Birthday Babe
Aug. 9th, 2009 11:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
millionreasonsDavid's Birthday #1 (Friday 07/08/09)
Lunch in the veganarchist enclave of Pogo Cafe, and flat whites (cappuccini are soo 2001) served by a guylinered sulky Shoreditch hipster in the bijou Taste of Bitter Love. Cycle past the never-before-seen modernist almshouse just off Queensbridge road, then along the canal under the weeping willows, which someone has trimmed into a Hoxtony fringe, to Kings Place, the new Southbank-esque artsy place which now houses the Guardian, the Spitz and others. We visit the art gallery which is showing a self-portraits exhibition but more interesting are the sculptures dotted inside and out:
We also have a look in the foyer of the new Guardian offices. Everyone going up and down the escalators looks really young, although David is hoping that the Manganator will show up (me, maybe Tim Dowling).
Back home via the quieter streets of Barnsbury and spend a pleasant hour watching the cricket in our new favourite pub. Well, pleasant apart from the shocking score. Stuart Broad still looks like a (tall) cherub though.
Later, we go out to Peking Palace and eat lots of fake meat, Beijing style. Along with irritating people on their mobile phones, there is also a huge TV screen showing Supreme Master Buddhist TV overseen by what looks like to be Barbara Cartland's niece after a stroke. Apparently earth used to be populated by people who lived underground and Martians. They were all wiped out by climate change because they only had two months to deal with it. It rather puts me off my sesame toast.
After eating too much, we decide to walk the four miles home, passing several cats on the way. They all seemed very busy and on their way to something more important than stopping and stroking. It's only cats' solipsism that stops them taking over the world
As we approach Church Street in the blue dusk the huge harvest moon rises above the steeple of St Mary's, looking to sink over it, envelop it. By the time we get home, it's shrunk and drunk:
Seems too early for big lemony moons and rowan berries and conkers and orange leaves and football.
David's Birthday #2 (Saturday)
The heavy sun proves it's still summer (yesterday, we were promised rain, but the weathermen forgot that it's always good on David's b'day). We meet people at the Springfield Cafe and walk around the marshes in the glaring heat. Fortunately, the Pembury Tavern has frosted windows and shade so we stay there for the next 8 hours trying out the different beers and whiskies. It's only now that this seems like a wrong thing to do. I do like the Pembury, it's more like a front room with beer than a public house. People sit at tables with laptops or ferrets, drinking tea or extraordinarily strong cider. I wander around barefoot, washing my food-stained skirt out in the sink (David also has a problem with a ricocheting pickled onion) and playing scrabble and dominoes. It's hardly All Bar One.
Lunch in the veganarchist enclave of Pogo Cafe, and flat whites (cappuccini are soo 2001) served by a guylinered sulky Shoreditch hipster in the bijou Taste of Bitter Love. Cycle past the never-before-seen modernist almshouse just off Queensbridge road, then along the canal under the weeping willows, which someone has trimmed into a Hoxtony fringe, to Kings Place, the new Southbank-esque artsy place which now houses the Guardian, the Spitz and others. We visit the art gallery which is showing a self-portraits exhibition but more interesting are the sculptures dotted inside and out:
We also have a look in the foyer of the new Guardian offices. Everyone going up and down the escalators looks really young, although David is hoping that the Manganator will show up (me, maybe Tim Dowling).
Back home via the quieter streets of Barnsbury and spend a pleasant hour watching the cricket in our new favourite pub. Well, pleasant apart from the shocking score. Stuart Broad still looks like a (tall) cherub though.
Later, we go out to Peking Palace and eat lots of fake meat, Beijing style. Along with irritating people on their mobile phones, there is also a huge TV screen showing Supreme Master Buddhist TV overseen by what looks like to be Barbara Cartland's niece after a stroke. Apparently earth used to be populated by people who lived underground and Martians. They were all wiped out by climate change because they only had two months to deal with it. It rather puts me off my sesame toast.
After eating too much, we decide to walk the four miles home, passing several cats on the way. They all seemed very busy and on their way to something more important than stopping and stroking. It's only cats' solipsism that stops them taking over the world
As we approach Church Street in the blue dusk the huge harvest moon rises above the steeple of St Mary's, looking to sink over it, envelop it. By the time we get home, it's shrunk and drunk:
Seems too early for big lemony moons and rowan berries and conkers and orange leaves and football.
David's Birthday #2 (Saturday)
The heavy sun proves it's still summer (yesterday, we were promised rain, but the weathermen forgot that it's always good on David's b'day). We meet people at the Springfield Cafe and walk around the marshes in the glaring heat. Fortunately, the Pembury Tavern has frosted windows and shade so we stay there for the next 8 hours trying out the different beers and whiskies. It's only now that this seems like a wrong thing to do. I do like the Pembury, it's more like a front room with beer than a public house. People sit at tables with laptops or ferrets, drinking tea or extraordinarily strong cider. I wander around barefoot, washing my food-stained skirt out in the sink (David also has a problem with a ricocheting pickled onion) and playing scrabble and dominoes. It's hardly All Bar One.
