It was a good day.

Well well well.
Coatless and artily dressed, I bussed my way to Hoxton changing at Dalston Junction. Oh my. What a transformation to the lead up to the junction. Slum clearance completed, there are empty but modern dark green outlets ready for earthy retailers: If they could just do that along the parade of dross between Burwell and Sanderstead Roads in struggling to be Stokey, Leyton, houses would sell.

I stopped off to check out Oxfam on the Kingsland Road. That place is always floor to ceiling full of treasure.I found mine. Outside I saw a woman with her nose-ring glinting in Hackney’s finest sun and on her beautiful head she had hair, hair as thick as a bison’s, as matted as a buffalo’s and as glorious as ever intended. Being very polite, I walked two blocks before I turned around to spy more. Turning back, I bumped into the road-sweeper with flowers and baskets around her cart. Ain’t this just ‘Ackney?

Cocky me thought I’d find a pop-up shop about Lurve “almost opposite Geffrye Museum”. I frightened a traffic warden by being nice to him to ask him the way to number 93. The pop-up Love shop popped up by Headway East London was clean and welcoming in every way. We were to lino-cut and there was an apron all lovely and folded just for me. There were great pieces of art work well-curated on the walls all created by members of Headway who are victims of strokes and head traumas.

At one o’clock the workshop was done and my self-esteem was heightened. Bus 394 passed me by but the day was sunny and I had a pitta bread cheesie to munch before getting to The Angel. Uniformed four year olds were playing in the Geffrye House Museum grounds, The hipsters were maybe still in bed waiting for their bacon marmalade on ciabatta to appear because neither their pointy shoes nor laptops were evident on the street busy with buggy-wheeling grans. A young boy and girl, perhaps about seventeen, were nattering by the Museum railings and I overheard the boy say pitifully how he was so hungry having had nothing all day. I turned into “Home Alone”‘s pigeon lady and offered him my other pitta sarni. He declined. I turned away to shadow my phone to admire photos of my lino-cut. I heard a thud and turned to see the hungry boy flat out, skull-down on the clean pavement. His companion and I pulled him up as he came to and I saw his lips were pure white. The last time I saw that lip-draining was in Cologne Youth Hostel years and years ago when I looked at myself in the basin mirror after screaming the tower block down after two youths came out of the showers and attempted rape on me. Sacre Bleu.
The end of the boy incident was that the colour returned to his little cheeks and after a chat,I believed he’d had a diabetic black-out. BUT, not one of we three were carrying water. Lesson there.
Reached a very very busy lunch-time Angel to attend a Fawcett session at Claremont Project. That was pretty darned good. It was interactive and supportive.

The bus journey home was crazy. Somewhere on route someone from a bus upper-deck had called the police so a screaming sirened car was running alongside heavy school traffic searching for the right bus. It was frightening. It was well-controlled considering what mayhem could have ensued.
My bus was packed and very like a coach full of families returning from a seaside trip.

By seven, I’d tuned into LBC Radio to bludgeon with words May being interviewed by my dad look-alike. I turned to Twitter and enjoyed all the anti-May synonymous with anti-Tory retweets of my vitriole.

Then I ate Swiss Roll.

day of too much to see and do

Sang with Agewell Singers, What a troupe! One more gig and we’re away on Easter holidays.

                                    

 Then down across from North east London to proper east to be part of an invited audience through the educational services at Theatre Royal Stratford east. I was very happy I made it. The cast / crew of “Funk It Up About Nothin'”” gave we the audience a preview of what to expect on opening night. The energy on stage is electric, the acting polished and the action slick. TRSE’s youth asked the players how they met up and got along so well as professionals and more importantly, how do you work together to produce Shakespeare in today’s language using hip hop speke and rap rhythms. Obvious that as true professionals passionate about their stage craft they slogged into the early hours and rehearsed and rehearsed.

There are some wonderful surprises with lighting and movement and a continual bass beat which keeps everything flowing.The crudity about balls and erections is correctly Shakespeare so take no offence. The personalities of the women characters have been explored. (Bear in mind men took girlie parts in 1600s). Characters galore, colour everywhere make for the magic of theatre for all in Stratford east. No dark and grey hoodies in this production. That, my dear, has been done to death except at Hammersmith Lyric Theatre  where the misery of playground life has been food for thought.

Back into the big fat sunshine to get the bus to Hackney. That 276 bus journey is second worst in London: Not a tree to be seen; narrow roads which couldn’t take two laden donkeys and concrete. How is that good for our children?I tell a lie.We saw a bit of Hackney Marshes. That was just after the kids chucked water bottles at the bus windows. I arsk yer.

Reached Geffrye Museum for wonderful refreshments, not just Doritos either but proper lovingly-prepared sarnis and a cuppa, and then the photographic exhibition by Street Level Trust. Public were asked to enter photos on any subject so we did. We voted for our and eachother’s photos as most popular. All the photos were great. Smashing venue, smashing welcome, smashing Fernando, great.

Looked around the sides of St Leonard’s (Shoreditch Church) and dragged my feet and Freedom Pass onto the big red bus.

Another fabulous day up my streets.