The shining beacon of my disenchanted retail existence, a Turkish rude boy with a heart of the most precious platinum, gold and cushion cut Swarovski.
We shared a mutual love of sour candies, and on our breaks from work or when we got bored of putting t-shirts on hangers, we bought Pic’n’Mix bags from Woolworths or mini Haribos from the off-license to surreptitiously share. I had Sour Patch Kids and Sour Cherry Blasters shipped out from Canada and when he got hooked he would trek down to the Canadian market off Leicester Square and pay double the price for a bag of Fuzzy Peaches.
On sunny summer days, we had lunch in Notting Hill parks, drinking Strongbow, smoking cigarettes and eating Walker’s Ready Salted crisps. He would outline his plan to built a house in Turkey and move there with his girlfriend, renting it out in the summer to maintain his life in the UK, preferably selling fake Nike sneakers and knockoff designer bags at the Portobello Market. With his former experience in stolen cell phone dealing, he already knows his way around the business a bit.
One afternoon he watched a child plummet fourteen stories from a kitchen window of a council flat. He died on impact at Nazmi’s feet. He explained to me later that he had been retrieving a parcel of oily black hashish from his Kappa sock, and the stooping motion had prevented him from being hit by the falling boy. He didn’t really feel like smoking after that.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Nathan
Old before his time, condescending in the utmost, incomprehensibly loved by many, asexually approached. He wears skinny jeans with the cuffs rolled up, exposing several inches of sock between his loafers and the hem. The socks are always colour coordinated to his t shirt and he walks with a rat-like expression on his face and his glasses perched over a thin moustache and even thinner lips. His cheeks bloom like the English rose his mother might have been, and he walks in a quick forward trajectory - almost a shuffle - with his head leading and a hint of a stooped back predicting his future form.
He spent a year in China teaching English to under-privileged children, which I felt was his primary redeeming feature when looking for any qualities in him that would counter the way he ignored me if I approached him in query or conversation, how he evaded conversation with new hires except to briefly and brusquely call them out on minor infractions, how he appropriated my West Coast slang and mannerisms with no awareness of whence they came.
I avoid him at all costs. Occasionally the previous-night’s indulgences would crash over me in the new day’s paranoia, sending me cowering in corners when the whippet-thin Nathan approached. He is the least like anyone I would aspire to be: demeaning, ingratiatingly sweet with an aftertaste like Splenda to customers, business oriented and dismissive.
However, his favourite film as a child was Fantasia and he and his brother would practice the Russian mushroom dance together in his Nan’s living room. I liked that about him, and in the last few weeks before I fled Portobello he started calling me “V.”
He spent a year in China teaching English to under-privileged children, which I felt was his primary redeeming feature when looking for any qualities in him that would counter the way he ignored me if I approached him in query or conversation, how he evaded conversation with new hires except to briefly and brusquely call them out on minor infractions, how he appropriated my West Coast slang and mannerisms with no awareness of whence they came.
I avoid him at all costs. Occasionally the previous-night’s indulgences would crash over me in the new day’s paranoia, sending me cowering in corners when the whippet-thin Nathan approached. He is the least like anyone I would aspire to be: demeaning, ingratiatingly sweet with an aftertaste like Splenda to customers, business oriented and dismissive.
However, his favourite film as a child was Fantasia and he and his brother would practice the Russian mushroom dance together in his Nan’s living room. I liked that about him, and in the last few weeks before I fled Portobello he started calling me “V.”
Monday, November 17, 2008
Notes from July
I stepped out of the Tesco and polished my Pink Lady apple on my shirt. As I stepped in to Whitechapel High Street, a man called me over and asked me for change. “Just for cup of tea,” he said, and I shook my head “no.” He had clear powder blue eyes and a green checkered shirt, and he shook as he spoke. “I’m going to kill myself,” he told me. “I’m going to kill myself tonight,” he called, as I walked away.
At the crosswalk to the Bell Foundry I thought about what I’d done. Back home, none of this situation would happen. For one, I wouldn’t be eating an apple, a simple orchard fruit. Back home, I wasn’t poor, and I wouldn’t buy basic ingredients and eat them as a meal. Back home, I would have a soy latte and biscotti for sustenance, a soy misto to maintain.
Back home I wouldn’t have to answer no for a request for change. I seldom offer money to the panhandlers that litter the streets, but I heartlessly, and naively, thought that they didn’t need it. Here, it’s clear that the people asking for money are completely penniless, but I know now that their requests for tube fare or coffee money are just covers for their fix. And here, I can’t afford to share my change, because I need it for the same. That 70p might not get me on the train but it might tomorrow, when I find another pound under my bed in an accidental cleaning blitz. The loose dimes and nickels might translate into a paper cup of filter coffee at a later date.
Earlier today I walked through Ladbroke Grove, up a street I don’t usually take on my way to work. I ran into my coworker, the stock boy who struts in a sort of cartoon sitting motion as his jeans fall lower off his hips. He didn’t see me right away, with his ball cap and shaggy black hair covering his face, Pendulum and Incubus pulsating in his headphones.
At 10am he brought me a coconut coffee from the fair trade organic where I spend my nickels and dimes on special or miserable occasions. When we talk, it’s usually about work or girls or our weekends… nothing in particular, now that I think hard about it. But he’s still one of my favourites, soft spoken and funny, unassuming in the way that he spends his nights getting high in his friends’ living rooms playing video games, or in Farringdon to see his Thai “girl.”
He never tells us her name and I know nothing about her, but I hear she’s quite a looker “if you’re into that sort of thing.” When he goes out, it’s to Fabric, or Sports Bar for pound-ninety-nine drinks, or to the pub after football. He has the best style out of anyone I work with but his clothes never quite fit.
In the morning I worked the tills, chatting with customers, finding out how they spend their time in Notting Hill. A stylist, a publishing agent, a couple taking a break from their family in North London for a day browsing the market… An attractive forty-year-old came forward with a stack of sweatpants and I suppressed the urge to josh him on his choice of casual wear. Turns out it’s not appropriate to make fun of people’s purchases.
I asked what he was up to this afternoon, a little sooner than I intended, but I couldn’t back out now. “Spending the day at the recording studio, actually” which perked my ears up. “What do you do? Are you a producer?” I asked. Everyone in Notting Hill is a writer or producer or production assistant or something that finances celebrity-based entertainment. “It’s mine,” he answered. “I’m in a band.”
Not wanting to pry, and not wanting to pry to discover that it was nothing worth prying apart, I asked “what type of music?” “Pop,” he said, so I knew I should probably ask more. You don’t make pop music if you don’t want to be known, so I went ahead. “What’s your band called? Do you have a good name?”
“Have you heard of Take That?” he said. I blushed really red, which I never do, and suddenly felt a bit star-stuck, a mix of self-conscious and ambitious, curious, and wry. “I should know who you are,” I mumbled, “I’ve heard of you guys but I don’t know what British pop stars look like, coming from Canada.”
“I guess we weren’t very big in North America,” he said. “No, you weren’t,” was my immediately-regretted reply.
He took his sweats and headed into Portobello, off to lay new tracks with Gary Barlow and the rest. The first British pop star that I’d spoken to casually and who had once graced my walls from a poster out of Bunty made off into the street.
At the crosswalk to the Bell Foundry I thought about what I’d done. Back home, none of this situation would happen. For one, I wouldn’t be eating an apple, a simple orchard fruit. Back home, I wasn’t poor, and I wouldn’t buy basic ingredients and eat them as a meal. Back home, I would have a soy latte and biscotti for sustenance, a soy misto to maintain.
Back home I wouldn’t have to answer no for a request for change. I seldom offer money to the panhandlers that litter the streets, but I heartlessly, and naively, thought that they didn’t need it. Here, it’s clear that the people asking for money are completely penniless, but I know now that their requests for tube fare or coffee money are just covers for their fix. And here, I can’t afford to share my change, because I need it for the same. That 70p might not get me on the train but it might tomorrow, when I find another pound under my bed in an accidental cleaning blitz. The loose dimes and nickels might translate into a paper cup of filter coffee at a later date.
Earlier today I walked through Ladbroke Grove, up a street I don’t usually take on my way to work. I ran into my coworker, the stock boy who struts in a sort of cartoon sitting motion as his jeans fall lower off his hips. He didn’t see me right away, with his ball cap and shaggy black hair covering his face, Pendulum and Incubus pulsating in his headphones.
At 10am he brought me a coconut coffee from the fair trade organic where I spend my nickels and dimes on special or miserable occasions. When we talk, it’s usually about work or girls or our weekends… nothing in particular, now that I think hard about it. But he’s still one of my favourites, soft spoken and funny, unassuming in the way that he spends his nights getting high in his friends’ living rooms playing video games, or in Farringdon to see his Thai “girl.”
He never tells us her name and I know nothing about her, but I hear she’s quite a looker “if you’re into that sort of thing.” When he goes out, it’s to Fabric, or Sports Bar for pound-ninety-nine drinks, or to the pub after football. He has the best style out of anyone I work with but his clothes never quite fit.
In the morning I worked the tills, chatting with customers, finding out how they spend their time in Notting Hill. A stylist, a publishing agent, a couple taking a break from their family in North London for a day browsing the market… An attractive forty-year-old came forward with a stack of sweatpants and I suppressed the urge to josh him on his choice of casual wear. Turns out it’s not appropriate to make fun of people’s purchases.
I asked what he was up to this afternoon, a little sooner than I intended, but I couldn’t back out now. “Spending the day at the recording studio, actually” which perked my ears up. “What do you do? Are you a producer?” I asked. Everyone in Notting Hill is a writer or producer or production assistant or something that finances celebrity-based entertainment. “It’s mine,” he answered. “I’m in a band.”
Not wanting to pry, and not wanting to pry to discover that it was nothing worth prying apart, I asked “what type of music?” “Pop,” he said, so I knew I should probably ask more. You don’t make pop music if you don’t want to be known, so I went ahead. “What’s your band called? Do you have a good name?”
“Have you heard of Take That?” he said. I blushed really red, which I never do, and suddenly felt a bit star-stuck, a mix of self-conscious and ambitious, curious, and wry. “I should know who you are,” I mumbled, “I’ve heard of you guys but I don’t know what British pop stars look like, coming from Canada.”
“I guess we weren’t very big in North America,” he said. “No, you weren’t,” was my immediately-regretted reply.
He took his sweats and headed into Portobello, off to lay new tracks with Gary Barlow and the rest. The first British pop star that I’d spoken to casually and who had once graced my walls from a poster out of Bunty made off into the street.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Fake addresses
I used to pal around with this kid from Central St Martins that hung around the skate park, stalked foxes (the British equivalent of raccoons) and never had a cell phone because he was the most broke person I've known since my own arrival to the City.
We would lurk around Hampstead Heath on Thursday nights eating Sainsbury's pies and buying matches for underage smokers and sit in Tower Hamlet council estates until sunrise.
The last time I spoke to him, I had returned from a week in Barcelona to find our resident mouse dead on my duvet. It had climbed into one of the perspex boxes that I used to sort my makeup and expired in a pile of Bourjois blush and cuticle oil. My impoverished pal would have come to Settles Street to stuff it and wear it as a trophy if I had given him my address, but in the end I put the transparent coffin and the bed sheets in the trash outside and said a little prayer for the rodent's family.
He painted me on a mirror and swore he would break it before it was finished. I can't tell if I'm offended or honoured and I feel a little arrogant putting it online.
Source: Oszar (UK)
We would lurk around Hampstead Heath on Thursday nights eating Sainsbury's pies and buying matches for underage smokers and sit in Tower Hamlet council estates until sunrise.
The last time I spoke to him, I had returned from a week in Barcelona to find our resident mouse dead on my duvet. It had climbed into one of the perspex boxes that I used to sort my makeup and expired in a pile of Bourjois blush and cuticle oil. My impoverished pal would have come to Settles Street to stuff it and wear it as a trophy if I had given him my address, but in the end I put the transparent coffin and the bed sheets in the trash outside and said a little prayer for the rodent's family.
He painted me on a mirror and swore he would break it before it was finished. I can't tell if I'm offended or honoured and I feel a little arrogant putting it online.
Source: Oszar (UK)
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
and justice for everyone!
Since cloistering myself in Canada for the season, I've started creeping London street blogs, looking for my friends and all the people I used to run in to at parties still out after 3am in E1.
My favourite night in London started with several flats of free beer and pretzel sticks in Portobello with my favourite coworker and my BFF. We ditched early, trekked to the Central line, and alighted at Bank to pee in an alleyway before resuming our Underground journey to Old Street. Upon arriving, we began the search for sold-out Stag & Dagger festival tickets, which ended the second we arrived in Shoreditch and were ushered into the Ed Banger party by a fortuitously situated, soft-spoken and well-connected friend from my first night at Hoxton. Showing up in time for SebastiAn and DJ Falcon's set, we settled in for illicit activities in a back corner with some acquaintances and their boyfriends - motherfucking Busy P and his black leather jacket-wearing Justice crew.
Speaking of, here is a nice fifteen minute mix to dress to for fall:
Justice - Dior S/S 09
Source: Glamcanyon (UK), Missing Toof (USA)
My favourite night in London started with several flats of free beer and pretzel sticks in Portobello with my favourite coworker and my BFF. We ditched early, trekked to the Central line, and alighted at Bank to pee in an alleyway before resuming our Underground journey to Old Street. Upon arriving, we began the search for sold-out Stag & Dagger festival tickets, which ended the second we arrived in Shoreditch and were ushered into the Ed Banger party by a fortuitously situated, soft-spoken and well-connected friend from my first night at Hoxton. Showing up in time for SebastiAn and DJ Falcon's set, we settled in for illicit activities in a back corner with some acquaintances and their boyfriends - motherfucking Busy P and his black leather jacket-wearing Justice crew.
Speaking of, here is a nice fifteen minute mix to dress to for fall:
Justice - Dior S/S 09
Source: Glamcanyon (UK), Missing Toof (USA)
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Topshop Unique A/W 2008
It's getting chilly.
I hope these are made from a really scratchy cashmere wool blend.
Source: Marie Claire (UK)
I hope these are made from a really scratchy cashmere wool blend.
Source: Marie Claire (UK)
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Chicken stacker
Hoxton Kitchen - the easiest place to spend a Friday night with a heated patio, bar, restaurant, full stage and dance floor under one roof.
The New Yorkers from that exceptional night in Kew Gardens following their set in Kilburn flew in for the weekend and I returned the guitar that had sat collecting dust (but looking really cool) under the [legally acquired] palm plant in our living room over the summer.
We hit up the Commercial for a round of lager and limes with Salt and Vineager Real McCoys (they're rippled) and I got the call I'd been crossing my fingers for all week - an invitation to the Hoxton Kitchen 10th anniversary party. The place was closed down for the night and they opened the bar and kitchen to anyone who's ever played Boombox, Style Noire and all the amazing live sets over the past decade. All night, we drank as many mojitos, champagne and vodka tonics as could drown out the miniature hamburgers being handed around the party by [little people] dressed in KISS makeup and Afro wigs while Paul Simon remixes reverberated.
Outside, the Jew stood waiting with an entourage of eight, and I left in an unmarked cab - the kind most frequently found outside clubs when the last thing you want is a ride from a stranger with a 1997 sedan hissing "taxi taxi" under his breath as you pass.
When I awoke the next morning (afternoon), my head was buzzing, my hair was a shambles, and my cell phone was missing from my bag. I buttoned an oversized flannel shirt over the previous night's dress and pulled on pair of men's brogues to shuffle outside and find it.
I called from a payphone (the one next to the park that tactfully does not inform its patrons that under its lawns are buried over a hundred hanged criminals from the 1700s) and a Middle Eastern voice ansdwered. My sweet little Samsung with the joystick scroll button had fallen under the taxi seat in my haze and haste, and the driver offered to bring it by my apartment later that night.
Most British people live their lives through their cell phones, much like Americans do with the Internet, and I felt disoriented and cut off from the world without mine. I spent the day in bed eating 99p KFC sandwiches and leftover mixed garlic- and mandarin-stuffed olives from Harrods, reading Mexican graphic design blogs and watching the mouse that until now had shyly rustled out of eyesight running back and forth across the room and under the covers of Joanna's unoccupied bed.
At 8pm, the driver arrived and rang the doorbell. As many times as I've been pickpocketed, ripped off, duped and hassled in the city, it was a reassuring moment that reminded me there are still people who are kind and helpful and inherently everything that I associate with the utopian world outside the dirty East End.
The New Yorkers from that exceptional night in Kew Gardens following their set in Kilburn flew in for the weekend and I returned the guitar that had sat collecting dust (but looking really cool) under the [legally acquired] palm plant in our living room over the summer.
We hit up the Commercial for a round of lager and limes with Salt and Vineager Real McCoys (they're rippled) and I got the call I'd been crossing my fingers for all week - an invitation to the Hoxton Kitchen 10th anniversary party. The place was closed down for the night and they opened the bar and kitchen to anyone who's ever played Boombox, Style Noire and all the amazing live sets over the past decade. All night, we drank as many mojitos, champagne and vodka tonics as could drown out the miniature hamburgers being handed around the party by [little people] dressed in KISS makeup and Afro wigs while Paul Simon remixes reverberated.
Outside, the Jew stood waiting with an entourage of eight, and I left in an unmarked cab - the kind most frequently found outside clubs when the last thing you want is a ride from a stranger with a 1997 sedan hissing "taxi taxi" under his breath as you pass.
When I awoke the next morning (afternoon), my head was buzzing, my hair was a shambles, and my cell phone was missing from my bag. I buttoned an oversized flannel shirt over the previous night's dress and pulled on pair of men's brogues to shuffle outside and find it.
I called from a payphone (the one next to the park that tactfully does not inform its patrons that under its lawns are buried over a hundred hanged criminals from the 1700s) and a Middle Eastern voice ansdwered. My sweet little Samsung with the joystick scroll button had fallen under the taxi seat in my haze and haste, and the driver offered to bring it by my apartment later that night.
Most British people live their lives through their cell phones, much like Americans do with the Internet, and I felt disoriented and cut off from the world without mine. I spent the day in bed eating 99p KFC sandwiches and leftover mixed garlic- and mandarin-stuffed olives from Harrods, reading Mexican graphic design blogs and watching the mouse that until now had shyly rustled out of eyesight running back and forth across the room and under the covers of Joanna's unoccupied bed.
At 8pm, the driver arrived and rang the doorbell. As many times as I've been pickpocketed, ripped off, duped and hassled in the city, it was a reassuring moment that reminded me there are still people who are kind and helpful and inherently everything that I associate with the utopian world outside the dirty East End.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Barnett Newman
Another day at the Tate Modern, with several GBs of unmixed music in my ears and a pair of vintage riding boots on my feet. I sat in front of these paintings for over an hour and thought existential thoughts and then sat by Tower Bridge until sunset.
Eve, 1950
Adam, 1952
Source: Tate Modern (UK)
Eve, 1950
Adam, 1952
Source: Tate Modern (UK)
Thursday, September 4, 2008
A blanket statement
If you live in East London you own at least two of the following: a fixed gear bike, a vintage camera from a Berlin flea market, a screen printed t-shirt from a Central St Martins student, an unaddressed case of body dysmorphic disorder, a pair of stereo headphones (for your iPod), a blue Ikea Oyster card wallet, Adobe Creative Suite
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Givenchy A/W 2008
Religious iconography, textural black-on-black, impossible shoes...
I believe tears fell from my eyes the first time I saw this.
Source: Marie Claire (UK)
I believe tears fell from my eyes the first time I saw this.
Source: Marie Claire (UK)
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Dirty Christmas knitwear
Lucy and I saw Ted (the jumper guy) at the Macbeth tonight, which is sick because I remember reading about him in print and thinking he would be a nice guy to be friends with.
Source: Vice (UK)
Source: Vice (UK)
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Thursday circuits
Art opening at B Store in Saville Row with the model scout, some architecture previews in Brick Lane and a light installation in Old Street with a Portuguese graphic designer.
I love Thursday evenings best of all. As long as you're dressed and sociable, the city seems yours for the taking. All the galleries are open and they're flooded with free drinks, snacks and fashionable people talking about fashionable things and how tiresome being fashionable is and what's going to be fashionable next and how they know the next big thing (and they must introduce you sometime... can they have your number?).
I love Thursday evenings best of all. As long as you're dressed and sociable, the city seems yours for the taking. All the galleries are open and they're flooded with free drinks, snacks and fashionable people talking about fashionable things and how tiresome being fashionable is and what's going to be fashionable next and how they know the next big thing (and they must introduce you sometime... can they have your number?).
Friday, June 13, 2008
Shoreditch House
A night with Carly and the girls at Shoreditch House, drinking wine by the roof top pool, overlooking the city in a sea of sparkling lights.
As amazing as the whole place is, my favourite spot is the Games Room, which is walled on one side with bookshelves of large format hardcover photography books and on another with a pool table. In the middle are Space Invaders tables with chairs facing the inset screens, and at the back, a wall of apothecary jars filled with candy, yours for the taking...
Source: GIS, New York Times (USA)
As amazing as the whole place is, my favourite spot is the Games Room, which is walled on one side with bookshelves of large format hardcover photography books and on another with a pool table. In the middle are Space Invaders tables with chairs facing the inset screens, and at the back, a wall of apothecary jars filled with candy, yours for the taking...
Source: GIS, New York Times (USA)
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A friend of Sacha Distel
Date with the installation artist that I met at Bistroteque after a trendy Hackney art show. We went to Nobu and spent more on mojitos and maki than Jo and I do on a month's rent, listened to The Rolling Stones on his iPod at a seedy member's club in Soho where Damien Hirst pays for his drinks in doodles, and took horrendous shots of butterscotch and liquorice vodka at Ghetto following iced coffee off Greek Street.
We met early at Green Park station, me in t-shirt as a dress, gold chain circlet and four-inch Oxfords, him in white jeans, grey tee, cowboy boots, and a weasel skull on a chain as a necklace. He is part Chinese (from his former Olympian father) and wears his hair long, black and glossy like an Injun chief. We spent most of the night talking about anthropology and primitive religion, and at one point he admitted that he was bummed because his parents had sold their summer home in Edinburgh to be converted into a hotel. I can relate.
We met early at Green Park station, me in t-shirt as a dress, gold chain circlet and four-inch Oxfords, him in white jeans, grey tee, cowboy boots, and a weasel skull on a chain as a necklace. He is part Chinese (from his former Olympian father) and wears his hair long, black and glossy like an Injun chief. We spent most of the night talking about anthropology and primitive religion, and at one point he admitted that he was bummed because his parents had sold their summer home in Edinburgh to be converted into a hotel. I can relate.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
London lite
Adele came in to work today to visit my favourite coworker/her videographer who is leaving on her US tour later this month - all expenses paid, plus a weekly allowance and all access passes to Bonnaroo. She was really chill and carrying the sort of Chanel handbag that's real but looks fake, something that Louis Vuitton has been specializing in since the early 00s.
I love all the celebrity sightings in Portobello. The paparazzi wear suits and carry telephoto lenses the length of my arm to train on Lily Allen and Helena Bonham Carter, Norman Cook and Ian Brown.
Kelly Rowland has come in a few times - on weekdays in sweatpants and a ponytail, on weekends with four inch heels, five inch extensions and two inch nails and lashes (for the cameras). Shaznay from All Saints was in twice last week for some casual clothes and Minnie Driver spilled her pregancy news as I helped her pick out some tunic-lenth tees.
It's easy to keep an eye out for the prime international targets, and the London daily rags are basically a flimsy paper Facebook of who to look out for in the market on weekends.
The market itself is a zoo. All the locals know to come on Fridays since tourists aren't told that it's open any day outside of Saturday. The antique books and prints and bric a brac have gouged a hole in my lunch money and I come back from my breaks with more skeleton keys and crane-shaped sewing scissors than egg-and-cress sandwiches.
As fun as weekends are, the security is also the toughest. We double our staff and the security guards are on high alert for the petty crooks and hustlers working on behalf of local gangs. The worst are the Spice Girls, a ring of 40+ immense black women in fluo spandex and fishnet monstrosities.
They come in pairs, usually with their kids in tow and a pram to stow their gear. They're exceedingly rough and ask obvious questions to distract the sales staff while the other stuffs racks full of clothing into the baby carriage. They favour all things shiny and metallic and use their children and their toothless mugs as deterrents to our protests.
The latest security guard, a tall, scrawny Nigerian who performs magic tricks during the lulls and chases children around the store, has had his pride wounded lately as stacks of clothing have gone missing while his back is turned. He's taken to hiding behind the racks near the side door so it looks like the store is empty, to lure the thieves in, wherein he will leap out from behind the clothes and nab them.
This week he caught the Spice Girls in the act near the back of the store, with some PVC skirts peeking out of their purses. When he confronted them, they lashed out and beat him loudly and roundly to the ground in front of the Saturday crowds. While one ripped at his shirt, another stole his watch and their diversion-tactic spawn kicked him in the shins. They made off before the police could even consider forging a path through the scrum of weekend shoppers.
After filing a report and accepting a shirt from the shop floor, he left and we haven't seen him since. It's sad because lately he's been on an apple kick for lunch - eating two or three at a time - and he left an entire grocery bag full of fruit near the fridge and we don't know what to do with it (or why he brought thirty apples with him that day in the first place).
I love all the celebrity sightings in Portobello. The paparazzi wear suits and carry telephoto lenses the length of my arm to train on Lily Allen and Helena Bonham Carter, Norman Cook and Ian Brown.
Kelly Rowland has come in a few times - on weekdays in sweatpants and a ponytail, on weekends with four inch heels, five inch extensions and two inch nails and lashes (for the cameras). Shaznay from All Saints was in twice last week for some casual clothes and Minnie Driver spilled her pregancy news as I helped her pick out some tunic-lenth tees.
It's easy to keep an eye out for the prime international targets, and the London daily rags are basically a flimsy paper Facebook of who to look out for in the market on weekends.
The market itself is a zoo. All the locals know to come on Fridays since tourists aren't told that it's open any day outside of Saturday. The antique books and prints and bric a brac have gouged a hole in my lunch money and I come back from my breaks with more skeleton keys and crane-shaped sewing scissors than egg-and-cress sandwiches.
As fun as weekends are, the security is also the toughest. We double our staff and the security guards are on high alert for the petty crooks and hustlers working on behalf of local gangs. The worst are the Spice Girls, a ring of 40+ immense black women in fluo spandex and fishnet monstrosities.
They come in pairs, usually with their kids in tow and a pram to stow their gear. They're exceedingly rough and ask obvious questions to distract the sales staff while the other stuffs racks full of clothing into the baby carriage. They favour all things shiny and metallic and use their children and their toothless mugs as deterrents to our protests.
The latest security guard, a tall, scrawny Nigerian who performs magic tricks during the lulls and chases children around the store, has had his pride wounded lately as stacks of clothing have gone missing while his back is turned. He's taken to hiding behind the racks near the side door so it looks like the store is empty, to lure the thieves in, wherein he will leap out from behind the clothes and nab them.
This week he caught the Spice Girls in the act near the back of the store, with some PVC skirts peeking out of their purses. When he confronted them, they lashed out and beat him loudly and roundly to the ground in front of the Saturday crowds. While one ripped at his shirt, another stole his watch and their diversion-tactic spawn kicked him in the shins. They made off before the police could even consider forging a path through the scrum of weekend shoppers.
After filing a report and accepting a shirt from the shop floor, he left and we haven't seen him since. It's sad because lately he's been on an apple kick for lunch - eating two or three at a time - and he left an entire grocery bag full of fruit near the fridge and we don't know what to do with it (or why he brought thirty apples with him that day in the first place).
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Six degrees
Slow days at work can be measured in how many movie connections we make. There is a game that goes around the store where two seemingly unrelated actors are linked by the tenuous connection of costars in former feature films.
Today's surprise stumpers were "Former boy band members Mark Wahlberg and Justin Timberlake" and "Knighted actors Ian McKellen and Ben Kingsley." Inexplicably, almost every pairing this week crossed through a film starring Liv Tyler or Tom Cruise.
After the unforseeably arduous process of renting a place in East London, our lease was accepted today, which was some cause for celebration. Everything was finally coming together with Jo's finances sorted out and my payday coinciding with the afternoon that we needed to put down one-month upfront and six-weeks deposit.
Or would have coincided had I lived in Canada where pay is doled out every two weeks, rather than once a month. So the pittance that I have dutifully earned is not mine for the spending for another three weeks, including the minimum wage that I worked for to pay the rent and deposit so we could pick up the keys.
Today's surprise stumpers were "Former boy band members Mark Wahlberg and Justin Timberlake" and "Knighted actors Ian McKellen and Ben Kingsley." Inexplicably, almost every pairing this week crossed through a film starring Liv Tyler or Tom Cruise.
After the unforseeably arduous process of renting a place in East London, our lease was accepted today, which was some cause for celebration. Everything was finally coming together with Jo's finances sorted out and my payday coinciding with the afternoon that we needed to put down one-month upfront and six-weeks deposit.
Or would have coincided had I lived in Canada where pay is doled out every two weeks, rather than once a month. So the pittance that I have dutifully earned is not mine for the spending for another three weeks, including the minimum wage that I worked for to pay the rent and deposit so we could pick up the keys.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The people vs. the London Metropolitan Police
Spent the day with the Canadian High Commission and the Canadian embassy in Trafalgar Square trying to recover my stolen things (which were apprehended the night of the theft adnd promptly locked in evidence). The Metropolitan Police at Charing Cross, attempted to convince us of the following points:
1. My records aren't in the computer as I was only robbed a week ago (rather than three weeks past and reported within 24 hours)
2. A summons to collect my things is in the mail (and will be sent to my Canadian address in four to six weeks)
3. There is no record of any of my items being recovered
4. There is no record of any theft at the club in the past six months
5. The nightclub does not exist
Jo met me in town to pay our rent and damage deposit in Old Street so we can finally escape West London. Our appointment with the estate agent was at 530, so we left at 430 with plenty of time. When the bus arrived at Oxford Circus, we hopped on and settled into the air-conditioned main floor.
At that exact moment, there was a brutal stabbing two hundred metres away. Oxford Street was closed and we sat in the bus for forty minutes before finally realizing we weren't going anywhere except back to W12.
1. My records aren't in the computer as I was only robbed a week ago (rather than three weeks past and reported within 24 hours)
2. A summons to collect my things is in the mail (and will be sent to my Canadian address in four to six weeks)
3. There is no record of any of my items being recovered
4. There is no record of any theft at the club in the past six months
5. The nightclub does not exist
Jo met me in town to pay our rent and damage deposit in Old Street so we can finally escape West London. Our appointment with the estate agent was at 530, so we left at 430 with plenty of time. When the bus arrived at Oxford Circus, we hopped on and settled into the air-conditioned main floor.
At that exact moment, there was a brutal stabbing two hundred metres away. Oxford Street was closed and we sat in the bus for forty minutes before finally realizing we weren't going anywhere except back to W12.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
No avocados
Bright sunny morning in Angel. I unfurled myself from an unfamiliar couch following a late night reunion of the whole motley Canadian crew - a textiles designer, a hot mess and a colleague from our gallery im Gastown. A backyard barbecue, an incognito male model and a turntable stacked with house would be the overarching themes of the evening.
Enjoyed breakfast in the garden with my lovely hostess and reluctantly left the house wearing the previous night's all-black, goth-lite mini dress, tights and plimsolls.
My high school friend Jules was in town for the weekend, returning from a family vacation in Barcelona. We met Angel for milkshakes and burgers, and a sun dress so I could justify going to a picnic in a park rather than a scenester's funeral.
With little money to my name after the robbery, I was nervous about shopping in the pretty, boutique-lined high street but we cobbled together a £4 oversized pinney and hot pants affair and ventured into deepest Hackney.
Enjoyed too many apple sausages on the homemade coal barbecue in the sun at Victoria Park with the widest gamut of 24-inch waist East Londoners imaginable strewn across a variety of blankets on the vast expanse of lawn.
Having Jules around has been a saving grace. We spent an afternoon in Kensington drinking champagne and eating organic food near Hyde Park discussing steel drums and DJ sets, Japanese literature and charitable work. Between him and our Canadian family, I'm feeling happier and getting excited for my move to Brick Lane at the end of the week.
Jo and I found a sick apartment with hardwood floors, high ceilings, a vintage bathroom with tiled floors and an art store that would put Opus to shame around the corner. It costs more than my family's mortgage back in BC, which would make it a fair price for the cost of living and the gentrifying neighbourhood that we've been perving on for ages. All it needs are some signature pieces on the wall and a fully stocked wardrobe and I'm set to Settle for the summer.
Enjoyed breakfast in the garden with my lovely hostess and reluctantly left the house wearing the previous night's all-black, goth-lite mini dress, tights and plimsolls.
My high school friend Jules was in town for the weekend, returning from a family vacation in Barcelona. We met Angel for milkshakes and burgers, and a sun dress so I could justify going to a picnic in a park rather than a scenester's funeral.
With little money to my name after the robbery, I was nervous about shopping in the pretty, boutique-lined high street but we cobbled together a £4 oversized pinney and hot pants affair and ventured into deepest Hackney.
Enjoyed too many apple sausages on the homemade coal barbecue in the sun at Victoria Park with the widest gamut of 24-inch waist East Londoners imaginable strewn across a variety of blankets on the vast expanse of lawn.
Having Jules around has been a saving grace. We spent an afternoon in Kensington drinking champagne and eating organic food near Hyde Park discussing steel drums and DJ sets, Japanese literature and charitable work. Between him and our Canadian family, I'm feeling happier and getting excited for my move to Brick Lane at the end of the week.
Jo and I found a sick apartment with hardwood floors, high ceilings, a vintage bathroom with tiled floors and an art store that would put Opus to shame around the corner. It costs more than my family's mortgage back in BC, which would make it a fair price for the cost of living and the gentrifying neighbourhood that we've been perving on for ages. All it needs are some signature pieces on the wall and a fully stocked wardrobe and I'm set to Settle for the summer.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Fabric
GET FAMILIAR
Switch, Surkin, Sinden, A Trak, Curses! and Jean Nipon at Fabric.
The place is massive and looks like a giant sewer. At any point Donatello and Rafael will jump out from behind a pillar in the drum and bass room looking for some pizza, dudes.
Don't try and drink there and definitely don't acknowledge any unknowns. One gentleman was dancing to minimal house like he was being born (in slow motion).
Curses! - Birthday Party Berlin DJ set
Switch, Surkin, Sinden, A Trak, Curses! and Jean Nipon at Fabric.
The place is massive and looks like a giant sewer. At any point Donatello and Rafael will jump out from behind a pillar in the drum and bass room looking for some pizza, dudes.
Don't try and drink there and definitely don't acknowledge any unknowns. One gentleman was dancing to minimal house like he was being born (in slow motion).
Curses! - Birthday Party Berlin DJ set
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Bon voyage
Saw the Jew at Hoxton Kitchen whilst celebrating a friend's birthday. "Still drunk?" were the only words exchanged between us.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Bold face names
Spent the day at home in a pair of old jeans and a zip up hoodie, instant messaging with a drum and bass DJ who performs in full face paint and a tuxedo. We met under the tenuous pretence of Joanna travelling with his unanimously loathed brother for a short period in India. We traded notes on the comparative values of two- and four-ply cashmere and discussed our weekend plans (pancakes for me, high-paying party for him) and for the afternoon, I lived vicariously through the successes of a 6'3" Shoreditch turntablist who smacks remarkably of the singer Meat Loaf.
Cancelled my credit cards following the robbery. Jo reported our stolen goods on my behalf. The two policemen at the station were comparing pictures of themselves on Facebook when she arrived and it reminded me of hiding out in the back of the art gallery at home when my coworker and I would while away our shifts on social networking sites and YouTube.
In reviewing my summary of the worst night of my life, I regret to note an omission in the evening's description. While I originally began the evening with posh Tim and his Swedish girlfriend, I forgot to mention his ever-present and ambiguous associate, a leery Indian friend who had traded his lace-up flared capris from the Cavalli party for a lovely pair of stonewashed high-waisted flared jeans and a red raw silk henley. Also, that evening I threw up in a stranger's hat in the VIP room while Will I Am of the Black Eyed Peas looked on.
Cancelled my credit cards following the robbery. Jo reported our stolen goods on my behalf. The two policemen at the station were comparing pictures of themselves on Facebook when she arrived and it reminded me of hiding out in the back of the art gallery at home when my coworker and I would while away our shifts on social networking sites and YouTube.
In reviewing my summary of the worst night of my life, I regret to note an omission in the evening's description. While I originally began the evening with posh Tim and his Swedish girlfriend, I forgot to mention his ever-present and ambiguous associate, a leery Indian friend who had traded his lace-up flared capris from the Cavalli party for a lovely pair of stonewashed high-waisted flared jeans and a red raw silk henley. Also, that evening I threw up in a stranger's hat in the VIP room while Will I Am of the Black Eyed Peas looked on.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Watch where you wake up
To sum:
I abandoned my visiting friend from home to attend the West End bon voyage of the flannel-wearing Jew with the Audio Bullys booked on the decks.
I wore a black American Apparel dress with black tights and structural heels, a pair of plimsolls and a toothbrush in my bag and high hopes hammering on my heart.
I arrived to find the Swedish model wracked with news of posh Tim's recent indiscretions, my crush wearing a denim shirt and an unknown girl as an accessory, and magnums of Grey Goose in the VIP.
I left after several unaccounted hours of distress and drunkenness, stumbling into Oxford Circus with nothing but my leather jacket, having been robbed of mine and Joanna's wallets, my keys, bus pass, cell phone, camera, mp3 player, Double Mint and any sense of security I had grasped at over the previous month.
Eventually I found myself several kilometres away, denying sleep in a corner of an ill-reputed neighbourhood whilst awaiting sunrise and sobriety. Jumped the barrier at the Underground station as soon as it opened and hitched a ride into W12 to wait on my front steps for three hours until someone awoke to let me in.
By noon, I swore never to drink Grey Goose again and cried into my cocoa until I fell asleep until late the next day.
I abandoned my visiting friend from home to attend the West End bon voyage of the flannel-wearing Jew with the Audio Bullys booked on the decks.
I wore a black American Apparel dress with black tights and structural heels, a pair of plimsolls and a toothbrush in my bag and high hopes hammering on my heart.
I arrived to find the Swedish model wracked with news of posh Tim's recent indiscretions, my crush wearing a denim shirt and an unknown girl as an accessory, and magnums of Grey Goose in the VIP.
I left after several unaccounted hours of distress and drunkenness, stumbling into Oxford Circus with nothing but my leather jacket, having been robbed of mine and Joanna's wallets, my keys, bus pass, cell phone, camera, mp3 player, Double Mint and any sense of security I had grasped at over the previous month.
Eventually I found myself several kilometres away, denying sleep in a corner of an ill-reputed neighbourhood whilst awaiting sunrise and sobriety. Jumped the barrier at the Underground station as soon as it opened and hitched a ride into W12 to wait on my front steps for three hours until someone awoke to let me in.
By noon, I swore never to drink Grey Goose again and cried into my cocoa until I fell asleep until late the next day.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
It's in the stars
I've always been down with astrology but I never found newspaper horoscopes accurate until I moved to the UK. They are freakily on-target here and especially astute when Joanna and I read them together. We share a star sign and get horoscopes like "Someone close to you is getting on your nerves but you need to support them through a difficult transition period" and so on and we don't know anyone here but one another so the "someone close to you" is always the other.
On Monday, Jo and I went to a (real) estate agency to look at [flats] in East London and fell in love with the fourth one we saw as we were chauffered by the agent, all stress free and enthusiastic about our exodus to E1. As we drove along Brick Lane Jo's eyes lit up at the curry houses, the grafitti, the bicycles and ridiculous shoes and I said "I told you you'd love it here" and she said "I told you we'd be fine if we had an agent drive us around and show us exactly where we want to live" and our horoscope said "Avoid telling someone close to you 'I told you so' because really it doesn't need to be said."
I picked up a quality magazine from the newsagent's on Thursday - Real People ("100% Real Life! Packed with puzzles! 65p!") - which boasts such Real Confessions as "I ate my school friend's dinner while she was in agony with a broken ankle!" and Jenny Blume's Weekly column "Your Stars." According to Jenny,
"High spirits could see you hitting the dance floor, but watch those delicate feet of yours. Say no to heels!" and "A night out with friends could leave you on a high, but you'll need to watch out where you wake up!"
Just in time, as Friday night is the Jew's going away party in the West End. We've been texting for the past few weeks and I saw him a while ago in Hoxton all 6'2" and steezy with Morrisey hair - basically my British ideal. He's leaving for a trip around the world this summer, India to America, and I won't see him until September. It's probably for the best as I really need to focus instead of skulking around at work with my cell phone when I'm on shop floor.
The model scout and posh Tim and his Swedish girlfriend will be there as well, and suddenly London doesn't feel so huge after all.
On Monday, Jo and I went to a (real) estate agency to look at [flats] in East London and fell in love with the fourth one we saw as we were chauffered by the agent, all stress free and enthusiastic about our exodus to E1. As we drove along Brick Lane Jo's eyes lit up at the curry houses, the grafitti, the bicycles and ridiculous shoes and I said "I told you you'd love it here" and she said "I told you we'd be fine if we had an agent drive us around and show us exactly where we want to live" and our horoscope said "Avoid telling someone close to you 'I told you so' because really it doesn't need to be said."
I picked up a quality magazine from the newsagent's on Thursday - Real People ("100% Real Life! Packed with puzzles! 65p!") - which boasts such Real Confessions as "I ate my school friend's dinner while she was in agony with a broken ankle!" and Jenny Blume's Weekly column "Your Stars." According to Jenny,
"High spirits could see you hitting the dance floor, but watch those delicate feet of yours. Say no to heels!" and "A night out with friends could leave you on a high, but you'll need to watch out where you wake up!"
Just in time, as Friday night is the Jew's going away party in the West End. We've been texting for the past few weeks and I saw him a while ago in Hoxton all 6'2" and steezy with Morrisey hair - basically my British ideal. He's leaving for a trip around the world this summer, India to America, and I won't see him until September. It's probably for the best as I really need to focus instead of skulking around at work with my cell phone when I'm on shop floor.
The model scout and posh Tim and his Swedish girlfriend will be there as well, and suddenly London doesn't feel so huge after all.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Party pixx
Sick week that I can't even do justice to. So much has happened, and it makes coming to London worthwhile. It's been difficult arriving with only Joanna in my address book, but I've managed to make friends and make my way around the city.
I wound up at a Vice party at the Proud Galleries in Camden - a converted stable with rough stone floors and the ghost of hay bales in the air - with some guys who work for their bar, the Old Blue Last, in East London. They recognized me from some of Scott's pictures (lol) at The End and we're talking about doing a night there in a few months.
On Saturday, I worked the door at a warehouse party (...) in Elephant & Castle for extra cash and drink tickets and hung out with some sweet photographers and our Canadian 'family' in between guestlist and the handmade fresh fruit cocktails.
We met up last week for the surreal late night video installation at Tate Britain. Watching silhouttes of camels climbing the frames of some of the world's most famous oil paintings while light and sound shows overwhelm entire gallery halls as we drink glasses of champagne in our t-shirt dresses and high-saturation tights made a memorable evening with a group of girls who came highly recommended by our friends back home.
Aside from that, I've been spending more and more time in East London and I feel really happy there. The people are fresh and creative and ambitious and young, everyone in slims and flannels and vintage shoes.
The night before the Midnight Juggernauts show, I went to Hoxton Kitchen to meet up with the Jew and ended up at an after-hours with the DJs talking about bloggable music instead. They actually play the sort of music I want to hear (albeit with stacks of vinyl and a turntablist's timing - aka beat matching, period) and there are a ton of shows coming up that I can't wait to check out.
For example, next month is the Stag & Dagger festival in Shoreditch, a kind of club crawl where you get a wristband that lets you in to about twenty venues around the area for a year's worth of shows in one night. The line up is retarded: A Trak, Atlas Sound, Bumblebeez, Das Pop, Diplo, DJ Falcon, Drums of Death, Hot Chip, Little Boots, Lost in Paris, Muscles and SebastiAn just start the list. I can't even imagine how the night will play out!
I wound up at a Vice party at the Proud Galleries in Camden - a converted stable with rough stone floors and the ghost of hay bales in the air - with some guys who work for their bar, the Old Blue Last, in East London. They recognized me from some of Scott's pictures (lol) at The End and we're talking about doing a night there in a few months.
On Saturday, I worked the door at a warehouse party (...) in Elephant & Castle for extra cash and drink tickets and hung out with some sweet photographers and our Canadian 'family' in between guestlist and the handmade fresh fruit cocktails.
We met up last week for the surreal late night video installation at Tate Britain. Watching silhouttes of camels climbing the frames of some of the world's most famous oil paintings while light and sound shows overwhelm entire gallery halls as we drink glasses of champagne in our t-shirt dresses and high-saturation tights made a memorable evening with a group of girls who came highly recommended by our friends back home.
Aside from that, I've been spending more and more time in East London and I feel really happy there. The people are fresh and creative and ambitious and young, everyone in slims and flannels and vintage shoes.
The night before the Midnight Juggernauts show, I went to Hoxton Kitchen to meet up with the Jew and ended up at an after-hours with the DJs talking about bloggable music instead. They actually play the sort of music I want to hear (albeit with stacks of vinyl and a turntablist's timing - aka beat matching, period) and there are a ton of shows coming up that I can't wait to check out.
For example, next month is the Stag & Dagger festival in Shoreditch, a kind of club crawl where you get a wristband that lets you in to about twenty venues around the area for a year's worth of shows in one night. The line up is retarded: A Trak, Atlas Sound, Bumblebeez, Das Pop, Diplo, DJ Falcon, Drums of Death, Hot Chip, Little Boots, Lost in Paris, Muscles and SebastiAn just start the list. I can't even imagine how the night will play out!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Music post
This is the perfect gift for those friends who ask others to fill up their new iPod because they don't have any music on their computer.
COOL KIDS CAN'T DIE EXCLUSIVE MIX
1. Kylie Minogue - Wow (MSTRKRFT remix)
2. Electro Vamp - I Don’t Like The Vibe In The VIP (JACK ROKKA dirty dub remix)
3. Daft Punk - Around The World (VILLAINS more cowbells dj edit)
4. The Presets - My People (D.I.M. remix)
5. CONGOROCK - Exodus
6. YUKSEK - Kontraul
7. Justice - DVNO (LA RIOTS remix)
8. Chemical Brothers - The Salmon Dance (CROOKERS wow edition)
9. The Teenagers - Love No (TEPR remix)
http://www.diedlastnight.com/blog/archives/215
LOL
COOL KIDS CAN'T DIE EXCLUSIVE MIX
1. Kylie Minogue - Wow (MSTRKRFT remix)
2. Electro Vamp - I Don’t Like The Vibe In The VIP (JACK ROKKA dirty dub remix)
3. Daft Punk - Around The World (VILLAINS more cowbells dj edit)
4. The Presets - My People (D.I.M. remix)
5. CONGOROCK - Exodus
6. YUKSEK - Kontraul
7. Justice - DVNO (LA RIOTS remix)
8. Chemical Brothers - The Salmon Dance (CROOKERS wow edition)
9. The Teenagers - Love No (TEPR remix)
http://www.diedlastnight.com/blog/archives/215
LOL
Black on black
I had the afternoon off so I met up with the model scout from the masquerade under the giant bronze Freddie Mercury at the Dominon Theatre. The last time I saw him, he was drinking a triple-thick strawberry milkshake in Oxford Circus to prepare for the night of orange juice and vodka table service at Maddox and Movida. While everyone else is making themselves look important, we'll lurk in a corner talking about art and other people's outfits. He wears a leather jacket, an alias and a diamond in his tooth and I have the best time when I'm out with him.
Today we stopped by Hannah Marshall's A/W 2008 preview in Soho for some free drinks, a passing canape and a gift bag filled with USB-port accessories and Vitamin Water.
Black is the new black, it seems, a few brass knuckles paired with a leather-accented lace dress and some inappropriate shoes. I appreciate anyone who justifies my lust for black dresses and irreverant accessories. The crow feather headdresses are unbelievable and I think Robert Louis Stevenson will be my ultimate inspiration for autumn.
Following Soho, we hopped to some boutique openings, an underground record store and an art show in Hackney. I wasn't really feeling the large-scale guitar frets in the middle of enlarged b/w prints of houses but I had a great time at the Bistroteque afterparty. I spent the evening with the model scout, a hairstylist for V magazine and an installation artist with whom I spent an hour discussing modern mythology under the bar's oversized chandeliers and sombre colour scheme.
I ended the night at a party in Old Street at a designer's showroom with the model scout and a gang of Alexander McQueens, the most awe-inspiring and intimidating type of women in London. They dress in skintight structural black with bondage boots and spiky airs, and while some bottles of red wine and Edith Piaf will loosen them up, their burgundy-red lips and blunt black bangs keep me riveted from afar.
Today we stopped by Hannah Marshall's A/W 2008 preview in Soho for some free drinks, a passing canape and a gift bag filled with USB-port accessories and Vitamin Water.
Black is the new black, it seems, a few brass knuckles paired with a leather-accented lace dress and some inappropriate shoes. I appreciate anyone who justifies my lust for black dresses and irreverant accessories. The crow feather headdresses are unbelievable and I think Robert Louis Stevenson will be my ultimate inspiration for autumn.
Following Soho, we hopped to some boutique openings, an underground record store and an art show in Hackney. I wasn't really feeling the large-scale guitar frets in the middle of enlarged b/w prints of houses but I had a great time at the Bistroteque afterparty. I spent the evening with the model scout, a hairstylist for V magazine and an installation artist with whom I spent an hour discussing modern mythology under the bar's oversized chandeliers and sombre colour scheme.
I ended the night at a party in Old Street at a designer's showroom with the model scout and a gang of Alexander McQueens, the most awe-inspiring and intimidating type of women in London. They dress in skintight structural black with bondage boots and spiky airs, and while some bottles of red wine and Edith Piaf will loosen them up, their burgundy-red lips and blunt black bangs keep me riveted from afar.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Maddox, Movida, Mexico
Work began at 10am, but I arrived at 830am, thinking that I was due at 9. To pass the time, I breakfasted on my New York Dolls coworker's McVities and made a Folgers Instant in the back room with some hot water and fresh milk. I've noticed that the labels always list "fresh milk" and I'm not sure what to make of it. If they have to advertise that a refrigerated dairy product is "fresh" then what are they compensating for?
An unwashed strawberry blond came in wearing an ancient parka and some filthy runners. I'm not used to seeing honest disparity after a month in Notting Hill. He was really hyped on the Del Tha Funkee Homosapien playing overhead and complimented us on our taste in music the way diners give their compliments to the chef. None of us remembered putting Del in the sound system, so we gave credit to my skinniest colleague, the one who wears jeans rolled up with a turtleneck tucked in and who was propositioned by a high ranking member of British parliament at an early age.
Filthy went on to explain how under appreciated Del is, except in LA which is a great city. One of the best he's ever seen in America or anywhere, and he's seen a few cities. I asked him when he planned to return and he didn't know. He's not welcome in the country because he was arrested for "looking like a guy with a criminal record who also happened to have my name. It didn't help that I had drugs on me at the time." He said he might sneak back in after a year's time, when he'd settled on a new identity. I must have had an incredulous look on my face and he explained that his friend had a similar problem being deported from Australia for ketamine trafficking. He changed his name and got a new bank account and passport and returned a year later as Andrew-Mark On-Ket. Clever.
I should have held my tongue when I joked about finding him a good spot along the river to cross from Mexico.
Coffee and orange juice for lunch. I met with one of the West End's busier promoters to hear his plans for a night sponsored by ... a chocolate manufacturer and a CGI programming firm. We'd scheduled and rescheduled this coffee for weeks and he had a choice of cappuccino and fresh squeezed laid out when I arrived. My coworkers always come back from lunch with stories of starters, mains and puddings, and they were yet again unimpressed with my culinary selections.
A samoyed sat nearby with a pram and an unattentive Notting Hill nanny. I don't really care for dogs but this one was essentially a giant white smiling cat, and I eyed it from a distance because I miss my pets.
Scrambled egg for dinner. Jo cooked, as usual, and I ran upstairs to fix my hair. On the way home I picked up a dress for the last-minute masquerade party in the West End that I had no mask for. I'd been eyeing a yellow silk strapless for a week, planning on picking it up for just such an occassion and somehow walked out with a black knife pleated halter frock cut to the knee. I think I justified a simple dress as a mask would overwhelm a stronger outfit. Anyhow, I haven't worn a dress that long since 2003 and I left it in a pile for the silk strapless aubergine that I'd worn to a cocktail club a few weeks before, still fiending for the jaundiced minidress in the shop window.
I hopped the bus into town in my glamourous kit with time to spare as I still hadn't acquired a mask and I had visions of cobbling something together with found items at the grocery store. An unctuous acquaintance who seems to sprint in West End circles agreed to bring a spare. He purchased it in Norfolk during his senior year for a Venician-themed party, which he regretably could not attend as his online erotica empire was busted by Scotland Yard the night before, and his parents grounded him for the weekend.
Coincidence and some well-timed text messages intervened at Regent and Argyll with the promoter, his girlfriend, a Columbian coffee trader and a model scout. We entered through the side door of some exclusive, unmarked members-only and descended into a lounge that can only be described as first class on an overnight Virgin Atlantic flight from New York to London. All light boxes and white leather and glowing strips of purple and orange along what would have been the skirting boards if places like this ever used non-synthetic materials.
My mask arrived and after conversation about vacationing in Monaco and Spain, we took our coats and took to the balmy streets of Mayfair. The great thing about London that everyone tells me and that I fully accept is that every district is a village of its own and you can walk from one place to the next like its a giant food court and you've decided that you're going to have both the Mexi fries and the A&W Teen burger for lunch. In the West End, all with some well-heeled friends, well-heeled shoes and a ladies' cigarette if you're smoking, the jetlagged-tourist-on-the-town look can be easily avoided.
Soon enough we were tucked into another white leather banquette with a glowing light box laid out with Moet & Chandon, watching a fashion show lit by "nouveau baroque" chandeliers and Kliegs. Posh Tim's latest girlfriend, a darling Swedish model, arrived in jeans, t-shirt and toque when everyone else was in fancy dress. While he and I seldom speak outside of night's out, I regularly trade numbers with his dates.
Finally, tired and hungry, I shared a black cab back to Notting Hill. I picked up a £2.50 kebab, said yes to all the toppings and scarfed it down on the way home, where I wearily wriggled out of my tiny dress and stepped into some Cowichan knits and a sense of normality. Beautiful.
An unwashed strawberry blond came in wearing an ancient parka and some filthy runners. I'm not used to seeing honest disparity after a month in Notting Hill. He was really hyped on the Del Tha Funkee Homosapien playing overhead and complimented us on our taste in music the way diners give their compliments to the chef. None of us remembered putting Del in the sound system, so we gave credit to my skinniest colleague, the one who wears jeans rolled up with a turtleneck tucked in and who was propositioned by a high ranking member of British parliament at an early age.
Filthy went on to explain how under appreciated Del is, except in LA which is a great city. One of the best he's ever seen in America or anywhere, and he's seen a few cities. I asked him when he planned to return and he didn't know. He's not welcome in the country because he was arrested for "looking like a guy with a criminal record who also happened to have my name. It didn't help that I had drugs on me at the time." He said he might sneak back in after a year's time, when he'd settled on a new identity. I must have had an incredulous look on my face and he explained that his friend had a similar problem being deported from Australia for ketamine trafficking. He changed his name and got a new bank account and passport and returned a year later as Andrew-Mark On-Ket. Clever.
I should have held my tongue when I joked about finding him a good spot along the river to cross from Mexico.
Coffee and orange juice for lunch. I met with one of the West End's busier promoters to hear his plans for a night sponsored by ... a chocolate manufacturer and a CGI programming firm. We'd scheduled and rescheduled this coffee for weeks and he had a choice of cappuccino and fresh squeezed laid out when I arrived. My coworkers always come back from lunch with stories of starters, mains and puddings, and they were yet again unimpressed with my culinary selections.
A samoyed sat nearby with a pram and an unattentive Notting Hill nanny. I don't really care for dogs but this one was essentially a giant white smiling cat, and I eyed it from a distance because I miss my pets.
Scrambled egg for dinner. Jo cooked, as usual, and I ran upstairs to fix my hair. On the way home I picked up a dress for the last-minute masquerade party in the West End that I had no mask for. I'd been eyeing a yellow silk strapless for a week, planning on picking it up for just such an occassion and somehow walked out with a black knife pleated halter frock cut to the knee. I think I justified a simple dress as a mask would overwhelm a stronger outfit. Anyhow, I haven't worn a dress that long since 2003 and I left it in a pile for the silk strapless aubergine that I'd worn to a cocktail club a few weeks before, still fiending for the jaundiced minidress in the shop window.
I hopped the bus into town in my glamourous kit with time to spare as I still hadn't acquired a mask and I had visions of cobbling something together with found items at the grocery store. An unctuous acquaintance who seems to sprint in West End circles agreed to bring a spare. He purchased it in Norfolk during his senior year for a Venician-themed party, which he regretably could not attend as his online erotica empire was busted by Scotland Yard the night before, and his parents grounded him for the weekend.
Coincidence and some well-timed text messages intervened at Regent and Argyll with the promoter, his girlfriend, a Columbian coffee trader and a model scout. We entered through the side door of some exclusive, unmarked members-only and descended into a lounge that can only be described as first class on an overnight Virgin Atlantic flight from New York to London. All light boxes and white leather and glowing strips of purple and orange along what would have been the skirting boards if places like this ever used non-synthetic materials.
My mask arrived and after conversation about vacationing in Monaco and Spain, we took our coats and took to the balmy streets of Mayfair. The great thing about London that everyone tells me and that I fully accept is that every district is a village of its own and you can walk from one place to the next like its a giant food court and you've decided that you're going to have both the Mexi fries and the A&W Teen burger for lunch. In the West End, all with some well-heeled friends, well-heeled shoes and a ladies' cigarette if you're smoking, the jetlagged-tourist-on-the-town look can be easily avoided.
Soon enough we were tucked into another white leather banquette with a glowing light box laid out with Moet & Chandon, watching a fashion show lit by "nouveau baroque" chandeliers and Kliegs. Posh Tim's latest girlfriend, a darling Swedish model, arrived in jeans, t-shirt and toque when everyone else was in fancy dress. While he and I seldom speak outside of night's out, I regularly trade numbers with his dates.
Finally, tired and hungry, I shared a black cab back to Notting Hill. I picked up a £2.50 kebab, said yes to all the toppings and scarfed it down on the way home, where I wearily wriggled out of my tiny dress and stepped into some Cowichan knits and a sense of normality. Beautiful.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Durrr
Hit up the Midnight Juggernauts show with Jo at The End after an evening drinking under the train bridge in W12. The bassist was totally checking her out.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Roberto Cavalli
Have already settled into a short-term flat outside Notting Hill with a weekly maid and two floors of high ceilings, wide windows and skylights. Turned down a job at a club in Camden as the owner admitted that he wanted to kill himself during the interview, and took a retail job in Portobello instead. Drank at one of Prince Harry's favoured clubs and attended a party in Mayfair hosted by Roberto Cavalli, who poured my champagne as I beamed in my Johnson Street shoes and dress.
Celebrity sightings abound (Liam Gallagher, Kelly Rowland, Nigel Barker, Nole Marin, the Geldoff girls, Agyness Deyn, Sienna Miller and Spandeau Ballet so far) and I finally found a Jewish-looking AA hoodie and leather jacket in the crowds at Movida, the red carpet and paparazzi-covered club that we've been invited to more often than we understand.
I don't want to admit that I'm overwhelmed by all that has happened in the two weeks that we've been in town. It all began on our third night in London when I'd slept off my jetlag and wanted to see the city. I had heard of Yo Yo at the Notting Hill Arts Club, so Jo and I dolled up and set out, only to be intercepted by a posh boy named Tim inviting us to a party. When we arrived, we found our hostess was the daughter of a lord and lady, the guests all drove Ducatis and there were designer shoes and chocolates everywhere. Since then, our Knightsbridge catalyst has brought us everywhere and introduced us to everyone who can help us start our lives here.
I remember telling Jo (the novice celebrity gossip fiend) not to worry; I'd find us some glamourous adventures during our four months in London. It seems it's already begun!
Celebrity sightings abound (Liam Gallagher, Kelly Rowland, Nigel Barker, Nole Marin, the Geldoff girls, Agyness Deyn, Sienna Miller and Spandeau Ballet so far) and I finally found a Jewish-looking AA hoodie and leather jacket in the crowds at Movida, the red carpet and paparazzi-covered club that we've been invited to more often than we understand.
I don't want to admit that I'm overwhelmed by all that has happened in the two weeks that we've been in town. It all began on our third night in London when I'd slept off my jetlag and wanted to see the city. I had heard of Yo Yo at the Notting Hill Arts Club, so Jo and I dolled up and set out, only to be intercepted by a posh boy named Tim inviting us to a party. When we arrived, we found our hostess was the daughter of a lord and lady, the guests all drove Ducatis and there were designer shoes and chocolates everywhere. Since then, our Knightsbridge catalyst has brought us everywhere and introduced us to everyone who can help us start our lives here.
I remember telling Jo (the novice celebrity gossip fiend) not to worry; I'd find us some glamourous adventures during our four months in London. It seems it's already begun!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
AC 156
Arrived to the snowdrifts at Toronto Pearson airport at 6am, in no mood to speak with anyone and with no patience to wait for an airport shuttle. A Ghanaian cab driver asked for $50 into town and I gave him $40 including a tip with a stopover in the suburbs to pick up coffee.
My host Sarah wasn't picking up her phone so near the light of dawn, but by some dumb luck, Tommy (local party promoter and touch-typist extraordinaire) texted me at 7am to join him for a bottle of vodka and some Strawberry Shortcake gelato at a private residence in King Street. Nine hours, three bottles, twenty viral video clips, one "quick meeting - back in ten" and two thwarted passes later, I awoke next to an equally fully-dressed and unconscious Tommy on the floor of his walk-in closet. I grabbed my bags and left for Kensington.
By 4pm, I was back at Saraha's, and by 5pm, dressed and ready for the GSUS Industries show at Toronto Fashion Week. Normally I would skulk around the jet-set-trend-set (probably with Scott in tow, chasing down Pamela Anderson or one of The Moffatts) but with Emanuel walking in the show within the hour, I skipped the line and hobnobbed with the fashion elite of Canada: Jeanne Beker, Rebecca Hardy (winner of Canada's Next Top Model), Blake McGrath (winner of So You Think You Can Dance), Fefe Dobson, and the cast of Degrassi. Grade A Canadian beef...
Emanuel took me on the sweetest date after his show, all lips, cheekbones and tribal face paint - a dinner of alfredo pasta at Richtree's in the Eaton's Centre and a cab fare back to Sarah's to read the Internet. Can't imagine anything better than creeping old men watching young boys webcam from their kitchens whilst smoking strawberry Prime Times with a male model that I just met.
Carte Blanche at Tattoo called to us and a crowd of table-service over-30s for a late-night fashion show of heinous Herve Leger-inspired disco garments modeled by the fiercest brunette Whitney Wiebes that have ever graced revolving pedestals lit by high school drama club lighting directors. Nothing justified staying longer than a quick chat with some ambitious models and abandoning Saraha for Pizza Pizza and a six hour spree of Miley Cyrus video clips and breaded chicken bites in bed.
My host Sarah wasn't picking up her phone so near the light of dawn, but by some dumb luck, Tommy (local party promoter and touch-typist extraordinaire) texted me at 7am to join him for a bottle of vodka and some Strawberry Shortcake gelato at a private residence in King Street. Nine hours, three bottles, twenty viral video clips, one "quick meeting - back in ten" and two thwarted passes later, I awoke next to an equally fully-dressed and unconscious Tommy on the floor of his walk-in closet. I grabbed my bags and left for Kensington.
By 4pm, I was back at Saraha's, and by 5pm, dressed and ready for the GSUS Industries show at Toronto Fashion Week. Normally I would skulk around the jet-set-trend-set (probably with Scott in tow, chasing down Pamela Anderson or one of The Moffatts) but with Emanuel walking in the show within the hour, I skipped the line and hobnobbed with the fashion elite of Canada: Jeanne Beker, Rebecca Hardy (winner of Canada's Next Top Model), Blake McGrath (winner of So You Think You Can Dance), Fefe Dobson, and the cast of Degrassi. Grade A Canadian beef...
Emanuel took me on the sweetest date after his show, all lips, cheekbones and tribal face paint - a dinner of alfredo pasta at Richtree's in the Eaton's Centre and a cab fare back to Sarah's to read the Internet. Can't imagine anything better than creeping old men watching young boys webcam from their kitchens whilst smoking strawberry Prime Times with a male model that I just met.
Carte Blanche at Tattoo called to us and a crowd of table-service over-30s for a late-night fashion show of heinous Herve Leger-inspired disco garments modeled by the fiercest brunette Whitney Wiebes that have ever graced revolving pedestals lit by high school drama club lighting directors. Nothing justified staying longer than a quick chat with some ambitious models and abandoning Saraha for Pizza Pizza and a six hour spree of Miley Cyrus video clips and breaded chicken bites in bed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)