Hot

We made a strange and horrible soup of smells on the tube: Yuk!
It must have been over 90 degrees down there, and humid too.
I went to The Duke of Uke to get a case for the ukelele Gina gave me a couple of years ago; it has been living in a cardboard box.
Spitalfields was quiet, apart from a charming Argentinian Tango marathon that featured all ages and appeared to be generating a street bonhomie around it.
The houses surrounding the area are genuine Georgian houses with old shutters, and they looked cool (in both senses of the word) in the sweltering heat. The shutters are held flat against the external wall with brass clasps, and I  noticed that one house had obviously antique clasps in the shape of ships figureheads, women with noses and breasts eroded by more than a hundred years of English weather.
I looked out for Gilbert and George, but they were probably nibbling water ices in the gloom of their parlour and listening to the 1930s on an old radiogram. A friend of mine,  a gay obstretician, could not conceal his delight when he discovered that his postman was the son of either Gilbert or George.
But they were nowhere to be seen: perhaps they are nocturnal, rustling out of their doorway as the clock strikes 12, and flitting over to Dalston to their favourite Turkish restaurant at a time when all the Hoxtonites are so off their faces they think they are dreaming when they see them.
I was looking forward to going to Lisa's birthday party in Brighton but I can not bear the idea of the tube again; Happy Birthday to you Lisa! I hope you have a lovely party in breezy cool Brighton!