A perfect weekend planned after a long, busy, demanding week at work.
I'd not seen The Drummer for maybe a year, as he lived away, so a weekend planned with him of talking, coffee, people watching and culture had me excited like a little kid at Christmas.
We kicked off the weekend with dinner at too-cool-for-school Zigfrid in Hoxton Square, with the beautiful people of East London. Decent Pinot, decent food and a prime spot for people watching. Strangely, aside from the uniform of skinny jeans/leggings/vintage dresses and faux fur coats topped off with a slick of scarlet lippy, we spotted an unlikely looking hen party.
The Drummer, teasing: "Are you wanting to join them?"
Me, turning around: *cringe* "No. I've told my girl mates, even if I EVER get married (which I probably won't as I intend to become a cat lady); if they even think about throwing me a bash involving veils, L-plates and sparkly glittery things, none of them will ever get spoken to again."
The Drummer: "No I didn't think you'd go for something like that."
Thank God! Someone who knows me. And my hatred of tacky awful crap. (OK, I like some tacky awful crap, but only in an ironic way, obviously. Honest. See below)
Sunday we planned to go to the Spirit of Jazz exhibition, with amazing B&W photographs of jazz legends. The Drummer loves photography as much as me, and jazz a lot more. But it's interesting. We excitedly made our way in the Soho drizzle to the gallery - only to find it didn't open on Sundays. Bum.
With a couple of hours to kill before The Drummer's tattoo touch-up appointment, we wandered, contemplating how many coffees was too many coffees, trying to resist the temptation to just sit in a coffee shop and talk, as we did back in the Cathedral City days. (Not as in the cheese - as in a proper city. With a massive, important church in the centre.)
Back then, The Drummer had told me about The Photographer's Gallery and being the lazy cow that I am, I'd not managed to get myself there. Before now. Joy of joys, we accidentally stumbled across the new premises. Hallelujah.
The industrial gallery was in the midst of an exhibition hang so we couldn't see much of it, (apart from an exquisite glimpse of the next exhibition, gained by bunny hopping beside the paper barrier to peep over) but I didn't care since I lost myself in the glorious haven of the bookshop. Oh, the bookshop. Proclaimed to be the best photography bookshop in Europe - good enough for me. I actually found myself considering what I could do without this month (food, etc) to invest in the glorious Helmut Newton tome of some of the most beautiful, subversive and sexy photographs I've ever seen. Luckily I got a grip of my senses and didn't blow the rest of my salary on it.
I DID however, find myself handing over my credit card at the till for a sweet Lomo Fisheye Camera - yes it's a plasticky, gimmicky little thing, but I could not resist the distortive lens. Plus it's neon orange. The idea of going back to the sweet painful wait for the film to be developed was an agonising yet exciting prospect, an alternative to greedy disposable digital.
It got road tested this evening with some shots in the Autumnal dusk and sunset around St Paul's, the Millennium Bridge and the Tate Modern. I am hoping they turn out and don't turn out to be duff shots of perplexed tourists or blinkered City people.
Give me a couple of days and I'll let you know. The waiting is killing me. In a good way.
No comments:
Post a Comment