Friday, 29 January 2010
All it took was a fresh bagel, a cycling granny in a purple hat, a grown man in shorts at Spitalfields city farm, a sunny day, and a swift dash down Brick Lane warning buskers about the oncoming fuzz, and I was in love again.
Shoreditch I'm sorry. I didn't mean those terrible things I said.
If you want to get to know Shoreditch you could start here.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Today is lacklustre, dotted in sick puddles and bereft. Just bereft. Yesterday was the official most depressing day of the year. Shoreditch is hungover, and it hasn't slept since Saturday. Last night's broken car windows have lost their diamond shimmer. Queen Victoria sits on a policeman's face in Hackney Road committed to canvas by last decade's next big thing.
The asymmetric fashion clones cling to Shoreditch High Street like maudlin limpets with heavy fringes. They are knock-off pirate boots and mock depression, each trying to anti-fashion the others to shame. Faux-Westwood ideologies swathed in black- on-black layers. They haven't slept since Saturday, and they wish, they really wished they were anywhere else. They wish they understood Huxley. But photographing stranger's outfits for an anti-fashion blog with have to do. The pretty one is golden-bored, she makes the others puke inside, hating their own gaudy joie-de vive. They try to match her sublime ennui but Bethnal Green Road sneers back. It is useless.
Shoreditch High Street is shit for prams. No make-up, bad hair-day. E1mum is stressed out and sweaty. One of the clones snorts a half-laugh at her Ugg Boots. Fuck them. LO hasn't slept for days and HD is sleeping in the other room. Probably the change of routine has messed DD up. Does anyone have the answer? FYI Not slept since saturday LOL. It's a mare.
Doodle-Bug Boy thinks it's nineteen forty -fucking-five. He is tweed, is spats, is high waisted ebay trousers and a leather satchel. Wavering down Charlotte street in a ribbon of contrived fluidity he fancies he's being louche. A dirty-stop-out on a Tuesday morning. He hasn't slept since Saturday. How decadent! At the crossing E1 mum catches him looking at his i-phone. His Blitz cover is momentarily blown. He replaces it, pocket-watch-smart, in the breast of his original British Army Despatch Riders Coat. He'll be spinning shellac tonight in Hoxton Square. Ducky.
Fashion man is long-gone-forty, and ketamin is keeping him alive. He once invented some really hot trainers for Nike, but now he's flying solo. Clingers and waddya-dos hang to the outside of his shop pretending they can afford stuff, pretending they can help out at the next runway show. He taxes fags off them, and then breaks eye contact . He talks to Boy George on the phone until they piss off looking neutered. He hasn't slept since Saturday, it's the only fucking way to work.
There's a vase of water in reception at the design agency. It's all about going back to basics. Reception girl clatters back to her desk in important heels. She hasn't slept since Saturday. Who says there's a law saying you have to have flowers in a vase? You've got to think outside the box. It's all about reinventing perception.
Shoreditch is hungover, and it hasn't slept since Saturday. Today I hate Shoreditch.