Last night I put my foot through the bath. I simply stood up to get a towel and my foot just went straight through, sending water cascading through the bathrrom and down into the kitchen. There's now a big hole and two bits of bath - some kind of twin skin acrylic resin stuff. I still can't explain it - I'm not that heavy (about 12 stone). Maybe it's like a karate type thing where you focus all your power into one part of your body. Don't think I'll tell the insurance people about my copy of The Power of the Internal Martial Arts by Bruce Kumar Frantzis. In fact, I think I'll store it in the loft for a couple of weeks, until this Foot Through Bath incident is forgotten.
Dig the new scene youthquake baby
Three teenagers enter Humana, a second hand clothes shop in Hammersmith. They are all decked out from head to toe in the new Urban Jessie look. The tallest one is called Simon. He is the alpha male of the group in a skinny, weedy, thick glasses, grandad suit weedy ponce vicar's son sort of way. Behind him comes an earnest, small dark haired studenty-looking girl (kind of late 90s Dora Carrington) and a jolly faced, plump bloke in coolnerd clothes that look make hime look like he's pilfered his Dad's wardrobe in 1979 (he is the Beta male, I suppose - still in testing). They all have outrageously posh accents.
Girl: Simon, like, you can do film at art school you know, yeah.
Simon: Hmmm. (he flicks through some shirts)
Girl: 'Cause, like, you know, you don't HAVE to go to film school to do film.
Simon: (while holding up a Godawful 70s kid's shirt) Yah, but art school isn't my thang, like, you know.
Tubby: (points at shirt) Oh wow, that's, like, SOOO AMY.
Simon ignores him. Then he picks out another one, with little checks. "That's like totally cool," he drawls. "Yeah, like cool!" says the Girl. She picks something - "Oh my God, that's, like, SORRY?!?"
Tubby: Yeah, totally, like, so 'summer holiday'. (He hasn't mastered the lingo. The other two ignore him).
Simon starts twisting the circular rail looking at the shirts - he's an Individual and is only looking at the stuff most people would laugh at. Tubby tries hard to be heard by being even more Valley-Girl-meets-Latymer-Upper, but he's getting nowhere, so just laughs at nothing. Then Simon picks out a shiny, big collared number.
"Oh my god that's, like, Totally Woolworths!!!", exclaims the Girl, and they all laugh.
Feud Critics
The gambler who lives at the end of the road has got himself into a feud with the frowning old man who lives in a house opposite. Something to do with keeping his lights on at night. Frowning old man says it's anti-social then seems to suggest that if we'd all followed Enoch Powell's advice none of these sorts of issues would arise. The gambler - not usually lost for words - finds it hard to argue with this line of attack. Where do you begin? Instead he points to his shoes, which are new, and asks if I like them. The frowning old man frowns again.
Compost in my rucksack
A hike through Clissold Park with the rucksack to buy compost at the garden shop. The fences have finally been taken up on the top fields of the park and been rolled up into little biscuit shapes. It's like a reference to the round hay bales I used to see dotted around the countryside as a kid. The middle aged bloke behind the counter starts telling me about Hull City's promotion and when he hears I'm a Leeds fan he talks about their downfall being down to the change from fast midfield running to a slow passing European style game. He looks like Ena Sharples' older brother.
"North, south, east or west - it doesn't matter where you plant stuff. If you want it to grow, it'll grow."
Local slugs
Looking south east, through the slats in the blind, I can see four policemen with black padded waistcoats - the kind of thing their mums would have put together if they'd starred as Mr Bumble in a school production of Oliver! - standing around outside a house. The occupant, a loud-voiced alcoholic lady of no fixed age, has wandered off in the direction of Blackstock Road. I go back to my work and rely on the keen eye of my wife, who sits by the window and keeps me updated on events.
An hour or so later there is a massive boom and the walls and windows shake. A Pickfords ("The Careful Movers") removal lorry has driven fast over the traffic calming ramps outside our house and sped off in the direction of Stoke Newington, smashing into the tarmac every fifty yards or so. This is the kind of noise that has sent an old bloke at the end of the road into such a rage that he has recently threatened to start supporting the BNP. When I asked what drove him to this he spat out a torrent of ideas based around housewives having too much time on their hands.
It's a cold/hot/cold/cold/hot weather day. We're all waiting for more rain. The slugs will be out to feast on the shoots in my herb garden, but tonight I'll be ready for them with some handily placed trays of Budwar beer. Two bottles for me, one for the slugs.
Collapsing old buildings
The little print shop next to The Gunners pub has collapsed. For several days workmen* had been gutting the building and digging down into its foundations, presumably in a madcap attempt to burrow into the public bar of The Gunners and steal some valuable signed photos of '71 double-winning skipper Frank McClintock. Blackstock Road was closed for a couple of days so the buses had to come down our road. On Monday morning, as I tried to confront the usual nappy shit, Weetabix globules and The Tweenies at full volume, some people looked down into our sitting room from the no. 19 bus and collectively let out a sigh of relief that they weren't me.
* I use this term loosely - it was actually just a few blokes with digging equipment which they were obviously using for the first time.
Is this Spring?
Yesterday - 7th January - I saw the first ladybird of Spring. It landed on the screen of my Imac while I was checking the latest Premiership table. Then the phone rang. It was a woman from the Alliance and Leicester asking if I'd like a loan. They're pissed off with me because I recently paid off the balance on my credit card and are trying strong-arm tactics to get me back on the high interest bandwagon. After I'd told her to get lost I went back to play with my new insect friend. But the ladybird had gone.
It rained all day today. Various little streams have appeared in the roads, all pouring down the Hackney Brook valley at different points. The two biggest run down Green Lanes and diagonally North-East through Clissold Park towards Grazebrook Road. I was splashing about in one of them when a car horn hooted and a woman leaned out of the window, fag in mouth, looking at me. I walked over to the car.
- Are you lost?
- What?
- What?
Then she stared past me, up at the block of flats accross the road, and blew smoke on my waterproof.
Fox Rodent Hybrid Nut Fiends
A mother is walking through the park with a small boy following behind, dribbling a football. A squirrel runs across their path.
"I used to see red squirrels when I was little," says mum. The boy isn't listening. He's doing commentaries to himself as he jogs along.
" There were lots of them at my Auntie Jo's house," she says. The boy kicks the ball against the fence and makes a crowd noise. His mum sighs.
"They're mostly grey squirrels now."
Aled Up
The sound of Aled Jones singing fills the streets of Highbury Vale. Perhaps a fan of squeaky chorister recordings has moved in to the area. Or it's the Welsh songbird himself (possibly showing off to a new girlfriend in his bedsit). Either way, it's bad news.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Mentalists
Wandering through frantic yet beautiful Holloway on a blazing afternoon I come to the junction of Camden Road, pleased with myself for managing to get this far without purchasing any second hand office furniture (it's an addiction, you see). Suddenly a small motorbike appears on the pedestrian island in the middle of the road. Its owner, a mad-looking heat-crazed red haired bloke with a very red face, is screaming at another guy who apparently has just "laughed" at his bike. It's all a bit over the top - lots of "come on then you slag" and "who's laughing now!!?" etc etc. Tiredly, I put my hand on the biker's arm as he tries to 'run over' the teaser and say, as calmly as possibly in my best hippy voice "hey man, there's kids. In prams".
Mad Biker turns his gaze to me and screams at the top of his voice "Yeah!?!?" Worried that he might now try to 'run' me 'over' I quickly walk away and head for the nearest second hand furniture