Fruitless Day

Posh chairs in Kensington, graced by millionaires' situpons

How odd that a morning spent buying masses of fruit from the market (cherries, mangoes, melons, bananas and nectarines) should be followed by a fruitless afternoon!
I wandered... there in Covent Garden was the Singing Handyman in his vintage vehicle, apparently with his own documentary film-maker riding at his side. Bubbles poured out of the front of his little truck, and Sinatra-type crooning poured out of his mouth and into a handily placed microphone; sound poured out of speakers attached, and he whisked off before I had time to photograph him (I did a while ago though but I can't remember if I posted it)
I went to Stanfords to buy a map of the UK to encourage me to feel positive about my next song writing project after a member of staff at work with a subtle grudge against academics 'helped' me just a little too slowly to spend my research bursary, so I missed the deadline. Hoots, it's par for the course, and my map will renew my energy!
Then down to the tube again- there was Billy Childish! I see him coming up the escalator in the tube more often than not it seems, and this has led me to wonder if he spends all day Saturday tubing it around the capital, looking mysterious. I saw my old friend Denise Stanley with her dog Ben in Charing Cross Road. She'd just been to buy a Spanish guitar for 50 quid in a shop having a closing down sale. We arranged to have coffee soon as we haven't seen each other in years. Everyone stopped to pat Ben, one of those mixture dogs that everyone loves.
I got to Notting Hill Gate, worn out by the crowds and muggy heat; I waled past shabby shops with towers of square pizza slices the size of carpet tiles, and similarly patterned.
I remembered having some fantastic photos taken by a guy called Antoine in Nico's flat along there somewhere, an airy bohemian basement with large cool yellowish-grey tiles on the floor, a low dark indian table, oriental rugs and lots of French hangers-on preparing plates of parma ham that terrified me (I hid mine in rolls under my knife and fork. Raw meat? Not me!) Nico was away somewhere and it was thrilling to be in her flat being elegantly danced around by a French photographer, peering out nervously through my eyelashes with half a ton of mascara on them.
I was trying to see Haunted Stereo at the Notting Hill Arts Club, a special Rough Trade afternoon gig. It was supposed to start at 4 and a crowd was hovering around the doors. In the end at five past, I gave up and came home, crushed by the volume of people and the mugginess of town. They texted to say they weren't on till 7 anyway. Another day, another day.
Back home, I'm thinking of the man I saw getting off a sardine-crushed tube train, holding aloft a huge tarantula made of black, red and white bendy balloons. Wonder if he managed to get it home without a pop?