Friday 10th March 2017

A warning: This might be a long blog post, I did quite a bit yesterday. Just so you know.

It was Friday, the end of the week, and for Jools it really was that, as she had the day off, so could take me into town to be measured up for a new pair of glasses, as I lost my lat pair. And then drop me off at the station. Before then, there is the usual stuff.

Coffee, feed the cats, breakfast and then work. You will not be surprised to learn I answered mails, calls and then chaired a meeting where I got to order people about. I mean, I am a fairly likeable person something like 99% of the time, but once the meeting starts, I am mean. Real mean. Anyway, that was fun. I had to send a follow up mail, the wrap up, and time to hit the road.

I put a change of clothes in a backpack, along with my 6D and the wide angle lens, and it 's time to go.

I have to have a new pair of glasses after the other week I was in a parking garage and couldn't tell the difference between a 1 or 0 from about ten metres. Time to do something. It was a fine spring morning, and in the fields between here and town there were fields of sheep and the new bundles of fluff of the new lambs, all looking fragile and mostly sleeping, or suckling with tails wagging like crazy. Must take some shots I think.

Town is busy, but after parking behind the church, I walk up Biggin Street to Specsavers, choose the first half decent cheapest frames, get measured up and jobs done. Turns out the half hour job took ten minutes, so there is time for brunch, walking back down to the church, we go into La Salle Verde, and I order a pasty for each of us, and a coffee for Jools and tea for me.

I am going to London to meet up with a friend to see a gig that night, and after feeling last night I should do it, I am now having more than second thoughts. But, I counter that with what to do with my time before I meet Henry and his friend. I remember a Flickr contact of mine had just snapped the new Crossrail station at Canary Wharf, and I was very keen to snap the rooftop garden and arched roof which stretches over the plants. If it was open.

So, the plan was in my head now, get off at Stratford, Jubilee Line to Canary Wharf and snap away. Good. Believe it or not, despite being such a varied city, I have snapped so much of it, I was struggling to think of where to go. But that sorted, Jools dropped me off at the station and me with a smile on my face, grabbed my bag and waited in line to get my ticket; £42 for a weekender ticket, which had me aping Barry Mooncult as I walked along the platform so I could snap some train action as I waited. A Javelin came in from London, and then a few minutes later, one came the other way, and we piled on, me selecting a seat facing the sea as we went along Shakespeare Beach, and all the other things I like to look at as the train whizzed its way to London.

I got off at Stratford, but not going to the DLR station, but instead walking through the shopping centre, all lit up with neon and populated by orange ladies and meatheads, who spend their days shopping, shopping for many more things like they already have. Or so I imagine. I see so many shops, most with fanciful names, all selling almost identical things. Who buys all this? Do they all make money Should I car? no.

It is a means to an end, getting to the regional station and the Jubilee Line platforms. Four and a half years ago, this was the Olympic Park, now it is the new home of West Ham and the Olympic Village now tuned to a housing project, and looking very much at home.

I get on a train leaving in less than a minute, getting a seat in the front carriage, just enjoying watching East London slide by until we leave Canning Town and the line delves into a hole in the ground and become truly underground. I get out three stops later at Canary Wharf, where once was the centre of Docklands, now the alternative business district, a massive concentration of skyscrapers built around a network of long-abandoned docks, now looking very fashionable, some with massive yachts moored. This is otherworldly, but in a financial sense. I feel out of place, expecting the cold hard hand of security stopping me from snapping, but I'm fine.

There are maps spread around, so I can find my way through the maze of passageways, buildings and docks, to why goal, Crossrail Place.

A few years back, we stood on the platform of Poplar DLR station as a barrier dam was put down in preparation to build an ambitious dream; a railway station where before was a dock. They built the station many tens of metres below the water line, then constructed the building until it rose above the water, eventually topped off with a massive rooftop garden and arched room over 300m long.

I round a corner, and there it is, three massive ventilation vents looking like portals of a spacecraft. Modern architecture can be great. The end of the garden roof arches to a point over the water, and under it sheltered a restaurant, stating that lobsters were its speciality. Maybe next time. Halfway along, a walkways pierced the building, like a spear in a dying whale.

I take two sets of escalators, coming out beside the restaurant, but just beyond the roof which above me was glazed with thick plastic panels, was unglazed, and underneath ferns and trees were growing. A paved path wound its way though the centre section, but on either side, smaller paths lead to quiet corners and benches, where office workers could have lunch in something close to peace and quiet.

I have the wide angle lens on, and it eats the building up. I take many shots. I suppose the fact that you can see the massive skyscrapers through the roof, and yet under it, it all ferns and nature. And so quiet here, at least not many people, but the sounds of the city, and planes above heading to LCY to get through.

I am hungry and thirsty. SHould I eat here I should, but it would be pricy, and I really don't want a full meal. Back near the tube station, it is cheaper but more crowded. I think it might be cheaper around Waterloo. So catch a train into town, getting off at Waterloo. Now, I was getting hot in the springlike temperatures, so think I might look for somewhere to have a haircut. There is a place on Waterloo Road, but it is one of those chains named after a man with two christian names, so don't go in. Off the main road, past the Old Vic Threatre, I fond a small place, staffed by a man and woman, bot about a decade older than me.

They can squeeze me in, and I might be imagining this, but as we chatted and they asked more about my life, the loke seemed to take his time snipping, meaning I was in the chair 45 minutes or so, but shorn and smart, I could now look for somewhere to get a gasper.

Being Friday afternoon, half two, pubs seemed to be full of people starting the weekend. I look in a few places, and all I wanted was a place to get a drink and read a magazine, maybe have a bowl of chips. Then it hit me: the club.

So a few minutes walk away, I go up the steps, flash my membership card and am inside. At the back there is the entrance to the bar/lounge area, beer and bowl of chips comes to a fiver. And there are free tables. So I retire, look through my shots, and sup on my beer. Soon, freshly cooked chips are brought, and I think that that'll do. After checking in, I go up to my room on the 4th floor (room 125, Tony), on a corner and overlooking the busy tracks west of Waterloo East station. At first I loved being so close to the railway, thinking it was like a scene from the Blues Brothers, but then the noise of the trains, wheels scraping on rails, drowing out the sound of the radio, I began to regret it.

Anyway, I had brought earplugs, so sleep should not be a problem.

I have a shower, get dressed, and at five begin to make my way to Kentish Town.

Kentish Town is not in Kent, nor looks like Kent. In fact I have no idea why it is called that. But, should take about half an hour to get there, find the pub and wait for my friends. Or friend and his friend.

My plan was to walk along the South Bank to Blackfriars station, catch a train north to Kentish Town, which if my reading of the rail map was simple. Dusk was falling as I wound my way beside the river, mixing it with tourists and joggers, stopping to take some shots of the cityscape of The City. I was glad to get to the station, out of the crowds. The first three trains did not stop at Kentish Town, so I catch one north to St Pancras thinking that maybe I made a mistake.

At St Pancras it still made no sense, so I ask. I was right, I just had to wait for one of two trains an hour that were slow and stopping services that would stop at Kentish Town, a mere couple of miles north of St Pancras. Ten minutes later a crowded train stops, and I squeeze on. Getting off at Kentish Town as diusk fell, I stop to watch a couple of HSTs race by, then walk up the steps and along the road to the pub, getting pint for the almost unbelieveable price of six pounds fifty.

I get a seat outside and watch the naked city pass by, other drinkers arrive and just stand in the gutter, smoking and toasting their luck at having made to the end of another week. They seemed not to mind the prices. I nurse my beer like it was precious, which it was at those prices.

My friends were coming, so I wait standing at the edge of the pavement, as the rush hour traffic crawled by. How can people live like this? But they do. Henry and York (yes, York) arrive, and we swap text messages and find each other. We decide to find dinner instead of getting a mortgage out for another round of drinks.

A short walk away was a Lebanese please, not a restaurant, but a shop that did meals, a selection of meat and vegetable dishes which they heated up, and a plateful came to £5.50. I had chicken shoama, a aubergine stre with chickpeas and chili potatoes. It was simple and great, and too much to eat all of.

Anyway, why were we here, in a busy suburb of London, gathering after dark? Well, for a gig, Theatre of Hate supporting Stiff Little Fingers. Many 50-somethings like us, balding and with expanding waists were coming together to gather in The Forum to witness the 40th anniversary tour of SLF, a punk band from Northern Ireland. Teatre of Hate were a post punk band fronted by Kirk Brandon, who changed name to Spear of Destiny around 83, but were back at TOH again, rather than silly SOD.

Spear made a frightful buy rhythmic racket, a superb drummer, bass player and rhythm guitarist, and Kirk just played apparently one note on a lead over the top, screaming into his microphone. Now, I am not too familiar with most of their work, but Do You Believe in the West World was their hit, and their finale, of course. They also had a sax player, making it a bit X Ray Spex too, in a good way mind. I enjoyed it.

But SLF were the main act, and the stage was cleared, and more people came in, so the temperature and humidity rose. Was it always this hot and uncomfortable? I suppose so. SLF came on to a driving drum beat, and launched into three face paced, guitar driven songs with no pause between them. Like being punched in the stomach.

And on they went, tune after tune, some better known than others. When Nobody's Heroes came on, 2,000 people singing along was the hair raising moment of the night, and incredible three minutes.

But by half ten, aching feet, knees and back from each of us meant we bailed before the encores, stumbling out into the cold night for the short walk to the Tube Station.

We had a short wait for the train back south to Waterloo. We make arrangements to meet up again, for Henry and I it is an orchid hunt. But soon we are getting out, walking along the platform, up the two sets of escalators to the concourse. York goes for his train back to leafy Richmond, and Henry and I to our respective hotels on Waterloo Road. One final handshake, and we are parted, me walking over the road, now empty back to the club, grabbing a beer and going up to my room, where my t shirt is still damp from the humidity of the venue.

The beer was flat and dreadful, I pour it down the sink and lay on the bed. My feet are throbbing, my back screaming and ears ringing. Sleep would be a long time coming. I watch a Massive Attack documentary on TV, then lay in bed, after fitting the earplugs, just able to hear the trains rattling past, and the streetlights outside meaning it was only half dark.

It was nothing, if not interesting. I dropped off around midnight,