London Commuting Woes

Sunny Street

The tube in the heat is a nightmare.

Sweaty compressed bodies and endless delays.

Yesterday it took double the time it usually takes to get to work.

Kings Cross had closed some gates in an effort to stem the crowds, the Hammersmith was late, over crowded and stalled at Edware road for what felt like an eon.

Too hot and sweaty to bother with my inter-connection lateness run.

I ended up being 30 mins late, compared to my usual 15.

The usual sorry-I’m-running-late text to my boss and that the train really was delayed didn’t allay my guilt.

I cried wolf too many times.

Wore my “No boyfriend, no problem” t-shirt. Given to me by my mother. It is one of my favourite tees ever. Such a cheezeballs.

Saw a lady crying on the tube this morning.

It was not even 9. She was on the phone and had her fingers compressed tightly over her mouth, the way people do when they want to stifle the sound or want to mask the way their mouth curves downward, like cup held upside down.

Another lady sat next to me, noticing, got up and asked her if she wanted to sit.

On a packed Hammersmith line this is indeed an act of true charity.

But I confess that although the lady offering up her seat meant well, I disapproved.

It was a little tactless I thought, and coming from a person distinctly lacking in social graces or diplomacy that is saying a bit.

There is an unspoken rule, (and if there isn’t, there should be) that if you see a person crying in public (and especially on public transport where there is no escape or place to hide) that unless the person is physically injured or ill,  you pretend you haven’t noticed.

Because you may or may not know from personal experience, that there is nothing more humiliating that being caught crying publicly, and how deeply embarrassing it is when someone asks you if you are ok.

You want everyone to just continue listening to their iPods, and reading their Metros - nothing to see here folks.

You don’t make eye contact with anyone.

If someone notices, it only grates on your nerves . Someone offering assistance, only mortifies.

The crying lady on the tube demurred emphatically, declining to take the other lady’s seat and turned away a step.

As to be expected.

What else could she do?

I would have done the same, silently annoyed that this person couldn’t just pretend to ignore me like everyone else.

People complain about the anonymity of large cities, and of public transport, the lack of eye contact. But it’s rather comforting to be invisible sometimes.

To be crying from Paddington to Hammersmith, once you leave the tube you can pretend it never even happened.

Mint & Oranges

I have numerous incomplete drawings lying around.

This is really getting to be a bad habit.

I’m struggling to juggle coming home from work, doing the chores and then trying to make myself draw.

Excuses excuses.

Nearly finished my sketchbook. 

Which at one point I very nearly lost. (Which would have been devastating.)

My agenda for this sketchbook was that I must not tear out any pages,

and all pages one must have a considered drawing (not some half-assed scribble).

So it’s taken ages to fill it up.

Ruined 1 page though. Boo hiss.

Mint & Oranges in the kitchen

Makes me think of summer and Spain

3 Oranges

Orange Skin

My on-going love affair with Rava. Showing no sign of abating. I’ve been making a batch nearly every weekend now.

Raisins are my favourite part.

But nuts are important too.

Kings Cross with star

Kings Cross e. There’s a moon too.

I think that might be Venus. I don’t think stars are usually that bright or that close.

Ona Na What’s My Name? It’s Ona, Stupid.

The on-going saga to get a flat the size of a postage stamp cleaned on a weekly basis. 

So Ona, our second cleaner turned out to be fairly flaky.

She said she was ill (and I’m sure she was) but her doctor appointments always happened to be on Saturday mornings.

The cleaning management company occasionally rallied to arrange temps but most of the time I just had to bear the brunt of the ex hissing venom at me at 9 in the morning when the cleaner had failed to show up, yet again.

“It’s your job to arrange the cleaner! Why isn’t she here?? I don’t care if her kidney is infected! Blah blah blah!”

The ex an I saved our relationship by getting a cleaner. We have totally different ideas of how often to clean and how often is too often, so cleaner issues turn critical very quickly.

On a side note:

This is such a desi wifely whine. More specifically it’s a very middle-class desi whine. Middle class Indians are always complaining about their cleaners.

Meet any woman running a house and she’ll give you a long rant about the cleaner or how the cook spoke to her very rudely the other day. (The cook and the driver are second and third in line of things to complain about.)

“Can you believe it? So rude she was. So I told her she can go look for another job if she speaks to me like that.

“And she always over cooks the daal. How many times I’ve shown her how to cook the daal but she still over cooks!”

“Plus I told her not to put salt in it. Every time too much salt. She never even tastes.

“Now the driver is upset because the cook got a bonus but the driver didn’t get the bonus.”

“Then the cleaner never jadhoos properly either. I always have to jadhoo the bathroom myself. She just does fut-fut-fut and thinks it’s done. Oof ho! Bus. What to do?”

“Haan haan, it’s so hard to find good cleaners… but have I told you what MY cleaner did…?”

In fact never ask an Indian housewife about the either the cleaner, the cook or the driver. It’ll never stop.

So to get back to my wifely whine, I’ve been designated as ‘cleaner manager’. My duties are to supervise and organise. (Catchy no?)

I’m expected to keep them up to scratch somehow. Inspect under the sofas, chase them around the 2 and a half rooms we live in. (Even if I did chase them around the flat my idea of “its clean” is clearly not going to match the ex’s expectation. So my supervision is really fruitless.)

The problem is the ex is the type of person who’d put of a pair of white kid gloves and run their hands down the furniture to test if it has been dusted properly.

So naturally the ex was enraged with the general incompetence of the temporary cleaners who came to fill in for Ona.

One of the temps dropped a painting off the wall. (Didn’t break, thank god. It was one of the ex’s tacky pieces of touristy shite. All hell would have broken loose.)

She then used the sulphuric acid that’s meant for unclogging drains to clean the oven. The ex caught that one.

I caught her cleaning a framed wall mirror violently and stopped her before she knocked that off too.

She then dusted the side tables by removing all the knickknacks and balancing them on the arms of the leopard print couch. The ex caught that one again.

In desperation I asked my boss at work if he knew a cleaner. This is the same boss who I once smoked a doob with. The fun one.

So he recommended a girl, so I called her and she told me she would send someone over one Saturday morning for a test run.

First day, the new girl (Elina, or Elita or something. Couldn’t quite hear her and now I can’t ask again) broke the power mop and left without telling us. Turns out she doesn’t speak any English.

We aren’t allowed to call her directly and can only contact her via her handler.

That aside, I’m still feeling optimistic.

Lit Windows

Buildings at Twilight

Essex Road with Moon

Angel Antiques Market, Camden Passage

On a sunny weekend the Antique and Junk market in Camden Passage is a lovely place to go for a stroll.

There’s a wide range of silver, faux silver, vintage clothes (some over priced, a tad too much fur – rather shabby rabbit), costume jewellery, old magazines, a suitcase full of scissors (who is buying that?), an entire wooden box of spoons (for the spoon collectors I imagine), old stamps, empty boxes, tiny silver cream jugs, candle stick holders, wooden seals, old prints, just all sorts of stuff.

Sometimes the vendors bring their dogs and it’s fun to pet them while looking through what is largely tat.

What’s exciting about looking through reams and reams of tat is that occasionally, just occasionally, you find something that is pretty darn sweet.

The ex and I once had a massive row over some junk. I know, most of our arguments are ludicrous, this one was no exception. (This was ages ago. Now we just fight about imaginary stuff)

I saw something the ex had glossed over as ‘rubbishy rubbish’ and when I went to get cash to pay for it the ex went and bought it. Man, I was pissed! Almost irrationally pissed.

There was a cold front for a little while but we eventually kissed and made up. The ex doesn’t notice things until you sift through all the tat and when you’ve finally found something, then decides it’s worth liking.

Anyway I went on a photo spree a couple of sunny weekends ago. One vendor reproached me gently for taking photos of her stuff. I suppose I should have asked. Naughty naughty.

So I bought a silver Moon face broach from her so that was sort of my apology. (Well, I wanted that broach anyway.) I’ve decided to start a brooch collection.

Found a silver sea-horse broach a while ago, as well as a mounted Grouse foot. My mother saw the Grouse’s foot and squealed in horror. So the next year I got her one for herself. (Because that’s just the kind of daughter I am – Enjoys horrifying mother.)

She has yet to wear it.

One of the stalls just before you go into Camden Passage

Broaches on muslin

Some Old Posters at the same stall. He also sell vintage toys.

1920′s Broach Closeup

Broaches Collage. I rather like the Scottish feathery one.

One of the stalls opposite the Camden head

Marcasite Necklaces. Or some junk.

Sun & Moon & Clock broaches.

Scottish Broaches

Sign Board & Yellow Typewriter

Rocking Dog

Boy Holding Dog Outside Tesco’s. I love the dog’s expression.

Boy Holding Dog Outside Tesco’s

The Breakfast Club in the Evening

Breakfast Club Window. I like the way the light looks from the outside set against the yellow.

Camden Head Pub

Camden Passage street empty.

Camden Passage. Took ages to get a not so shaky shot.

Milky Way Store Window

Milky Way Store Window. Like the light here too.

Remember The Sun?

Way back in March there was this glowing yellow thing in the sky. It made everything warmer, all the colours were brighter, the sky was bluer. Feels like it was yonks ago.

I really enjoy using the word ‘yonks’.

It’s very under-used. I’d especially like it used in historical articles or documentaries.

“The Romans invaded Gaul back in…well… yonks ago.”

The sky was a depressing green tinge a last week (as it is now). There was thunder and lightening. Very apocalyptic in the office.

My only hope is that during the Olympics there might just be a flood that washes the entire village away. That would be fun.

(Apparently there is a ban for Olympic ticket holder taking photos and sharing them via social media. These people are fucking morons. I hate the Olympics. I wish we could give it back to France. Just take it France, please.)

This is a very florally set of photos to combat the general depression.

All the flowers have by now fallen off now and it’s been dreary and grey most days.

I’m like a Gran now. I take photos of flowers.

I can’t help it. I’m enjoying the macro zoom on my new little baby.

Be warned, lots of photos will appear on this blog from now on.

Yellow & Pink Flowers

Yellow & Pink Flowers

Yellow Flowers on tree

Strange Green Flowers. No idea what these are.

Green Flowers Closeup

White Blossom Tree. Makes me feel like I’m in Japan.

White Blossom Tree Close Up

Pink Flowers with the sun shining. Ah the sun. So long ago I’ve nearly forgotten.

Pink Flowers with white blooms close up.

Pink flowers bud. Look I warned you this was an uber florally post.

Pink Flowers and white bloom closeup

Sun! Bring it back!!!!

Goodbye Twitter. Hello Pinterest

My Pinterest Boards

Not satisfied with the scores of social media sites I’ve signed up to I’m now also on Pinterest.

Unlike Twitter, which I never really committed to (I’m a visual person, besides all those hash tags are annoying.) I have only 3 Pinterest boards: one for Arty-Farty stuff, a Home one and my work one. So I’m certain I can commit to updating them regularly.

I have also created another blog called 10 Years of Mediocre Photography where I’ll be posting 1 photo a day until I run out, which given my happy-go-lucky trigger finger is unlikely to happen until I die.

I’m starting off with all my black and white photos I took and developed in our college darkroom at Camberwell, then I’m afraid it’s largely digital.

The rubbish Motorola Razr phone camera first then on to the surprisingly decent Sony Ericsson phone /camera and after we’ve got through all those finally we’ll get to my new camera. God knows when I’ll get to those. I have bucket loads of photos. 

Camberwell was a marginally shoddy college however they had a great black and white darkroom that was open till 9:30 every evening. Having no social life at the time (it was a really anti social 2 years) I spent nearly all evenings in the darkroom.

Can’t say my photos are particularly good, but I like a couple. I do miss developing film. I miss the smell of darkroom chemicals (oddly like fried chicken), I miss watching your photo develop in the tray but it was a pretty expensive hobby.

There is a great photographic supply shop in Southwark called Silverprint where I used to buy lots of discount photographic paper.

I also used to buy cyanotype chemicals (toxic stuff but handy) from there and make up a batch in my tiny student hall room. (No gloves used either. Health & Safety? What’s that?)

Chest X-Ray Cyanotype

If you don’t know what a Cyanotype is, it’s very similar to a photogram.

You coat a piece of paper with this greenish chemical mix, but unlike a photogram this coating is only sensitive to UV light.

So it’s something you can easily do in your room as long as it has a window facing the sun or a sunny balcony.

Once your paper has been exposed to UV light, you then rinse it in water to develop the print and set the chemical coating.

The coating looks dark green once exposed but after the water bath it turns a vivid blue. You can also make these in a warm sepia tone. I’ve found the cheaper the paper (higher acidity) used the better the print quality.

Skull Cyanotype

The only way I could make these was by taping the piece of coated paper to my student hall room window for a couple of hours and the only thing I had that would stay up that long were a series of X-Rays. (Now and then I’d find the masking tape had worn off and the X-Ray and coated paper would fall off)

Some are mine, some are from various family members.

Hands Cyanotype

Borough Market Photos

Took the new camera out last Saturday since it was the hottest weekend of the year. Gloriously sunny and not a cloud in sight.

I still wore a thermal and a coat.

I don’t trust these meteorologists and their optimistic predictions. I especially don’t trust the British weather.

Rule of thumb – always carry a jacket and/or a sweater.

I haven’t been to Borough market since I was a fresh-faced foreigner just off the boat, although there are shots of it on nearly every cooking show – Masterchef and Market Kitchen especially.

I was shamelessly taking photos like a tourist all over the shop. I don’t even look kosher because the camera is so small and clearly not the camera of a professional photographer, but it does the job and 12 Mega Pixels (not just regular big pixels, but ‘Mega’ pixels. I wonder who named it? It’s rather lame.) is a lot of pixels for someone who never prints but likes to imagine she will one day.

A friend bought some Pate and got another one free since the seller was closing for the evening which she then bestowed on to me. So I got some free pate! Better than that Sainsbury’s crap. Smooth, creamy and utterly spreadable on toast. I ate it 2 days in a row.

Anyway here you go, lots of photos. I rarely am able to exercise restraint with a camera in hand.

Market light under dome

Parsley & Blood Orange

Free Taste Girl. The Free taste was way too salty. Horrid stuff. I pretended to like it.

Free Taste Green Curry. They were loudly yelling 'Free Taste' for ages. I don't know who was buying.

Pork & Liver. Mmmmm liver looks so good raw.

Colourful Chalkboard at the Juice Stall

Purple Flower. Not sure what flower this is.

Herbs, Flowers and a Stall Lady

Veg Boxes

Lily at posh Florist

In Season painted board & Lavender

Flowers by wall

Apples, Pears and Pimms. There really couldn't be a better combo.

Walk back via London Bridge southbank walk

Tower Bridge with Tree

The London 2012 Olympics

I’d like to get right to the heart of the upcoming olympics and say a few unpoetic, yet pertinent words, through that powerful medium the poster.

The London 2012 Olympics

Fuck the Olympics, Fuck the tube delays, Fuck the huge waste of money, Fuck the swimming team, Fuck the canoeists team, Fuck the curling team, Fuck the horse jumping team, Fuck the yachting team, Fuck the rowing team, Fuck the javelin, Fuck the shot put, Fuck the discus, Fuck the hurdles, Fuck the long jump, the short jump and the high jump, Fuck the opening event, Fuck the Olympic committee, Fuck the sponsors, Fuck the McCartney ‘designed’ slutty outfits that look like the bottom half will ride up all the athletes butts, Fuck the shitty advertising (except the illustrated tube posters. Those are rather good), Fuck the crappy logo designed by a group of morons trying to be ‘street’, Fuck the athletes going on talk shows to constantly bore us with their ‘training schedule’ stories, Like anyone gives a crap, Fuck the sponsors, Fuck the mascots, Fuck the raise in prices, Fuck the cuts to the arts, Fuck the BS, Fuck it. All of it.

New Camera! Test Run! Exclamations!

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Test run from the photos I took with my new Camera. That’s camera with a capital ‘C’.

Very exciting.

It’s an expensive birthday present to myself.

I finally figured out how to use manual mode.

Hummer Rage

As I was standing by the zebra crossing near the flat yesterday evening, I saw some guy driving a Hummer down the street.

I looked at him and it and thought

“What a fucking c***.”

Who drives a Hummer down Essex road?

Who drivers a Hummer at all? That too in the city.

A poser with a tiny penis that’s who.

I have a little travel rage today.