I followed the yellow big footsteps.

So finally, after 7 months of schwarzfarhening*, the system got me too. It happened on a rainy Freitag, I was feeling kinda down and sorry for myself. One of those days when any illegal activity is highly unadvisable, remember, negative energy is highly contageous. But of course, live life to the fullest right? I didn't buy a ticket. And it happened on my favourite route as well! Just as the doors were about to shut at Warschauer Strasse and I was about to enjoy one of the best panoramic views of Berlin from the Watergate bridge (Oberbaumbrücke), two dodgy looking men walked in. Something in me skipped. I knew danger was in the air. And they pulled out their passes, like guns, and announced a bit louder than was needed, with complete unnecessary bravado, the search was on. Uh oh. Of course in my panicky state, my attempt at fumbling through my bag " searching" for my non-existent ticket was completely useless. And I cannot lie to save my life, so there was pretty much nothing else I could do but admit my crime, and try and swallow the embarrassment of being escorted off the train by these two weird looking men. They made the perfect couple by the way, shorty and fatso - a timeless classic. Ok, one final attempt to escape the inevitable - try to play the tourist. So I showed them my Cypriot passport and pretended like I was here on holiday. Yeah, sure, they probably heard that one a few times before, but my act was completely pathetic. Maybe if I was a better actor/liar, I'd have a chance. Monsieur Gaullier was definitely right, no use being an actor if you can't lie - if you don't really believe in what you play, who the hell will!?

So finally the myth of der Controllerman became a reality. 40 euros and all, I do consider myself quite lucky - this was the 2nd time I saw a real life controller, despite all the horror stories friends have been telling me about having been checked like 5 times a week. And the 1st wasn't even in the metro, but the tram, where escape is much easier. Of course, I am at an advantage, as my bike is my usual method of transport, so the probability of seeing one considerably decreases, but still, 7 months is quite an achievement.

What really did it for me though was the trip to the Penalty Office. They actually highlighted the walk of shame with big fat footsteps, bright yellow, with the big black BVG letters beaming like grinning faces, perfectly visible in all sorts of weather conditions. It's incredible, everywhere else the Germans are experts in the art of being subtle. Bright colours, standing out, making bold statements - big NO NOs, but when it comes to obiding the rules, they happily highlight them in the brightest of colours. As with all things Made in Germany, they hit the spot in the functions department this time too. The yellow footsteps definitely don't make you feel like the clever one.

Composition with yellow building in the background.

*Schwarzfarhen = literal translation "back going".
Schwarzfahrer = Abusive term for those who travel without a valid ticket.
Of course this word exists in the German language.


Further Seeing:

Schwarzfahrer.
Oscaring winning short film by Pepe Danquant.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFQXcv1k9OM

I saw the light on Sunday.

It’s always good at Panorama Bar/Berghain on Sundays, but this Sunday was something else. You know those stories you hear of hardcore religious fanatics experiencing spiritual awakening in Church? Well I think now I know what they are talking about. Only for me it was with music.

It all started with the words: “I am not going to Panorama Bar this weekend.” I actually made a point of this all week, and announced these plans out loud, to anyone who would listen. Was I trying too hard to conceal the inevitable....?! Perhaps. My reason? I wanted to miss it a bit. The last few weeks have been a bit of a Panorama overdose and it was beginning to loose its special factor a little… So, I thought, logically of course, it would make sense to make a little break. I was doing quite well with all the rational reasoning in my head, until Sunday dawned and the little thrill-seeking voices started their usual mischievous whimpers about not wanting to go home. It didn’t take my fellow party friends long to convince me. Ah, peer pressure. I am amazed at how little will power I have sometimes. Weakling. So, with whatever was left of the voice of reason in my head, I thought, I can just pop in, a few hours won’t hurt, besides, what else am I going to do on a grey Sunday afternoon….?! Yeah, right. Any reasoning you try and make before you go in, well you might as well forget it, or better, leave it at the cloakroom.

Definitely advisable to leave ALL belongings in the cloakroom by the way. This I learned the painful way, after running around in a “close-to-a-mini-heart-attack-state” for about half an hour trying to locate my bag amidst tripping bodies, flashing blue lasers, a sea of broken glass bottles and a couple having sex. (Yes, I know, maybe it was a bit rude to disturb, but they were having sex in the booth exactly behind the spot where I left my bag for “safety keeping” so in my moment of desperation I had no choice but to search the contents of their dark little hole. I think they were too caught up in the act to notice though.) In hindsight, perhaps this temporary state of emergency added to the outburst of euphoria, which followed later, you know the “cannot-appreciate-pleasure-without- pain-theory” -- definitely true.

Anyway, let me get to this awakening. It was one of those special day-night-morning-evening (fuck who cares what time it was, the concept of time completely ceased to exist at this point) moments when the music held complete control. Like a massive maternal octopus, she spread out its tentacles and caught hold of me whole, and wouldn’t let go, no matter how paralyzed my body was. I’ve seen this octopus before, a few months ago at Bar 25 with Axel Bartsch, and then another time at Berghain with Ben Clock. Thank you guys for fuelling my visual imagination with such vivid visions of great sea creatures. Perhaps, it’s because I feel so good, therefore so light, therefore like I’m floating, when the music is so good, that I start to think sea things. Tooon, tooon, TOOOON, TOOOON.

The octopus then turned into a wave -- a massive cotton one, gradually drowning all the bodies in its sound, paralysing, hypnotising, catching them so strong, that they could do nothing but obey. And dance. But it wasn’t conscious dancing at all, the energy was coming from else where, and loads of it, fuelling limbs to move up, down, up down. Endless pulsation, hours passed, but I just couldn’t get enough.

And lets not forget the smiles. People tell me I’m a smiley person. I like to smile, but I considered myself an average smiler, until I came to Deutschland. Its not a very common habit here. People seldom smile, even if you’ve seen them out nearly every weekend for the past 5 months in all sorts of places and all sorts states, still you might only get half a smile, if your lucky. But this Sunday everyone was smiling. We were all connected under the same techno blanket, all present at the same sleepover where our sleep deprived bodies were giving it their all on the dance floor. Mutual pleasure. Seeing the pleasure on other peoples faces and being able to feel at that exact point exactly what they are feeling. Togetherness. This feeling is better than any high really.

And when I thought it cannot possibly get any better, it did. Every tune that followed, penetrated more, deeper, twisting and turning my insides inside out. And then, after all the peaks, came the mother of them all – they played the tune which has been stuck in my head/macbook/ipod on repeat for the last week -- “Blind” by Hercules and The Love Affair. A tune which I prayed for Villalobos to play last Sunday, of course knowing in my right part of the brain that there would be no way he would play this quite dated and extremely poppy track, but in a hopelessly romantic way, still trying to send the brain waves across the crowd. And now, a week later, it is as if my prayers have finally been heard. I could not believe it. They actually read my mind. Finally I knew, God exists.

DJs responsible for the spiritual heights of the night: Dixon (Inversions) and Ame (Inversions). Watch their space.

Preview Art Fair @ Tempelhof Airport: A lesson in wasting space & taking bad photos.

Never underestimate the importance of the curator. Lets repeat that. Never, EVER, underestimate the importance of the curator, especially when it comes to contemporary art or in this case that which calls itself ‘recycled’. This years Preview wonderfully illustrated that a lack of one reveals trash art for what it really is...crap. Used tea bags suspended from flourescent orange tubes with nails and...cabbage tits...wtf?!! I was embarrassed. Not only did most work look like it was pretty much assembled the night before, after scavengering the bins of Berlin...but there just didn’t seem to be any point in it, at all. And that is pretty bad. Shouldn’t there be some sort of government censorship office, particularly here,on socialist German grounds, to filter this crap out, and protect the public...?!(Especially when they have the nerve to charge a tenner for it...Further investigation into the subject is definitely needed.)

Funny to say now but on the way there, on my bicycle, I was pretty excited. New emerging artists, sculpture, installations, abandoned airport -- in my head I had all sorts of incedible visions -- vivid fantasies of crazy constructions bouncing off the abandoned concrete walls, massive spaces full of experimentations, concepts, minimal, monochrome, industrial and all those other |this is so Berlin| assosiations. But no, nothing of the sort. Instead I was greeted by a very modest (& very colourful) collection of rather suspicious looking assemblages, which looked like they had been thrown together there and then and arranged like attractions at a village fair, with all the blinking lights included. Never had I seen such pointless art installed SO badly ( masking tape was a dominant feature). Even my dog could’ve done better. Now what is the point of holding it at Tempelhof Airport if you’re not going to take advantage of its architecture? They might as well have held it at the local school gymnasium. It would’ve been cheaper AND the heavy smell of airport food could’ve been avoided too.

Although no spititual awakenenings/revelations/exits from reality were reached, some valuable lessons were learned. First– appearance is all. (The 10 second first impression rule could not have been more true). Now I fully understand the importance of the curator.It is not even so much the work, but the presentation which lures you in. Professionalism, organisation of space, negative space, attention to the smallest details, symmetry, harmony, knowledge and proper use of technical equipment ( hello?! Lighting anyone?!) -- these are the vital foods for a healthy exhibition diet. Without them, the work might as well be dead. Second. I realised just how damn hard it is to make garbage art look good. Now I can really appreciate all those scrapyard-like installations that somehow manage to transcend their status and move you. Third (and this was a bit of an epiphany from a photographic perspective) I realised the difficulty of making something look bad on camera. Maybe its because I never really take photos with the intention of making my subject matter look bad, usually its the opposite, but this time I wanted to document the tragedy on sight. But, you know what? It was pretty damn hard. Every photo I took somehow managed to make the work look better than it actually was, even with a flash. I found this pretty annoying, but eventually did manage to get a few revealing ones. (Photos coming soon)

But all in all, I would actually like to thank the Preview organisers for this learning experience. If it wasn’t for such shit around, we wouldn’t be able to appreciate the good stuff. I wonder what all the other polka dot wearing bohemian types thought as they stood pensively over the cabagge titted totem doll. Why..??

Preview Art Fair, Berlin. The Highlights.

"Why this roe deer is so fat and the elephant so thin?"...erm it looks like a kangaroo to me and what elephant?!

A keen interest in Zoology was a prominent feature.



Organic Minimalism.



The tranny Totem Dolls; a cry against coloniality and experiments in cross dressing using, erm fruit & veg. One of my favourites.

Used tea bag suspended from nails stuck into fluorescent orange tube. Could be some sort of modern day Voodoo. Detail.

A modern day family union, in the clutches of capitalism and globalisation, carved in wood..?



Chav Mum. Detail.

All things come to an end. Especially if constructed out of cardboard and masking tape.

Cardboard horse. Why they needed to tape the back of the single piece of cardboard is open to suggestion...

Masking tape. Detail.

Communist fantasies of equality with extraterrestrials. We are all bound by some sort of cords. Here they appear to be coming out of the mouth, rather uncomfortably.

Polka Dot woman next 'Moving House' installation..?

When in Rome.

*A little reminder why I am so happy on German grounds. So I landed in Rome and even before getting out of the airport building, it happened. The 1st confrontation with 'disorder' occured -- in the Italian toilet. It took me three toilets to find a more or less utilisable one . The 1st one had no door lock, the 2nd one's lock was half missing (I wonder who, and HOW, managed to snap the pretty heaving looking iron bar in half..?!) and the one I settled for finally, well it wasnt exactly the cleanest, those very suspisious looking droplets were of course present on the toilet seat, but Thank god there was still some toilet paper, so it was a problem that could be solved. It doesn't end there... forget soap and any sort of hand wiping material. To be fair, the initial evidence was there, and they did attempt to install the eco friendly wiping system - you know that pulley one which magically springs back into position after use. But, unfortunately, this particular one looked like it had long lost its magic touch. The poor thing looked like it had been victim to some serious acts of terrorrism; half its contents were dangling out, like guts on a battle field. Mechanism broken, and towel dirty, there was no way I could utilise it. My only interaction with it, was pity.
Ok, it was 9:00pm, a long day in life of loos, I guess.... BUT. hellO?! We are at the airport here, any time is welcome time, and the WC, a major pre destinationary experience for most travelers, should be on its best behaviour and appearance, always. What kind of introduction is this to new comers anyway?! Especially coming from a country where appearance is everything, and 'dress to impress' is a big part of the daily routine. Thank god its not my 1st time to Rome, such a first impression wouldn't have impressed me much. This would never happen on German grounds. Order. Organisation. Discipline . These are my new best friends. But then again, I did manage to catch the '9:00pm' bus, even though I only arrived at the bus stop 9:15. Sometimes rigidly sticking to the rules can be such a pain in the ass.

At the airport.

Duty Free Shop. Tegel airport. 8:00pm. I thought it was just liquids, but now they’ve recruited make up too. My skinny L'oreal mascara was packed well; it was pretty much vacuum packed, wrapped and sealed in a sturdy plastic bag, with bright red warning signs all over: DO NOT OPEN. “Are you serious?” I asked the sales lady, who greeted me, robot like at the cashier, in both English and German. “Better not until your destination.” she advised, only in English this time. Phew, at least she’s still human.

What is freedom?

Its being able to eat and enjoy a kebab at 1am on the way home.

Techno Ate My Brain. Thank You Mum!

Ever since moving to Techno capital I’ve had a problem with going home.
It seems that here the club always wins. I was quite happy in the UK, the set would finish, the club would close and, of course there were the initial moans of not wanting to leave, but those quickly passed as I knew it was the end. In Berlin it’s a different story.

The clubs here adhere to a different set of rules. There is no specific closing time. The club closes when the last person leaves. It’s potentially infinite. So you have to be quite disciplined and remember to leave at some point. Now this could be quite dangerous for those with a hedonistic streak, those who cannot discipline themselves. But the reasons cannot just be tied down to wanting to stay out. There must be a deeper understanding of this phenomena and its effects on the brain. So what it is about the nature of the clubbing scene here that is so infecting? Lets talk about techno.

I decided to look into this matter after fruitless attempts at googling such phrases as “the influence of techno music on the brain”, “repetition in techno and the brain” etc etc which left me frustrated. Most of the writing tells the same old story; it’s the drugs, drink and smoke, blah blah blah. This doesn’t paint a very good a picture of the clubbing scene. And for gods sake, can we please abandon this “clubs are all about drugs” stereotype. Thousands of people attend clubs, travel continents to go to festivals, dance for hours – the appeal must be more than just substance abuse. Techno is actually a very delicate and intelligent form of music. Do you know anyone who can listen to salsa music for 15 hours and not get bored?* This is what fascinates me about techno. The potential depths its infinite nature offers (Black hole anyone?)

So I’ve been in Berlin for a few months now, and as I said before, I am still struggling with the going home issue. But at Melt festival I had a bit of a revelation (and it did come when the sun was rising, a very appropriate pathetic phallacy my Literature teacher would say. Ok its a bit cheesy but revelations are always beautiful, especially when the sun comes out.). I realised I never want to go home because the music doesn’t let me. Techno is based on repetition. Its constant beat grabs hold and doesn’t let you go. While most music is linear, say a rock song with lyrics or a symphony, ie it has a start, middle and an end, techno tracks are built on another measuring scale. They are building blocks in a potentially never ending set which oscillates, grows, diminishes, breathes, but in theory can go on forever, and ever and ever. That is because repetition is endless. It is a different dimension. Under the influence of techno time ceases to exist, you enter a different reality where there is no start or finish. What dimension it is, I don’t know, but it definitely has a very strong hypnotic power on the brain. Not everyone likes the constant banging of course.

According to my mum, it is highly dangerous for your mental health. “If I listen to it for longer than 10 minutes I’ll go mad.” Hey Mum, did you never think it was you who first infected me with the techno beat? Being in your womb for 9 months and listening to the constant beat of your heart, must have left some sort of techno imprint in my brain.! So those who enjoy it, probably find they have similar problems. It is like a love-hate relationship, which is easy to develop, based on the never satisfying pleasure which techno provides, as you crave more and more and more…

But as with all forms of intelligent music, techno has a very strong healing factor I believe. For me it is my meditation, my exit from reality and thoughts and worries of every day (it is also my gym. Dancing for 10 hours once or twice a week beats any gym goer, I’m sure. Tests should be carried out accordingly. Those interested please get in touch). In the presence of techno, the mind becomes free as the repetitive beat switches something in the brain and puts you into a state of trance. A direct relationship between the beats and the body follows. I love dancing to techno because I do not dance consciously, my body sort of moves by itself, it feels the beat and it feels as it there is no bypass between the music (which enters the ears) and the brain. It’s a direct route from ear to muscle. Nietzche did say that music is the most direct form of art, precisely for this reason. That the brain doesn’t get involved. There is no thoughts, just feelings. Try it, it can be revelationary experience (particularly if you are on 2 hours sleep and have been dancing for about 10 hours and the sun comes out) but don’t forget to go home.

*I do not intend to offend salsa music, or any kind of music in any way. I simply use it as a comparison, between linear and non-linear types of sound. You have to admit, 15 hours of salsa would be a b it of an overdose...

The Greenman Politiks.

The Germans never cross the road when the man is red. A small detail, which you wouldn't normally pay attention too, until you are stuck in the situation. It goes something like this... I stand at the crossing. There are no cars around for miles in site. I stare at the red man. I look around and everyone is waiting patiently. I try to out stare him, kind of hoping that if I focus all my energy he will turn green quicker. But nein. After a few seconds of stressing myself out in this manner, I give into temptation and cross. But the feeling isn't too good, I feel like I've broken some serious laws.

It's funny to observe how some people, the daring few, follow, once you've taken initial action. That can say a lot about people. Do they quitely grin to themselves afterwards, having done something naughty? I wonder. These guys are so subtle that you have to look extra hard to find that smile. But these trivial details can actually reveal a lot about culture.

In London, traffic light crossing is a completely different story. People just don't have the time to wait, even if they wanted to. Sprinting from A to B with Tesco's sandwich in one hand, Blackberry in the other, Londoners don't even have the time to sit down to eat their lunch. Or if they do, their companion is their beloved laptop. Sad.

In Russia things are even more extreme. Its war. The drivers find it fun hitting the gas pedal instead of the breaks when approaching pedestrian crossings, while the street-crossers get their kicks from jumping on the road the second the light turns red. If you ever visit, I suggest you use the underground crossings, especially in winter, when the roads are pretty much like ice rings.

The Germans on the other hand, stand and wait patiently. It seems like they have all the time in the world. And they don't question the law. Its kind of relaxing, handing over control. Red stop, green go, and you don't have to think much for yourself. Its all been drawn out for you. But nein. I just cannot do it. And it's not even because the opportunistic Londoner inside me cannot resist the temptation to disobey, but more the frustration that I am wasting my time waiting around. I got places to go, people to see, things to do, rush rush rush rush. And here I got this red dude, who is, I am sure, programmed to last much longer than normal, or that's what it feels like anyway, prohibiting me from crossing a completely empty street..! It's all a conspiracy.

But then I stop and think. Isn't that one of the major reasons I moved to this city? To get away from the chaos that is London? Precisely. Berlin is chill town, with an amazing beat. It's really not what I expected of a German town before I came here though.* When I thought Germany, I thought strict rules and regulations. But nein. People here can pretty much do whatever the hell they like. The did try to implement the smoking ban, but you can pretty much smoke everywhere still, eat your own food at bars and restaurants, drink your own beer. Clubs just don't close and you can get away riding the metro for free most of the time. At first it seems like no body cares. But after a close study of the behaviour at the traffic lights , I think I am starting to tune into Germanness.

They don't need the laws, the law comes from within. Its like they were born with a sense of correctness, so no need for external oppression, Big Brother style. People will buy the metro tickets anyway.

A slightly different case in London though. A no there is a no, and they will turn it into a big ban. No this, no that, and extortionate prices for half a cucumber wrapped in cling film. No wonder people disobey. It's quite ironic really, but its true; deny the people something and they want it more. They don't just drink, they get wasted.

No so many cocaine addict neurotics here thank god. And sure, maybe here people won't get as many things done, seal as many business deals (if you calculate the amount of seconds lost each day waiting for the man to turn green) but at least they are not stressing. And probably end up living longer as a result. It might take me a while to adjust, lawlessness and opportunism is just too tempting, but then so is relaxing. Maybe its a healthy alternative for the body and mind to wait for Mr. Green after all.

*Berlin is unlike any other German town however, so will have to travel around and get back to you on the traffic light situation there.

In Starbucks.

" A double expresso, but can I have it decaf please?"
Wow. What's the point of that? People have way to much choice today.

Epiphany on a Sunday.

Erlend Oye is a god. And I am not just saying that because his music rocks. You know all those positive energy and laws of attraction theories, the vibrating molecules that draw in positivity, harmonic auras or unexplained magnetic pulls, well when Erlend’s around they all suddenly make complete sense. Perhaps it is his calm composure and completely understated cool; quite tall, he appears permanently dazed and floating in blissful thoughts, or the oversized geek glasses* and stripes, which radiate a happy healthy glow that make him instantly likeable. Here is the complete antithesis of the pierced, studded tattoo freak and all round junkie rock star type, which your parents have nightmares about. This guy actually looks like he would be equally happy taking care of an old people’s home as he is performing. I want to give him a hug already and we haven’t even talked about his music.

His latest project, The Whitest Boy Alive, like pretty much most of his work, is not just another band that make great music and tour to promote their new stuff following the usual formula: come on stage- play to fans from elevated stage (or fenced off in extreme celebrity status cases)- let fans go wild by themselves- get off stage – go to private party. Oye and the boys actually get involved. They want to party with you. Clapping, dancing, singing, and rotating positions like in a volleyball match, they might stop to make a comment, or jump for a dance into the crowd. All loony as one another, these boys from the small town of Bergen in Norway don’t take themselves too seriously. Playing around like children in their bubble, it makes you wonder whether they’re actually having more fun than the crowd. The best part is that the bubble spreads.

When they came on stage, every little puzzle seemed to fit into place. And that’s not only because of Erlend’s voice. Yes, it is incredible. and the songs, and words flow extremely well making every bone in your body tingle. But this tingle is caused by so much more than that. It is the product of that highest level of harmony achieved when everything is in such a state of equilibrium that you don’t need drugs. When endorphins rush around your body just like that, through sound. It’s a simple formula – its pure and it works. Close to nirvana? Perhaps. But all I know is that finally I understand why people go to see gigs. Sure I went to plenty before but always left with a feeling of slight disappointment. Something along the lines of “I could have listened to them at home and not been crushed by thousands of people and spent loads of money.” I must have seen the light. Happiness is contagious.

* You could spot the dedicated fans easily in the appropriate oversized spectacles attire – a trend that has taken London by storm. Whether they are prescription pieces is highly doubtful, yet I wonder if Oye is the unassuming icon who started it all..

The Whitest Boy Alive @ Digital.

The support band. Fellow Bergenians, The New Wine

They must have grown up together or are extreme fans of WBA, because they sounded pretty much the same minus Erlend.

They were cute too.











la la la la

The crowd leads the way

Getting mischievous...

Lets play!





Presents for everyone

Brighton Shores.

This would not be possible in London.


You can never have too much sauce.


Red shoes hanging out on the beach.


The ex- pier. Now a piece of contemporary sculpture.

8 BIT XXXCHANGE @ CATCH

The Coolness..

Its

Cool

to

be

uncool

Assistance Needed.

Waitrose finally hit Islington and positioned itself right in between two other big boys of the food chain game; Marks & Spencers and Sainsbury’s. (Approx. length from the start of M&S block to end of S.’s with W. in the middle – 100 metres.) A bit of supermarket O.T.T? That’s what I thought. It is quite a tight fit and a hint of competition is definitely present in the air. But lets not jump to conclusions just yet. In its slick campaigns, Waitrose promises difference. Quality. Exeptional Customer service. It is the luxury supermarket after all and as Wickipedia informs “has a Royal Warrant to supply groceries, wine and spirits to, her Majesty, the Queen.” Promising stuff.

From the outside I wanted to give the ex-Woolworths space the benefit of the doubt, starting with the location. Perhaps it is all part of the new order in urban planning, a breakthrough means in fascilitating the food hunt with customer in mind of course, inspired by the system from within, and titled something along the lines of “Supermarket within the Supermarket Scheme” in the Islington Council books. Three supermarkets lined up one after another – exactly like having all those different types of tropical juices in one aisle, which definitely makes it an easy find. Whether the selection process is just as easy is another question however... So now you know if you want food in Angel, you’ll find a wide selection between no.5 and no.31 Liverpool Road, catering for all kinds – from basics to the finest options. Plus, the newcomer promises to help solve the acute cattle crowding at rush hour, which was actually becoming quite serious. The madness would start just after 5:00 with the anxious post-work-to-tv-and-couch mob and go on for a good few hours. Not the best setting if you want to spend some quality time choosing the perfect carton of juice.

But no need to worry now, with Waitrose you can shop in peace and get some real quality stuff. Or so their advertising department says. Not particularly a diehard supporter of the supermarket system, I do use it of course, not too much realistically cost effective alternatives around. So I decided to swap my usual Sainsbury’s route a few weeks ago and pop into the new neighbour (rival?) for a peak and some quality food. And..

You will not believe it, but within 5 minutes I was out of there, seeking refuge in Sainsbury’s next door with a warmth in my heart and a newfound admiration for this store which has been faithful to me for quite some time now. It was not that satisfaction of being back in the comfort zone, on familiar terrains or anything like that. I find novelty extremely appealing. Here the problem lay not in what the store was, but what it wasn’t and it definitely wasn’t what the adverts promised!

It was dirty, chaotic and completely random, with maze like aisles too thin to fit two way basket carrying traffic (forget trolleys), no where near enough food selection to justify calling itself a supermarket (I mean real food, like carrots, potatoes – not the ready made pre-packed box dinners with fancy names which they have plenty of in fact) and undersupplied shelves. I mean I know that we are living through dark times with the recession and all, but when Waitrose staff cannot refill the shelves in time or clean the floors yet have the cheek to charge extortionate prices for ‘quality and customer service’, we know we have a problem. Like the winning hero, Sainsbury’s orange seemed to glow more orange in comparison.

Today, feeling good, I decided to give the newcomer another chance. I walked around, and round and round again to familiarise myself with the contents and felt the definite bias for quick cook, ready made box meals instantly. I did contemplate leaving my basket and running off to Sainsbury’s again, but considering the time – 7:00pm – prime time food shopper frenzy, I thought best get it over and done with quickly, and actually have the satisfaction of dealing with a real person at the cashier.

Yet, even then I was badly let down. After spending quite a long time trying to scan in my loose watermelon (one of those rare unpackaged food types, a.k.a without a bar code, a.k.a not in system, a.k.a should be weighed at counter but built in scales, now seem like defunct technology), the cashier dude eventually managed to type in a code. After his supervisor made a phone call. When payment time eventually came, I decided to use actual cash -- a rare action in transactions these days. The damage was £21.98. I handed over the exact in a variety of notes and coins and waited the polite few seconds for the cashier to approve my math skills. After a considerably longer time than normal of counting and recounting the case was still not closed. Instead, the cashier looked up at me blankly and said, “How much is this then?” Unbelievable. Perhaps those self-service checkout tills next door, periodically shrieking “assistance needed” are not so bad and three is a crowd after all.

Dear Darkness.

I take off my boots. And I wonder. Its so sunny outside. why am I inside? this darkness. maybe its cos pj harvey is on and its that time of day... but still. i wonder. the industrial sounds of building sites are reverbarating in my ear, along soothing synth notes. and its a monday, and WYS on a sunday just seems so wrong. because its a monday. and things are serious on mondays. stern faces on the tube. all those jackets. where are you going? why the rush.. can u stop and think, for a second..about where you are. in this crazy spaceship tinned beans space and going. where are you going? but who am i to say. mondays are the serious talk. the beginning of what society calls sobriety. when no one is kind. and those outside this vicious circle of mondays feel like intruders on the train. smiling. but guilty and wondering whether they should get into the monday thing. because everyone does. and its what you're supposed to do, right? can we function any other way? can monday be a sunday really. its hard to process. no matter how much u want it. it just feels wrong. and that voice of reason is scary actually, becauase it makes you realise just how encoded you are.

Slaves to Fashion: 'Vintage Rocks Macmillan' FashionShow@BBB