticement, just to see the look on his face!

We’ve spent the last two evenings watching Greece playing in the EuroBasket championships. I always love watching sport with the locals, especially when national pride is at stake, as is the case for Greece, as they are reigning champions. Funny supporters though. In the bar we were in last night, they only came running in from the terrace to watch the dying seconds of each quarter, shout a lot and then go back to their drinks outside. Not exactly what one might call a dedicated following...

My Summer Hiatus...

...is at an end. Or should that be my hibernation?!? The ‘summer’ of 2011 has been officially adjudged the coldest for twenty years! It has been truly grim – even by Great Britain’s not so great standards. In fact for the second year running, the best weather of the year took place in April/May, so perhaps we must all collectively re-set our internal calendars and celebrate the sunny months of spring instead. Except I know in truth this is impossible, as I get as giddy as the next girl when I see the approach of July and August. The promise of some lingering warmth, lighter nights and brighter mornings is all that gets me through the seemingly endless grey days of a UK winter. But what do you do when that promise is broken? When it feels/looks like November and you even contemplate turning the central heating on (although I opted to put on an additional jumper instead)...

Luckily I managed to disappear to the insanely balmy heat of South Carolina for a couple of weeks in early August, which just happened to coincide with London being ransacked...

Look what happens when I leave town for a couple of days!?!

In part I felt very thankful to be absent from the city whilst the moronic mob was rampaging. However it is seriously disconcerting to be so far from home during calamitous times. It’s impossible to gauge what the actual situation ‘on the ground’ is; particularly when your primary source of information is that home of hideous hyperbole – Fox News. They even gleefully showed CCTV footage of Clapham and Brixton being ripped asunder, just for the viewing displeasure of yours truly (that Homeland Security sure is a blabbermouth!).

So alas I can offer no real insight into those nights of nuttiness. Nor can I bring you an eye witness account of the sacking of South London, as I was unashamedly AWOL. The irony does tickle me somewhat...

Personally, I am blaming it all on the weather!

Boat Drinks Brixton Clean Up

Metro Flickers...

London is in the grip of a mania. A serious malady which seems to afflict 9 out of 10 tube users. That pitiful excuse of a newspaper, artlessly named ‘Metro’, appears to be surgically attached to the hands of my fellow commuters!?!

For those not totally familiar - Metro is a free 'newspaper' distributed in the mornings, primarily at tube stations. Some poor soul has to stand in all the weather that the gods can muster, handing them out to the grabbing paws of the ungrateful masses, who seemingly possess an insatiable thirst for day old gossip, recycled reportage and a Daily Express-esque political bias. The particularly acute cases will throw themselves at a dog-eared copy as if it was the last mouldy loaf, left on the shelf in a particularly bleak 80's-era communist satellite state! Why people are quite so keen to get hold of a copy is a mystery on a par with the Bermuda Triangle, the Mary Celeste and Donald Trump’s ‘hair’. I certainly wouldn't have it within 100 metres of tomorrow's fish & chips. Nor The Donald’s comb-over for that matter...

To give some sense of the calibre of journalism in question; one of my recent favourites was a page 3 splash (i.e. the third most important event on the planet...) which featured a jellybean that allegedly resembled the face of Kate Middleton. The headline read "Future Queen Seen on Bean". It would be rather humorous if I didn't suspect that the majority of Metro readers actually do qualify this as news, as opposed to Syria, Libya and the slow painful death of the NHS.

However there is an interesting contradiction in effect. It is very much a love/hate relationship. The savagery with which some readers attack the Metro is bewildering; it's almost as if they are grossly offended by its contents and want to be rid of the inconvenience as quickly possible. The angry snap of paper rings out the length of the tube carriage, as each page is turned with a ferocity that wouldn't look out of place on a piranha. And yet these same people greedily grab at a stray copy like some starving gannet. I confess it leaves me utterly perplexed and more importantly, doubting the sanity of the majority of the Londoners who surround me on the crawl to work each morning...

Boat drinks books!

Clerkenwell Design Week 2011

I visited Clerkenwell Design Week the other day and an entertaining show it was too! In fact it was two shows – one at the Farmiloe Building on St John St and the other at the House of Detention, just behind Exmouth Market. The House of Detention was rather an odd venue, as most of the designers had to sit in tiny dank cells, presenting their wares in the swampy gloom. One of the guys I spoke to from Vitamin Living said they’d had an interesting time with the electrics and walls dripping with damp…

Overall, quirky details on upholstery were a big trend - multi-coloured buttons or studs on sofas and armchairs were everywhere. deadgood had a fantastic armchair which featured heart-shaped upholstery buttons. In fact the deadgood stand was probably my 'best in show'...

Mid-century design still rules the roost, with a distinctly 60’s flair. There was also lots of wood mixed with matt lacquers and discreet upholstery. Everything was very pared back, stripped down and simple.

Yellow was the key colour and it featured on pretty much everything from lighting to picnic benches in every possible shade between super napalm bright to subdued mustard gas.

Eccentricity is still all the rage. Foldable origami style seats, gothic dining chairs re-imagined in plastic, desk lamps seemingly fashioned from super-sized knitting needles, complete with cord flexes that look like wool. Quirky is king!

Pinch was in attendance and looked as subtly stylish as you’d expect. Lots of white and wood – very 'Refined Puritan'. They were showcasing a number of new designs including the beautiful Brody armchair. I want one!

Boat drinks CDW!

Foxgloves and Foxes...

My chief recommendation to any visitor to my fair and feckless city (or resident for that matter) is to visit that tiny stretch of street in East London that blooms into one of the world's great flower markets every Sunday. Columbia Road is literally one of my favourite places to be - not only in the capital, but the entire planet. As a child, we used to make a pilgrimage there every December to purchase our Christmas tree. It wasn't quite the tourist attraction then that it is these days, but I don't love it any the less for its increasing popularity.

My most recent sojourn to E2 coincided with one of the most beautiful days of the year so far (as well as the London Marathon). Enthused with the joys of a warm spring, me and half of the city decided to head to Columbia Road and get some greenery on. It was gloriously sunny and the crowd was heaving. Yet everyone was in good spirits and the flora and fauna was resplendent!

Although there has been a degree of Disneyfication, there is still a pleasingly eccentric feel to the entire enterprise. This may be due to the Dickensian cobbled-streets and Victorian street lamps. Or the old-school bagel bakeries that manage to cling on despite the influx of ‘quaint’ boutiques (read hideously expensive and painfully aspirational...).The market stalls themselves are passed down through families for generations and the waiting list for a plot is pretty much eternity. The Traders certainly contribute greatly to the atmosphere – hawking their wares in an almost indecipherable series of shouts and bellows. But they seriously know their blooms, so are more than happy to impart some sage words of gardening advice (if you can cut through the accent). There are bargains to be had, but you need to hold your nerve and wait it out until the bitter end when the stalls are broken down. I personally prefer to go early doors – it may not be as cheap, but that’s when everything is at its plentiful best.

Plus there are the visitors, who certainly add their own colour to the occasion. And yes, that is a man with a parrot on his shoulder...

Probably my favourite spot of the day was the individual below. It deliciously sums up that quintessential East London eccentricity to a tee. He (I’m going to name him Marcos in honour of the shop he sat above) was perching comfortably on a window ledge. Embroidering. In an enormous and elaborate fox mask. No explanation supplied, but I guess that’s half the fun.

Boat drinks Columbia Road!

A funny thing happened on the way to work...

A musical soundtrack is a must-have on the morning commute. In fact it's nigh on crucial kit for any mode of London public transport. Be it to drown out the inane ramblings of the rabble that occupy the ‘backseat empire’ on the buses. Or to nullify the horrendous drone and suffocating atmosphere of the tube. After all, you may be in the process of being transported to your particular coalface of choice/necessity, but it’s also paramount that you have music to transport you elsewhere whilst on your (not so) merry way... 

General rule of thumb is that no one ever talks on the tube during weekdays (a true Londoner wouldn't even utter so much as a "bloody tourists" at weekends either). A savage silence reigns supreme. That is, unless you get some out-of-towner that doesn't understand the rules and fails to register the glares from their fellow passengers. It amazes me that these jabber jaws merrily pipe on; totally oblivious of the carriage full of people doing their best impression of a furious librarian! The hardened masses simply want hush…or their very own soundtrack to slip away into.

Which (finally!) brings me round to the odd episode that occurred this morning. On arriving in Brixton (my glamorous embarkation point), Amy Winehouse's 'Me and Mr Jones' commenced, name checking the very place I was currently striding through (“Rulers one thing but come Brixton” ). And then what should come on immediately after Ms Wino’, but Pulp's 'Sorted for E's & Wizz', which features the immortal line "a f*cked up bloke in Camden Town", which just happens to be my final destination (although hopefully not my 'Final Destination' in the ropey US horror franchise sense!). 

So this all begs the question; is my iPod HAL from 2001? Is it monitoring my every movement? Or is it simply so familiar with the well-worn path that we both tread with depressing regularity, that it too has had our various ports of call seared into it’s memory?!?

Personally I like the idea that my iPod is just as bored as I am by the daily travel torment, so is trying to make things a little more entertaining…

Boat drinks iPod of mine!

Around Town...The Olympics Are Coming!

St Pancras Station

Around Town...

Tate Britain, SW1

A (Nordmann) fir is for life!

And so March is upon us, but it’s not merely springtime blossom that the streets are bedecked with...

Carcasses of Christmas trees-past can be spotted with confounding regularity; some 79 days since JC’s b-day. For every daffodil, there is a desiccated Norwegian Spruce deposited on a lonely street corner or abandoned behind some random railings, as if they are the fauna equivalent of a drunken uncle that has over-stayed their welcome.

Or worse still is the Scots Pine that still sits outside its former residence, separated from the room they used to rule by an exterior wall and their owner’s unsentimental search for the next festive fix (John Lewis already sells Easter trees folks!). I’m sure the homeowners have given up all hope of these fossilised firs every being collected; the trick is to adhere to the council’s one and only collection date as if it was the second coming of the aforementioned JC, otherwise it’s the equivalent of expecting weapon’s grade plutonium to be picked up with the rest of your refuse!

Not sure there is a sadder seasonal comedown than the wizened corpses of Christmas trees which even the bin men don’t want to tangle with. I find myself wondering if they will still be hanging around next Noël – tortured twigs more at home in a post-nuclear landscape. Or perhaps some of the inhabitants of this city are labouring under the misapprehension that they will take root in the concrete. Now that truly would be a Christmas miracle!

Boat drinks (bauble-free!) trees...

Love for the Little Spaces...

Although based in the US, this blog offers a wealth of ideas and inspiration for diminutive living spaces - exactly the kind of abodes we are saddled with in over-loaded London! Tiny Ass Apartment proves that small doesn't necessarily need mean style-less and that the Lilliputian can still be lovable!

Stunted studios, glorified-cupboards and humble hovels can be just as marvellous no matter how miniscule…

http://tinyassapartment.blogspot.com/

Boat drinks to the little people!