Goodbye 2009, now f*ck off because here's 2010

I wasn't planning on doing much on New Year's Eve. It's always a bit of an anticlimax isn't it? Last year I'd had a wonderful evening in Canterbury with good friends, and someone I thought I'd be seeing this year in with too. This wasn't to be and I was inevitably facing a New Year where I'd be running the comparisons through my head and feeling a little bit sad.

Plus, going out on NYE is always expensive, too busy and then there's the arse ache of getting home. I'd made loose plans to have a few people over, then during a very drunken evening round my oldest school friend's flat over Christmas back home, we hatched a plan for her to come down and spend it with me.

Thursday morning, Animal Girl and KiteBoy arrived outside my flat and I ran down excitedly to meet them. The car boot was opened to show enough stuff for a family of 6 for a week away. I pulled a case out of the car. Animal Girl commented,

"That's my makeup." I laughed, thinking she was joking. When the two of them had unpacked in my room and covered it in their stuff, it became clear that she did indeed have a separate suitcase for makeup.

We spent the day wandering through Shoreditch, Columbia Road, Brick Lane and Spitalfields and had a drink in Tracey Emin's local, The Golden Heart. I introduced Animal Girl to the wonders of the vintage shops in Brick Lane and made a resolution to get skinny enough to fit into a chic vintage dress this year.

So the plan for the evening was to just enjoy a civilised evening in, I'd cook something nice for dinner and we'd watch Jools Holland and pop some champagne at midnight. We watched the ITV drama 'Sleep With Me' which is based on one of my favourite books; it was a bit of a let down with some er, strange sex scenes.

We were all quite happy lounging around in our casual gear, but Animal Girl insisted on getting changed into a mini dress and 6 inch heels to see in the New Year. On my sofa.

Since the drinking had began around 3pm, we'd been careful to pace ourselves. Animal Girl had brought down Chinese lanterns to set off at midnight to float into the sky with our wishes for 2010. At five to midnight, the order was issued to get the Taittinger from the fridge and get the lantern lit. We excitedly switched to the live coverage from by the Thames to hear the Big Ben countdown. (Just a small side note, why on earth was Mylene Klass chosen to present that? She was atrocious.)

"Quick, get the lantern lit!" squealed Animal Girl. I prepped the bottle of champagne, poised over the balcony.

"Five, four, three, two, one, HAPPY NEW YEAAAAAARRRR!" we yelled out into the East London ether, as the champagne exploded over the neighbours' balconies below (sorry about that) and fireworks began to pop and crackle over the sky. We hugged and whooped and toasted what was sure to be a better year than last.

KiteBoy lit the firelighter in the lantern. They're much bigger than you think, aren't they? He kept it inside the flat to ensure it caught light properly, then took it out on to the balcony. Unfortunately, my balcony overlooks an enclosed courtyard so the wind gets caught in a trap of buildings. He held it, flapping over the balcony, about to let it go.

Me, worriedly: "Are you sure this won't float into my neighbours' balconies...?!"

Animal Girl: "No, Kite Boy let it go!! It's got all our hopes and dreams in!" (We were champagne drunk by this point)

The wind whipped the now raging firelighter encased in paper and the paper inevitably caught fire. We all yelled "Nooooooo!" KiteBoy was forced to drop the fire onto the dry wooden balcony floor for fear of burning his hands. (Or dropping his beer, priorities.)

Me, shrieking to Animal Girl who was just inside the doorway: "Get some water! GET SOME WATER!!"

Animal Girl totters out with half a tiny wine glass of water.

Luckily, this did actually do the job and our hopes and dreams lay fizzing and smoking on the balcony, a pile of half burned, soggy paper. Let's hope that this does not set the tone for the year and become a sad realisation of a metaphor.

However, something magical did happen. Just after we'd yelled our "Happy New Years!" the snow began to fall over East London, fat white flakes settling on my black cardigan. We grinned at each other and drank more champagne.

We spent the remainder of the evening watching Jools Holland and debating Florence & The Machine (Animal Girl hates her with a real passion, inexplicably.) We then enjoyed the 2009 highlights of Glasto and had more fizz when No'rn Ir'on came home from her Medieval Banquet evening (apparently, in a word, "shite.")

The Glasto coverage finished with Blur wowing the crowds with The Universal. Animal Girl and I came together as friends at 12, united by our love for 90s Indie, mainly the magnificent Blur. We've seen them together a few times, including their epic Hyde Park gig last summer. We ended the night singing The Universal at the top of our lungs and dancing to the live compilation of their perfomances over a decade.

What a way to end the year and see in a new one.

This is the next century
Where the universal's free
You can find it anywhere
Yes, the future has been sold
Every night we're gone
And to karaoke songs
How we like to sing a long
Although the words are wrong

It really, really, really could happen
Yes, it really, really, really could happen
When the days they seem to fall through you, well just let them go

No one here is alone, satellites in every home
Yes the universal's here, here for everyone
Every paper that you read
Says tomorrow is your lucky day
Well, here's your lucky day

It really, really, really could happen
Yes, it really, really, really could happen
When the days they seem to fall through you, well just let them go

Well, it really, really, really could happen
Yes, it really, really, really could happen
When the days they seem to fall through you, well just let them go

Just let them go

Animal Girl got put to bed by Kite Boy. Seeing as were all wrecked by this point, he wanted to put something by the bed in case she was poorly in the night. Rather than getting something from the kitchen he inexplicably chose the plantpot from the balcony which had been outside for 6 months and contained some manky soil and some rotting leaves.

She woke up in 2010 next to a fuschia pink plant pot; wondering just how drunk she'd been since she apparently had thrown up mud in the night.

Sigh No More, No More: Mumford & Sons gig

"Man is a giddy thing, oh man is a giddy thing;

Love: it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you; it will set you free, more like the man you were made to be ."

Mumford & Sons, Sigh No More, Oct 2009, HMV Forum, Kentish Town.

I've been obsessing over this album since it's release; it's a soaring, epic country tinged album with heartfelt angsty choruses and lyrics that can be taken with a pinch of darkness. Mumford & Sons are from the London country/folk rock stable of The Maccabees, Noah & the Whale and Laura Marling. No wonder I love them so much.

The build up to this gig made me a bit nervous. I've listened to, and loved the album so vehemently (it makes me well up on the bus into work on a daily basis, in a good way) that I worried the gig might be a let down. I didn't know anyone who'd already seen them. The background of my thoughts is continuous low-level disappointment most of the time, so I was scared I'd built it up too much.

I need not have worried. Firstly; a perfect little venue. The HMV Forum: small enough to be very intimate, and you have to love a venue where you can stand at the bar and still be within spitting distance of the act playing. It feels like an old ballroom and reminded me very much of the Folkestone Leas Cliff Hall (but without the magnificent smoking balcony overlooking, well, France.)

Secondly, a band whose instruments consist of an accordian, keyboard, banjo, guitar, drums and a double bass is unlikely to be a let down. There are not enough bands with double basses. What a beautiful instrument, it gave such solid reverberating warmth to the whole set.

One thing that did puzzle me about the gig was the amount of really young fans the band have - I was surrounded by 12 year olds in homemade M&S T-shirts. It drew me to the conclusion that if you're not old enough to smoke; you shouldn't be allowed into such a good gig. I don't appreciate a rucksack in my face/drink/chest throughout the set, or being jumped on continually. Perhaps they should be admired for having such excellent musical taste so young. Ok I've changed my mind: let them in, but just in some sort of teenager pen right at the back where they can jump and spill their Fanta and raging hormones on each other. Just not near me.

Me: "If that kid's fucking rucksack knocks my drink one more time...."

No'rn Ir'on: "It's ok, when the lights go down it will be dark enough so no one will see you kick him."

I actually contemplated the penalty for assaulting a teenager in public and weighed up the pros and cons.

The band announced that this was their first London show since the release of the album so it felt like a "we've made it" homecoming gig. They are wonderful on stage, telling stories and performing every tune with pure gusto and passionate energy, knocking the crap out of their instruments. I've never seen someone rock out a double bass before. It's pretty impressive.

The set kicked off with Sigh No More, starting with acoustic and harmonies, and building up to a massive chorus with banjo riffs that had the crowd jumping around. There was a definite stomping hoedown vibe to the set which gels surprisingly well with profound, swelling climaxes of drums, bass and Marcus Mumford's powerful voice.

Straight into Little Lion Man which everyone went mad for, a stand out track on the album that Zane Lowe himself proclaimed to be 'Hottest Record In The World Right Now' when it first came out. He was pretty spot on. A few hundred people singing their hearts out to

"It was not your fault, but mine - and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear?"

was great fun and very rousing.

They played their way through most of the album, and ended on a new song called Whispers in the Dark (I think). We were lucky enough to be about six feet from the stage for the whole performance. It was pretty cool to meet the bands eye and see them smiling as they watch you film them.

They got a whooping, hollering reception upon ending their set but it was disappointing that the set line up (Mr Hudson followed by headliner Paloma Faith) didn't allow them to do an encore. Who wants to see Mr Hudson any way? We watched a bit by the bar, I know Kanye West loves him, but he didn't perform anything that was on a par with his excellent old single Too Late. No'rn Ir'on commented:

"Here, doesn't this remind you of Maroon 5?"

Me: "Yes. Ergo, shite."


We left before Paloma Faith came on, by that point I was elated, sweaty and really wanted a cigarette so No'rn Ir'on and I headed out into the dark Camden night. We were just gathering our thoughts and discussing how bloody amazing the gig was, when suddenly we spotted Country Winston (Winston Marshall, banjo and vocals) outside The Forum. As he strolled past we stopped him to say thanks for such a wonderful performance and to ask when they'd be performing in London again (he didn't know). He was very charming and didn't mind being accosted by two tipsy and exciteable girls. How can you express how much a band move you to a band member without sounding like a groupie idiot? I don't think you can.


One bad thing about this gig is that I am now more in love with Marcus Mumford than ever. I've gone to see him as an avid fan, and come back bearing the adolescent pain of forever unrequited love. Damnit. Any man that can write, sing and perform like that is astounding. Plus he's fit and rocks an old-fashioned 'tache that not that many men could get away with. *sigh* I think I'll spend today staring wistfully out of a window into the middle distance.

Still though, the heavy-hearted burden of a one-way infatuation is a small price to pay for a concert that definitely rates as one of my all time top five. Simply lovely.

(Sorry for the rubbish sound quality on the video clips: they don't do the band justice.)

A Grey Day on Southbank

I was disappointed, after hoping for some sharp autumnal light this weekend, London gave me a grey nondescript day with funny overcast light and a bleak outlook.

Undeterred, I took my cameras down to Southbank anyway, just for the hell of it. And the pleasure of sitting outside the Tate Modern having a coffee in the wintery chill.

Also took some shots on the fish eye camera, evidence to follow...




The Globe through the bridge

Chris Martin: Less Annoying Than You'd Think

One contact lens knocked out in the first five minutes so a gig through half-sight? Check.

Post-gig condition commonly known as 'Beer Hair'? Check.

Ditto the above but 'Beer Chest'? Check.

Shoes ruined and wet through? Check.

Hardly any phone battery because of all the "Where are you? No I'm next to the lighting rig... WHAT? No the OTHER one!!" calls? Check.

Makeup literally washed off my face, and soaked through to my underwear? Check.

Ahhh it's been a good night. Wembley Stadium, Jay-Z, Coldplay, my excellent old friends and 89,994 other excited people. When Madhead offered me the tickets, I hesitated. Coldplay are, well, alright, in fact you can't knock that they're a talented band. But it's not like I ever chose to stick them on my iPod. Jay-Z on the other hand, rocked at Glasto last year and he's hip hop man of the moment (blew that one at the VMA's didn't you Kanye? Tit), so I thought, why not?

Shambolic from the start, Madhead, Essex Boy and the others turn up an hour and a half after I get there. And they had the tickets. So by this time, I'd missed Girls Aloud (was secretly quite excited about seeing them), White Lies (wanted to see just to cry to Death live since it's an epic, soaring track) and half the Jay-Z set. They, apart from Essex Boy who was driving, were all what can only be described as very, very drunk.

I was met with an overexcited yell of "heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyy-ohhhhhhhh!" in a style that was possibly meant to be hip-hop but was more Ron Burgundy. Ace.

The stadium is monstrously vast, I've never seen so many people inside one structure. We made our way in excitedly, Madhead doing his "listen guys, GUYS!" and ordering everyone around so that we could catch some Jay-Z. Beers in hand, we made our way down onto the pitch area into the masses of bouncing people, and I promptly lost everyone. So I watched Jay-Z alone, chanting "Bounce, bounce" with everyone else and having a thoroughly good time. Say what you like about him, the bloke's a superstar on stage and absolutely works the crowd. Singing along to Hard Knock Life with that many people is more fun than you could imagine. His stage presence is momentous.

So, the break between acts arrived and I finally hooked up with everyone else. Upon making our way onto the pitch area to get a good spot for Coldplay, Madhead manages to feel me up more than once and gleefully proclaims,

"The others [who I'd not met before this evening] were asking what you were like. I said Northern, funny and massive tits." Um, thanks for that. Possibly only two out of three are true.

As the crowd goes mental when Chris Martin strides on stage, we realise that yes, the stadium has no roof. Beginning with spitting rain, which was not altogether unpleasant, the heavens suddenly opened and by the time the band have started Yellow, it's literally pissing it down. Properly like when you're under a shower and you can't quite open your eyes in the force of the flow. Arm in arm, belting out this song along with everyone else, with beautiful (yellow, natch) lighting and the late summer rain soaking everyone through was pretty special. We were all grinning like morons, striking power ballad poses and jumping around in the wet.

The set was biiiiiig songs, not too much annoying talk from Chris Martin, rousing guitar and chorus breaks and a crowd who were all over it. We pushed our way through to near the front, I managed not to lose my shoes (my coral pink brogues which I think are now f*cked) or any of our party. In a suitable spot, Rather Drunk Girl was hoisted up on various shoulders then dropped her phone. I was very surprised at the gig sense of community, it took very little effort apart from the useless shouts of "has anyone seen a phone?!" to encourage a large group of moshing guys to part a hole in the crowd in the bouncy bit of a big song and help look for it - even offering their own mobile phone light to try and locate it on the muddy, scuzzy floor. Happily, it was found and this may have elicited a bigger cheer from us than any of the songs.

After decamping to a little acoustic stage and doing a commendable version of Billie Jean, Chris Martin asked the crowd to get their mobiles out and instructs them to do a phone Mexican wave round the stalls. The almost perfect choreography of the twinkling lights around the stadium was pretty inspired and got everyone all excited again for the big anthemic finale.

By this point, Drunk Boy and I had lost everyone else after a badly-timed trek through endless people for a loo break and we just spent the rest of the set annoying other people by weaving through them hand in hand muttering "Sorry! Sorry!" FYI people at gigs: deliberately digging your elbows in to get a few well-placed jabs as we pass, simply because we're slightly annoying you for a second is not good gig etiquette. What would Mr Martin or Mr Z say to that sort of lack of festive spirit? Hmm? You ought to get home and think about what you did. Not cool.

It took about 45 minutes to reassemble most of the group outside the stadium, not counting Rather Drunk Girl who'd dashed off into the front of the crowd during the acoustic set - she still hadn't been located by the time I made a break for it, so I hope she's been found and someone has given her some water. And paracetamol.

Another 40 minutes or so just to get to the Tube station, incredible police crowd control so tip of the cap to you, London Met police. I thought that my night had ended on a personal geeky high when I deliberately took the crowd routes right alongside the formations of police horses. One particularly magnificent grey beast gave me a friendly sniff as I passed and I got a whiff of my favourite smell in the whole world: horses and leather. I was content to find my way home with this nostalgic scent in my nose, bringing back memories of a lifetime spent at the stables.

But it got better. People-watching on the Tube, I was stationed next to a gaggle of twenty something Londoners and was giggling inwardly at one of them, clearly drunk, going off on a comedy monologue at his companion's expense.

"Ohh Hackney, everyone has funny hair and is really pretentious. Felix you're surrounded by those people you hate, but you're ONE of them!" *guffaw* Felix looked a bit sheepish.

Suddenly, a girl behind me squeals to them, "Like, Oh my GOD, are you the Maccabees?!" They admit that yes, yes they are, and took the intrusion into their boozy night out very well. They even sweetly agreed to various photos of them with said admirers in the packed tube. I got chatting to Felix's girlfriend who was very lovely - she told me I had nicely coloured hair and we agreed that we didn't really like Coldplay that much, after discussing the fact that most of the Tube carriage was returning from the gig. As we went through the Tube gates at Liverpool St, Orlando let me go first which was very gentlemanly. And, incidentally, he's very beautiful. Just saying.

All in all, a random, brilliant night. And Chris Martin, who'd I'd always thought of as a bit of a Bono-wannabe twat, was actually not as annoying as you'd think. And he certainly can put on a gig.

"Now drink up and f*ck off"

I don't know what it is about me that invites hilarious Eastend-types to try it on. The sort of person who ends every sentence with "innit" and sports dubious jewellery.

Last night I'd gone to meet an old friend, A, for a catch up and some dinner. We'd gone to a local- type pub that A recommended, just outside the trendy bubble of Hoxton. It was a good mix of flock wallpaper, edgy haircuts and old locals propping up the bar. The wine list consists of red, white or rose. At the bargainous price of £11 a bottle, we weren't complaining. I pay double that for the bar house white in the City.

We'd arrived at this pub on the premise of there being a roof terrace, what a charming little gem in the midst of East London. It's shabby but with quirky features like giant plant pots that glow neon after dark, and we managed to get a table both times which is a rarity on a Friday evening in achingly hip Shoreditch/ Haggerston/ Hoxton.

A also recommended what is now my new favourite restaurant: Song Que. No frills, minimal customer service, but the best Vietnamese food I've ever had. On the Kingsland Rd which is wall to wall Vietnamese cafes, this place is apparently one of the older eateries with a long standing customer base. We arrived about 8 and it was jam packed with City types, families, couples; generating a buzzy and lively atmosphere. The tables are in pretty close proximity to each other but it's a pleasant experience. We shared the mixed starter with spicy squid, crispy seaweed and tasty spring rolls. For mains there was sumptuous beef with thick black bean sauce and a real fresh chilli kick, and A ordered monk fish stir fried with lemongrass and chilli. We also ordered some yummy garlic greens on the side - everything was bursting with flavour and generously portioned. We were also delighted to see the house white was under a tenner. The waiter service is no nonsense but the food arrived pretty rapidly so we could enjoy it within our alloted time space. This is not a venue for languishing round the table, rounding everything off with dessert, coffee and liquers.

One thing I'd suggest is that ladies should venture downstairs to the bathroom approximately 15 minutes before you think you might need to go. The loos are downstairs, I was confused to stumble into what's essentially a massive storeroom packed with sacks of rice and crates of beer, with some shabbily partioned-off toilets in the corner. One ladies' loo, eight girls queuing. Not fun.

After settling up the very reasonable bill, we decided to avoid the Hoxton crowd and head back to the roof terrace for smoking and chattering. It's quite a surreal experience climbing up to the terrace, since it's about four flights of narrow wooden stairs, with uneven undulating floors (total headf*ck if you're drunk, I would have thought) and inexplicably, flashing overhead lights that change through a spectrum of colours in a slightly sinister way and make you feel a bit like you're ascending to a climactic scene in a David Lynch film.

While we waxed lyrical about families, mutual friends and randomly, A's latest book passion, whaling (fascinating and inspired me to read Moby Dick today); we could overhear a local loudmouth arguing the toss about being asked to go downstairs with his drink. With an "'Allo darlin'", he started chatting to us and was clearly slightly worse for wear, but friendly and entertaining. So, formally introduced to Spencer (he very much looked like Gary from East Enders but slightly scarier and more on the ball), we sat downstairs with him and his mates who were all of a similar ilk.

Which is where my first paragraph comes in. A young guy, wearing sportswear and a chain, with a London street accent takes a shine to me and starts asking about what I do. I ask him the same out of vague amused interest.

"I work for Bloomberg, like, innit"

"Oh really, what exactly do you do?"

"Closing deals, innit."

"Riiiiight....[looking suitably impressed] What sort of deals?"

"Big ones, yeah? Like 10k and shit." At this point he's doing that emphatic nodding thing to really show me how cool that was. I was thinking it was pretty unlikely he had GNVQs, but he was trying very hard.

"You look well nice, what you drinking, like?" [asked while looking aproximately 12 inches below my eye line]

"White wine."

"Ah right, Chardonnay innit?"

"Um, no."

I've also been accosted at a bus stop by a local guy dripping in bling who's opening line was "You smell nice, innit" - cause of much hilarity at work and new catch phrases. Perhaps I give off some unknown beacon to blokes who listen to R n B and wear bandanas at jaunty angles.

At this point, Spencer, who's stood at the bar, announces loudly to the remaining drinkers, "Time at the bar - now DRINK UP AND F*CK OFF!" A and I take this as our cue to leave the London men to their own devices, not before we're invited to 'Spencer's gaff' to carry on the drinking with them. (The conversation about what to do next included one of them suggesting the bar across the road, but another vetoing it, "I'm barred from there, innit".)

With much unnecessary hugging and cheek kissing from Spencer and crew (all very polite and European), A and I trot off towards our respective houses, laughing at the randomness.

I'm thinking I'll take No'rn I'ron to Song Que for dinner again this eve, since I can't be arsed to cook. Perhaps avoid the local pub though....

A Night out in the East End

Bank Holiday weekend. What's a girl to do?

It's a luxurious mix of being able to have a lazy day watching trashy films and eating and generally lazing about the house; but still having two whole days to do stuff so you don't get the guilt of a 'wasted' weekend. London is a bad place for that, so so much to do that staying at home for a weekend kicking back is shadowed by an anxiety that you're missing out on city life.

Last Sunday I organised an outing to show a visiting colleague, and other mates from work, a bit of the East End. The agenda was Columbia Rd flower market for a wander and brunch, then seeing what happened. I was hoping we'd maintain the unspoken tradition of Bank Holiday Sunday afternoons in the pub (it's rude not to because you have Monday off.)

After some appalling directions from the nearest tube station to my house, I met the Fin and the Dane and we wandered to the market. Before we could even contemplate entering the throng, we stopped off at the rough and ready Italian bar at the bottom of the market for the traditional Sunday brunch of a fry up and a beer.

Replete, we wandered through the buzzy, busy, noisy market, picking up some massive (and surprisingly heavy) sunflowers; and armfuls of simple English gladioli on our way. I was restrained from getting overexcited and buying plants, since in my head I am a savvy city gardener, who enjoys being among the kitchen garden foliage on the balcony. The reality of this is a dead window box, dead hanging basket and some chillis who've seen better days.

Now we could tick off the market, we met up with some other work mates in Hoxton Square for afternoon drinks. We found ourselves a good outside spot a funky bar and proceeded to make our way through enough wine for The Fin to berate us, since she had to fly to Norway that afternoon and we'd basically be responsible for her forthcoming dehydration and headache on the plane. Whoops. Fun though, we agreed on that.

Bank Holiday excess truly kicking in, the next stop was Broadway Market's Dove pub - a cosy bustling bar serving about a million Belgian beers and some rather excellent homemade food. The Dane and I thought Bloody Marys were a great idea for starters, we were right at the time. I highly recommend their sausages, apparently the Springbok ones are particularly good.

By this point, we were worse for wear and Nor'n I'ron had to head homewards. With an intrepid Scots colleague on his way across London to join us, the only option was to carry on. Full of wine, it seemed a great mission to drag ourselves to Shoreditch, so we investigated Bethnal Green's bars after being chucked out of The Dove at closing. I am fully aware that there are some credible and fun places to frequent in Bethnal Green, but as the local tour guide I inexplicably felt drawn to the dodgy local boozer. In we trooped, clearly tipsy and not the usual clientele.

Amid some staring, we bravely ordered our round and were about to pour back out of the front door to smoke on the pavement. Suddenly, a figure that can only be described as a Chinese dwarf whizzed around the side of the bar and began to shout at us; we quickly comprehended this to mean we weren't allowed to smoke out the front. He literally herded us out to the beer garden at the back to join a group of suspicious-looking tracksuit-clad locals.

Unfortunately for my friends, who live in South/ West London, I promptly decided at this point that the glass of cheap wine I was consuming had finished me off and I needed bed. Now.

I felt bad about leaving them there, but apparently they'd had a perfectly pleasant time after I'd gone and it was actually quite an experience.

Perhaps it will become my local boozer, now I know the rules about smoking out the back.

Commuter Sightseeing 2

Another day, another random work commute... London never ceases to amaze me. I now expect the unexpected most days.

This morning, Nor'n Ir'on and I left the house as usual, not quite awake, ready to stick the iPod in to lose myself in another journey.

But this morning brought a sobering sight; informed there'd been some sort of traffic-stopping incident, we plodded from the bus stop towards the City to rejoin the rat race in Shoreditch.

Then we saw it. Awkwardly splayed across the middle of the road, was a crushed car, with its roof chopped off and flung carelessly onto the pavement. Our street suddenly felt like a film set- police parked haphazardly across the traffic route, the midsection of the road and pavements cordoned off with incident tape, commuters hurrying down the road on foot.

We joined the throng of people walking frantically from the East End, I was lost in my thoughts as you are when you see a sad scene of destruction.

Strangely though, for a fleeting minute, there was a sense of community. People passing messages down to the next bus stop that there'd be no buses running this morning. Sharing a few words and a smile with the girl with the lipring, and the academic looking man sporting a fetching suit and well-tailored jacket.

After a stroll, we reached the bustle of Shoreditch with traffic humming and beeping as usual. Yet on the way to the next bus, we saw further odd sights.

A pile of vintage shoes arranged artfully on the pavement, for no apparent reason. A racing bike installation, sprayed matte white and chained to a City lamppost.

A sad but somehow comedic sight of a binman swigging Stella pre 8am. A plush velvet 4 seater sofa abandoned on the pavement.

Finally on the bus, we're met with the sight of a slightly scary big bald guy, dressed in punky S&M black, with chains and rings and matrix style sunglasses. Suddenly, interrupting my thoughts of 'God, this bus is like a sauna', he recognises the man stood next to me and unleashes a camp greeting with air kisses, and flirts all the way to Clerkenwell. Certainly wasn't expecting that.

So, off the bus and heading to get overpriced coffee to jumpstart our sluggish minds for the day ahead- then I see a woman wearing purple fluffy boot slippers. As you do.

Something of an eventful journey. And all before 8:15am.

I feel sorry for the subterranean tube goers, missing out on the sights of overground London. I'm going to start carrying my camera round all the time.


-- Post From My iPhone