On the Buses

Outside the window of the 253 bus a girl is skipping to school and it seems a good way to travel as she's beating the bus. At the stop waiting for the 31 a school girl is sitting with a unicycle. Impossible you say? Nothing is impossible when you work for the circus. The 253 and 31 are my new bus routes to work, although not for much longer. Sometimes I skip the 31, head to the health food shop and buy a load of licorice, which i chew my way through as I walk through Regent's Park and up over Primrose Hill to work. The other day a man sat on a bench on Primrose Hill playing war tunes on a trumpet. It sounded good in the morning air and I looked over to him as I walked past to give him a nodding approving look but he glared back at me as if to say: "Never seen a man practice trumpet in the park before?" To which the answer would be no. But I have spare licorice if you'd like?

Have you noticed how when people reach a certain age they boast about how they never go to clubs anymore. "Clubs, pah, I can't remember the last time I went to a nightclub." To counteract this we decided to go to a club last Saturday. What we were looking for was a London club that most mirrors Liquidation in Liverpool, so we went to How does it feel to be loved? which alternates between central London and Brixton. This week it was central, in the Phoenix just off Oxford street. The dance floor was packed, we started with a large space in the middle and ended up with a small corner by the speakers. I'd recommend nightclubs to the older patron. It's dark in there, nobody is aware you've been hobbling round the planet for 40 odd years until the lights go on. We leave before the lights go on.

On the bus home a huge guy is snoring at the back corner of the bus and nobody will sit next to him. Three rows in front of us a guy is sick three times, his mate sits laughing beside him. People either move seats or open the windows to try and dispel the stench. I'd forgotten how much fun the night bus was.

Listen Yoko, the snow is not falling

It's the hottest Easter on record for 100 years and there's another four days off next week so things couldn't be better. Although not everyone is in agreement. Yesterday in Marks and Spencer's a girl, who must have been all of twelve years old, shouts out to her mother, "I just don't understand this world anymore." Hey, I hear you sister, wait till you've got 41 years of confusion behind you and try and work that one out. But until then enjoy the sunshine.

I haven't blogged for a while, I'm out of the habit. I went to see Deerhunter the other week and I was going to blog about all the strange thoughts I have when bands are playing (if they're great). It's a lot like my thoughts on planes, I always think the future is going to be great and the possibilities become bright and endless. It's that time just before reality comes creeping back in to stifle you. Do you know what I mean Readers? Me neither, although I could explain it to you at a really great gig. Another thing I always think is going to happen at gigs is I'm going to see someone I know from the good old days, but I never do. Although at Deerhunter people were shouting out "Tracy". I decided to shout it out too, just because I like joining in, then it turned out to be some friends a few rows back who were shouting for the actual Tracy who was sitting next to me.

We went to Crawley yesterday to see my sister, and shortly after we stepped out from the station someone shouted, "Mr. Davison". I replied, "Yes" because that's my name but I had no idea who the couple and child were. I was all ready to have a conversation with him without letting on I didn't know who he was, and try and pick up some clues on the way. Luckily he took his shades off and I recognised him as Gareth, who I can't have seen for 20 years. But his girlfriend is my sister's husband's sister, so I guess we're more-or-less related. I'd not seen her since my sister's wedding in 1997.

Heading to the park the other day I saw the Aston Martin above parked outside a house in a road we really like. It's a quiet street we'd like to live in. I like looking into the bay windows to check out the rooms. (It's getting a bit of a habit so I may add this onto the hobbies section of my CV).If someone with a James Bond car lives there it may prove a bit expensive.

I'm only trying to help you Roland

What is the point of eating seeded bread rolls? How is opening the packet and being covered head to foot in seeds a healthy option? Interesting that this was never an issue under a Labour Government.

Saturday and we're on the Southbank with a few hours to roam before we go to the BFI. Two teenage girls, obviously fed up of the march, their banners pointing downwards, are eating ice cream. Further along the banks is a table with a cat basket on top. A girl, crouched under the table, has her head sticking up into the basket and her face painted with whiskers to make her look like a cat (not dissimilar to the one above). She purrs as we walk past, and as we put money into her bowl, confusingly, she starts to bark. Strange days have found us.

Later as we walk past Trafalgar Square, it looks like the protesters are settling in for a night of partying, drums beating and people chanting. We head up the road to an Italian ice cream parlour.

On the tube, a man with a Rubik's cube asks an audience, who are either returning from late night shopping or heading out for a night on the town, to mess it up for him so he can show off his Rubik powers. This is dutifully done and he tap dances as he twists and turns the cube. A protester with a tambourine gets on at the next stop and shakes along to his tap dancing. After a lot of tap dancing he stops and says he can't do it. The doors open and he makes his exit.

After this the tube is fairly subdued as we carry on towards home.

Considering a move to Memphis

This is out of order, I've just shaken off one cold only to wake with a sore throat this morning. Oy immune system, look; carrots, Berlotti Beans, zinc and other goodness coming your way. Now do your job.

Talking of doing your job, one of the escalators at King's Cross has been broken for around 5 months. They used to fix it on a Sunday, then two days later it would be broken. They stopped bothering with that after a while. Probably had to spend the next three months dealing with the administration. Passing through King's Cross means having to queue to get on the escalator every work day. As I went through this evening I noticed they'd fixed it. But the middle escalator doesn't work now. That kind of sums up the uselessness of England. Are we officially a third world country? Let's move to Memphis. No, seriously, what have we to enjoy here? Broken escalators, crappy weather, nasty government.

When I was young and ridiculed for going to the library I just thought these kids were idiots. Now I realise they were tories in the making. So you see the situation was worse than my young mind perceived. I remember on the radio one lonely night, a girl wrote in from Chichester ( i think), and said she hung around the library by the J D Salinger books. I fell for her immediately. Chichester wasn't so far away, maybe she was a migratory library dweller? The following day I went to my local library to check out the girls by the J D Salinger books. She wasn't there. Oh well. Libraries are still great places.

OK, I'm off to find a healthy drink so my immune system has no excuses.

Four in the Morning

Friday I'm ill, floored by a cold, so I'm looking forward to a peaceful morning in bed. The workmen outside the window have other ideas though, timing it so they rev their machinery up the second my head hits the pillow. They are replacing the Victorian water pipes in this area, although I was sure they’d finished, had already packed up their drilling machines and temporary fences and moved away from here. Later I look out the window to see they have moved their fences and machinery, all except for around a thin sliver of road that runs horizontal to my window. Coincidence?

Walking my girlfriend to the tube station on Saturday I tell her how, apart from an occasional 4 0’clock wake, I am no longer troubled by insomnia and haven’t been for years. That very evening, admittedly after a not very active Saturday as I’m still feeling under the weather, I find myself in bed unable to sleep. I resort to listening to music on my headphones. I start off with a few disco classics and am so awake that in a moment of madness I contemplate getting up and getting a taxi to the nearest 60’s soul night so I can dance my way to tiredness. Drunk people walk past below shouting loudly. Police sirens tear down the street. I change my mind, and the music, listening instead to late night classics such as Nick Drake.

I sit up in bed, hazy orange thoughts colouring my mind; a bright house full of people, children running around, good food on the hob, a garden with sunflowers; waiting for sleep to raise its mischievous head from wherever it’s hiding.

Like Sundays long ago

On the Canal path from Angel heading East running is proving popular as is cycling. Ringing bells can be heard every 100 yards or so. Two very serious looking men are canoeing. On the first stretch of the canal, gardens of big Georgian townhouses gently slope towards the water. Further up, they gives way to high-rise flats and new apartment blocks. Their cluttered balconies hang over the canal checking out their reflection in the murky water. Bikes on balconies like smokers at a party, sent out to smoke in the cold.

We make our way to Hoxton Street which isn’t far by canal. The towpaths are like secret passageways weaving through the city, taking you the quick route to your destination. It’s a cold grey day, lifeless trees along our path, branches outstretched like ancient arms reaching for spring. In this part of the city it feels like Sunday used to feel long ago. The streets are half deserted, shutters on shops, lights out in pubs, but every now and then we’ll see a well lit café teaming with life. People huddled inside to escape the winter. Inside the closed doors of the White Cube gallery men paint the walls white with rollers on long sticks. Outside a café advertising ‘breakfast club’, stand a queue of kids in their early twenties. It is packed inside. No idea what’s going on in there, surely they’re not just queuing for breakfast? No time to find out, we continue our walk.

Off Chiswell street there’s a football match going on. It’s not the kind of place you expect to see a huge stretch of grass. A secret garden, hidden from the main road by buildings, and only visible to us from behind gates down a side street. The shouting of the players echos out against the silence of the city.

On the road towards Angel the streets are grey and deserted, buildings part way through demolition. The lights are on in the tailor’s shop. Inside the glow of the shop the tailor is cutting two slices of cake on top of his counter, which he shares with a man, either his assistant or a customer. Let’s say a customer.

Inspired, we buy a Victoria sponge in the bustling area of Upper Street and head home to watch Columbo.

Another Bee in the Bonnet

How are the new year's resolutions going? Yes, me neither. I like new year's resolutions though, like the start of a new year. It's good to shake off the old one. 2010 was good though. I think I've got about seven resolutions. The only one I've done anything about yet is Photography, I've enrolled on a course that starts in the summer. The course states it's for people with some knowledge of Photography. So I better get revising before then, I don't know what half the functions on my camera do. But it will be good to learn to take some decent pictures. I take about 200 photos on holiday and end up with around 3 good ones. It's hard to take good photos of people though, because as soon as they see the camera they pull a stupid face.

The thing with resolutions and focussing is that lesser ideas nag at me. For instance last weekend I got a bee in the bonnet about watching the IT Crowd, you know that programme that's always on. However, it wasn't showing all weekend so the idea grew. Then Adam posted on Facebook that he was spending the evening watching the IT Crowd. This was written in a kind of, 'I wish I was going out enjoying myself but I'm too tired,' kind of way. But by this time the option had grown in my mind as the best thing you could possibly do. I decided to check out HMV in Hampstead to see what episodes were available, how much, etc. I got there to find the shop had closed down. This created an incredible need in me and the second I finished work I rushed to Oxford Street and bought the first three series. The bee in my bonnet was resolved. Apparently this phrase originated from the saying 'to have bees in ones head'.

I'm feeling the pinch, my pockets are empty and the bees in my head have to be ignored.