As I had feared (and by ‘feared’ I mean considered a couple of times and subsequently thought, ‘ah, well’) living with friends in close proximity to no end of offies and bars has turned me into a right booze-hound. Certainly this is the case if this past week has been anything to go by. Next week I’ll endeavour to, uh… have better intentions?
In any case, Friday night saw myself and my homeboy N take to the previously mentioned Tram and Social for a spontaneous night out. Much hilarity ensued after he was hit on by no less than three guys, and I met a Frenchman who spent much of our encounter lamenting his red face, before exiting with ‘Bon. I am going to be red and gay! Adieu.’
After dragging my sorry ass out of bed on Saturday morning, we went to live Richard Curtis’ dream by visiting Wimbledon Farmers’ Market, where we’d anticipated organic produce being unloaded from Chelsea Tractors by Tarquins and Olivias wearing Hunter wellingtons. No such ‘luck’. Coming from the country I’m used to farmers’ markets of a very different ilk, and as such this one’s only saving grace was the presence of a Pieminister stall (Bristol people, you know what I’m talking about) among its sad offerings of generic cheese and wilted pot plants. Probably won’t visit again.
We also stopped off at Streatham Cemetery for an amble. Not the most jovial of places for a walk but I find cemeteries quite peaceful and grounding, and it was interesting to consider its history in relation to the war and plague and such like.
Plans for a big night out in Camden were scuppered by our relative disorganisation and lack of funds, so after queuing for an obscenely long time for drinks in The Wheelbarrow, we headed homewards and somehow found ourselves in the Tram. Again.
Housemate S was rather taken by a Captain Jack Sparrow lookalike, but in the unforgiving streetlighting outside, realised that we were all a good deal better off away from that, and subsequently headed home to drink Apple Sourz and listen to trance.
Week one, down.