Danny Gregory: The Creative License: Giving Yourself Permission to Be the Artist You Truly Are
Robin McKie: Face of Britain: How Our Genes Reveal the History of Britain
Alexander McCall Smith: Love Over Scotland (44 Scotland Street) (****)
Simon Schama: A History of Britain: At the Edge of the World? - 3000 BC-AD 1603 Vol 1
I met up with my lovely friend for supper at the Tate Modern last night - good food and great company. I just wish that Doris Salcedo would allow an explanation of the amazingly creative engineering behind her Shibboleth.
I took a few (blurry!) pics as we walked back to the bus stop. I love the river at night, the city (and the City) looks so beautiful.
Sometimes we have to pinch ourselves at how lucky we are to live where we do right now. On Monday night we headed up the road to Cargo for the first installment of our two night spoken word extravaganza. Saul Williams was the headline act - what a performer. But Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip were the main draw for us. And they didn't disappoint. We're going to see them again next week, supporting Billy Bragg at The Roundhouse. Yeay!
Photo, of Scroobius Pip and Dan Le Sac in full flow, by Matt Perdeaux
We were out and about at a (slightly strange) loosely blog-based comedy gig last night as part of the London Word Festival. Monday night's gig was a welcome relief from The Deadline but there were times last night when I felt my time would have been better spent at the pooter getting some more ticks on the list. The feeling has grown today as I've been a totally pooped waste of space at a stage in the project when I absolutely cannot afford waste of space days!
Still, it wasn't all bad. The gig (blogged here and here) had some high points, we had a slap up supper at one of my favourites, the Story Deli, on the way and Hawksmoors Christ Church at Spitalfields was looking particularly handsome on the way home (unlike me, Ginger remembered his camera!).
There were strange goings on afoot as Brick Lane was closed by the police so we had to walk the long way home. We passed an old-school streetwalker on Commercial Road, a pretty girl complete with thigh-high boots, sussies and suspenders; a sight so unusual in these parts that I thought at first that she was attempting an ironic post-modern statement (along with every second pretty young thing in Shoreditch). Alas not.
Never a dull moment round here, I tell you.
