My Number 3 New Neighbours have moved in upstairs this weekend, sequentially representing the dilemma of contemporary urban living ... navigating diverse spaces crowded with bodies and noise, not only 'out there' in London streets, but in here, my home, my sanctuary. It's always a period of trepidation ... will they be 'nice', will they be quiet, will they not leave furniture in the front yard, will they recycle, will they not kick footballs into the fresh washing on the line, will they not hold religious ceremonies including singing, chanting, clapping and/or speaking in tongues before 10am on a Sunday morning. Please, we pray silently to whichever goddess we choose to believe in, let me not have to go through the endless rounds of negotiation and outright bribery ('chocolate cake in return for good behaviour') again; please, we pray, let them be just like me.
Utopia: a city created in our own likeness.
Boredom: a city created in our own likeness.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Monday, 14 June 2010
Scandelous Knitting
Any media reporting bloodshed at this year's annual Knit In Public Day Treasure Hunt/Knit Bingo are grossly exaggerated.
Okay, needles were drawn, 10 paces taken and accusations of cheating were flung across the table laden with flapjacks and brownies, but the Meandering Catwalkers held their ground. OUR SCARF, which took five hours of knitting while simultaneously walking through crowded London streets, avoiding various assorted football supporters, Italian tourists, the royal family (her maj's birthday so they came out to wave at the plebs), Coldstream Guards (and don't ask them if they get hot in those bearskin hats ... they do ... and they're sick of people asking), naked cyclists (it was International Naked Cycle Day as well), route masters, black cabs, tourist rickshaws, buskers and bollards, WAS THE LONGEST!
In honour of triple yarn over lace knitting ... noone specified which stitch we had to use ... that will be one bottle of wine to the outranked, outsider, 'whiff of the colonial about them' team, ta muchly (goes some way to making up for the German mauling in the World Cup last night), along with a saucer of smug satisfaction.
And if you ever wondered where 'stitch and bitch' got it's name ....
Okay, needles were drawn, 10 paces taken and accusations of cheating were flung across the table laden with flapjacks and brownies, but the Meandering Catwalkers held their ground. OUR SCARF, which took five hours of knitting while simultaneously walking through crowded London streets, avoiding various assorted football supporters, Italian tourists, the royal family (her maj's birthday so they came out to wave at the plebs), Coldstream Guards (and don't ask them if they get hot in those bearskin hats ... they do ... and they're sick of people asking), naked cyclists (it was International Naked Cycle Day as well), route masters, black cabs, tourist rickshaws, buskers and bollards, WAS THE LONGEST!
In honour of triple yarn over lace knitting ... noone specified which stitch we had to use ... that will be one bottle of wine to the outranked, outsider, 'whiff of the colonial about them' team, ta muchly (goes some way to making up for the German mauling in the World Cup last night), along with a saucer of smug satisfaction.
And if you ever wondered where 'stitch and bitch' got it's name ....
Friday, 11 June 2010
Ambient London
Shunned, the second level cello class at the Mary Ward Adult Education Centre is exiled into the wilderness (along with all the rest of the string ensemble). Banished by the neighbours no longer able to put up with two hours of practice each week and neo-liberal education that would rather have 30 language students than 5 cellists taking up a classroom. I'm blaming the violins ... two years worth of lessons and still they can't hit high C without scaring away cats and potential students.
Noise leaks. My back neighbours sit outside on a warm summer evening and laugh. Across the road reggae pumps into the street from an open loft window. It competes with Alicia Keys and Cheryl Cole downstairs (you can always tell when X Factor is back on TV as the teenagers gather to practice their dreams of stardom ... a practice which feels vaguely familiar). Kids toss coins and kick their ball ... thump ... doof ... Mr Chopin's piano and Mrs Boccherini's violin are practicing somewhere in the street. The Mary Ward String Ensemble, for now, will be silent.
Noise leaks. My back neighbours sit outside on a warm summer evening and laugh. Across the road reggae pumps into the street from an open loft window. It competes with Alicia Keys and Cheryl Cole downstairs (you can always tell when X Factor is back on TV as the teenagers gather to practice their dreams of stardom ... a practice which feels vaguely familiar). Kids toss coins and kick their ball ... thump ... doof ... Mr Chopin's piano and Mrs Boccherini's violin are practicing somewhere in the street. The Mary Ward String Ensemble, for now, will be silent.
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