I had made a plan to travel to Brightlingsea to watch Stephen Foster-Pilkington with his band, but discovered too late that by the time I got there they would almost be finished. I would try to exchange my ticket at Liverpool Street.
Unfazed by the fact that the Northern Line wasn't running this weekend as usual, I devised an alternative route and got to Liverpool Street bright and early.
The supplement would be twice what the ticket cost in the first place, the ticket seller was delighted to tell me, and I had also not left enough time to get back.
I gave up, but here he is for you and me:
It was very early for East London, where no-one wakes up till 1 p.m., apart from Gilbert and George who are usually having tea and cucumber scones by rock'n'roll breakfast time.
I wandered through Spitalfields Market, which wasn't even bothering to be a craft market or an antique market today. People were awake there, puffing and panting as they put their stalls together.
I wandered up Brick Lane, where it was far too early to be hustled to eat a mass-produced curry. I toiled up to Old Street, where no trains were running at all, and toiled to the bus stop for a bus to King's Cross; from there I made my way home.
I thought of different way to map London: perhaps by smell?
No, not a good idea at all. For every delicious roasted garlic smell wafting through the air and beautifully scented person, there is the overpowering pong of overfilled bins, diesel exhaust, cigarette smoke, people wearing rancid trousers, and dog and pigeon crap.
Something Should Be Done, I Feel I Should Say, but that's any big city for you.
It was still only 1 p.m. and the local market back home was open, so I marketed, then came back here and repaired a broken thing in the house (mysterious, eh?) and trimmed some unruly plants in the back yard. And now, believe it or not, I am slobbed out on the couch listening to Now That's What I Call Music 94 which I bought in the supermarket two days ago.
Who calls it music?
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