Out with the Greek last night and he’s like “hey man, lets go to Tower Hill, to have a drink with my cru.” It sounded potentially perilous, and indeed on route, he somehow managed to leave his phone on the tube. This resulted in a delay to our drinking while we convinced reluctant station supervisors to phone ahead to their contemporaries to look for the phone as the tube pulled into their station. Sometime later we tracked it down – by now in Finsbury Park.
The Wetherspoons we dropped into was like all pubs of that ilk, cheap and full of elderly alcoholics. In this case, no less than four of them, each on separate tables, one with a pipe, one with a beard and one with a sailor’s hat, slumped unconscious, their drained pints to the side of them. Not exactly atmosphere of the first order and I’m grateful we took the opportunity to skip out, rolled up the road to Shoreditch and spent some time in the Light Bar. It was quite light in there actually, and certainly airy. I spent a couple of hours shoegazing and staring up the lofted ceiling. Sometimes you’re up for a proper dance and other times I just like to see how many pints I can plough through, cracking witticisms on the side. Eighties electro, house diluted sounds crashed around the place encouraging tapping of the feet and occasional shape throwing.
For once the night bus came within seconds of us getting to the stop and it moved at high speed through the quiet streets of Islington, empty at this time except for a few stray stragglers and a couple of puddles of spew. Got back to the Greek’s and we still had a bit of energy. Enough to spend a decent hour considering the foibles of the most recent Star Wars trilogy, put on Return of the Jedi. Remark that that was really so much better, even with the Ewoks and wrap a couple of zoots. Ouch, it’s seven in the morning again and I already knew today was going to be pretty much over before it began.