Dalston Lane.

So.  Garry left London early Friday morning to bus back to Glasgow in time to photograph a friend’s mehndi celebrations.  I reluctantly crawled from the comfy sofa bed around 9am and after giving Jones the cat a pat on the head, ventured to the bathroom to get myself spruced up for my first solo day in the big city – and for my trip to Fish Island.

I took a bath. As is customary when bathing, I was naked.  I was rinsing the last of the ‘I’m-on-holiday’ Charles Worthington conditioner (I know it’s probably a false economy but I only allow myself to buy ‘designer’ hair products in travel sized bottles to trick myself into thinking I’ve gotten a £2 bargain!) out of my hair when I heard a noise.  I’d heard several noises already during the course of the morning and even when I was quite, quite sure I was being burgled, it turned out the fridge was just making an unusual tapping sound. My ears were underwater this time so, unlike before, I couldn’t be absolutely sure I’d heard what I thought I’d heard.  I slid my body up the base of the metal tub and peeped my head over the lip.  Before I even had time to confirm with myself that, indeed, I was not imagining a stranger turning the key in the lock and walking on in through the front door, I was face to face with a wee lady – her: armed with cleaning products and a big grin. Me: howling and flailing around in the bath water like a disorientated baby elephant.  As soon as the lady opened the door, Jones the cat made a dart for it out into the hallway. (I’d left the bathroom door open to keep an on him you see). Limited as to how much I could do right there on the spot without baring all, I curled my knees and cupped my boobs a la Carry On Dalston Lane and shouted, “Get Jones! Get Jones!’.  The wee lady with the mop and the grin shouted, “Sorry!  Sorry!’ over and over, slammed the door shut again then ran out into the hall in pursuit of the runaway moggy.

London alone is a right laugh.

Even after the grinning lady had gone, it became apparent that poor Jones wasn’t ready to make his return. I suspect he suffered a bit of a fright what with all the shouting and all the nakedness. Stuck inside the apartment while I waited for Jones to show up, I couldn’t help but daydream about what life might be like if I lived in the converted school building on Dalston Lane. What if this were my mezzanine office… and those huge windows?  What if they were mine?  I probably spent about an hour of the morning just mentally rearranging the furniture and deciding on hypothetical homes for my things.  Luckily, Jones rocked up to the kitchen window just as I contemplated calling a locksmith and declaring myself a squatter.