"There's that bloke off the telly."

Waking up with no hangover was brilliant and The Blonde and I had big plans - Camera Club London was going to be in session, starting off in Columbia Road and making it's way to St Paul's and Southbank. We dandered to Columbia Road market so that The Blonde could experience the Cockney flower sellers shouting, and see the beautiful east end crowd again. It's so busy that I really want to punch people, but then I cheer up and forget all about it as I discover a vintage stall and spend money on a peach teacup set and a tin with a horse on. Brilliant.

We go and wait at the bus stop to go to The City, and a group of rather posh boys wanders past, clutching big bottles of Evian and looking rather disheveled. One of them asks,

"I say - do you know of any cafes around here? A greasy spoon, if you will."

I point them in the right direction and get a fist-bump in return for my helpfulness. I always gets asked for directions. I either look very friendly, helpful and knowledgeable; or like a cabbie. I think it's the latter.

The Blonde is sat at the bus stop and is rifling through her handbag looking for something. She pulls out a packet of snacks she'd bought for the train.

"I'm still clutching these fucking wasabi peas!"

She then eats a rice cracker that she found in her handbag and assesses it.

"Yes, salty and a bit cheesy. I want more."

After strolling around St Paul's and Southbank with every other fucking tourist in London, we park ourselves in a pub for lunch. The speakers were blaring out some R n B rubbish. I announce that it makes me want to hurt myself.

The Blonde: "Is this Chris Brown?"

Me: "I don't know... some TWAT."

After a hearty lunch we wander along the Thames Path and walk past The Golden Hind.

The Blonde spies someone and says,

"That's the bloke off the telly!"

By 'bloke off the telly', she means Andrew Marr. He's walking along with someone who we presume is his daughter, looking like he's talking very earnestly and knowledgeably about the ship.

The path runs along past the London Dungeons and we walk past it under the bridge arch. The Blonde is concentrating on faffing with her camera or something, and I spy a very tall, sinister-looking guy who works for the Dungeons, drawing the crowds in. I don't say anything. He walks past The Blonde and touches her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Go easy, my child...."

The Blonde literally does a comedy gasp and nearly falls over, tears filling her eyes. The man walks off and I'm laughing at her shock, but she actually is frightened and has to go and have a moment to compose herself as she tries not to have a heart attack and vomit and sob all at once.

"I feel sick! I'm going to be sick! Fucking hell! I've got a very nervous disposition!"

A family walks past with a child screaming it's lungs out and she wails,

"That's how I feel inside! I know where you're coming from."

I take her back to mine to recover by watching some DVDs and drinking some tea. This relaxed, sensible domesticity doesn't last long and before I know it, we're finishing off Sunday with another trip to my local.

I wince as the barman says, "You were in here Friday weren't you."

Me: "Yes, I am dreadfully sorry if we were inappropriate or anything - it was a little, er, messy."

Barman: "No, don't worry - you gave us some great business."

I smile weakly and slink off back to the table feeling like the local lush and deciding that maybe I shouldn't go in for a while.

We round off the evening by watching The Inbetweeners with a take away and laughing at one of my favourite lines from the show.

"The winky face is the mark of a moron!"

;)

Commuter Sightseeing 1

We had a guest last night, who we work with. She joined me on the daily commute from Bethnal Green to the City this morning, on the packed red bus.

It was a typically sweaty journey in the muggy heat, punctuated by an "URGH!" when she got emerged off the claustrophobic bus, into the fresh (ish) air, gasping a lungful of smog.

Me: "What's up?"

N: "You know the skinny weird guy with long hair who got on, and I moved down to get away from him?"

Me: "Yeah..."

N: "He came and stood next to me, my hand was on the post holding myself up and... and... his hair was touching my hand the whole way!" *shudder*

This, in my opinion, is typical of one side of the London bus experience. In the few months I've lived here, I've realised there's a dichotomy of journeys to work.

It's either: rammed with sleepy commuters, unbearably sticky, someone's armpit/groin/hair/breath is in contact with you; and you spend the entire time willing the minutes to somehow go faster so you can get a lung full of air that's not been breathed by everyone else on the bus.

Or, it can be a wonderful sightseeing tour through an interesting part of the city where you get a seat and you can inwardly critique the other passengers' shoes. I stick my iPod in, blast out my current musical obsession (recently Please Venus by the Golden Silvers and Into the Chaos by Howling Bells) and lose myself in the scenery. My bus route does seem to be filled with details I discover anew every morning, a palimpsest of shabby buildings with decades of fly posters, graffiti and signs; and East Londoners going about their daily business.

One thing I relish on these journeys is being part of the rat race. I never thought I'd say that, but it feels like you're part of this big commercial effort, hordes of suited people wearing trainers and striding purposefully to their desks, the hardcore among them running into work. Every other person clutches a coffee and had the distinctive white Apple earphones in, streaming their way towards the City. I am strangely impressed by the ability of City workers to read. Whilst walking. I'd be under a bus in seconds if I did that, not to mention at the very least stacking it ungracefully (my default physical setting) and dropping my laptop/ contents of my handbag haphazardly.

Another is the people. I'm starting to recognise the people on my bus in the mornings and share that tiny "I know you" glance. There's the girl who gets on round Old St who always has ace hair and wears covetable pretty vintage floral dresses, who breezes onto the bus like she's walked out of a high end soft focus perfume ad. And the beautiful androgynous boy who totally pulls off the skinny designer suit with a hint of lipgloss and perfectly arched brows and bronzed cheeks. He stood next to me today and he's also very fragrant. Possibly Prada.

Not to mention my hot fellow commuter neighbour from my block, who my housemate (who will now be known as Nor'n Ir'on since when she's asked where she's from, instead of saying Belfast, this is the noise emitted), keeps missing when I bump into him and thinks I am making him up. I'm not.

Today, after a hard day, we decided to walk the journey back home since it was a glorious evening and we ought to have done something to counteract the volume of Chenin consumed last night. Chatting casually, we eyed up the other people frantically walking to and from their respective jobs. One tall, pretty normal looking (for East London) man walked towards us, and Nor'n Ir'on and I parted so that he could walk the opposite way between us. Then there was that moment where you know the person you're with is about to comment on what just happened.

We looked at each other wryly.

Me: "That was weird..."

No'rn Ir'on: "....he just looked directly at my crotch."



Just your average walk home from the office then.