The hour the worker never sees! Today I'm in Hoxton, the fashionable, arty area not born or thought of in this incarnation when I lived North of the River. It has charm, on a quiet afternoon at least: low-key, tasteful conversions of Victorian warehouses and tenements; narrow streets of glancing light, and then the open square. Here is the famed Real Greek restaurant, the original one, before it became a chain. The place is almost empty, with just one group at the largest outside table. Talk reaches me of 'the tour' and 'the album'. One of them makes notes.
Lahanosalata with lots of dill, and retsina which tastes of the holidays. Guilty as hell because I've called no one and accomplished few chores, but enjoying this quiet self-indulgence. A visit to the Bookartbookshop brought me here. I bought some hand-folded booklets of photos and poetry, hoping for inspiration for a very small project of my own.
There are intimations, yes, of energy and hope. No doubt these will be brief, but the memory at least may stick. This has been a good time of finding words, slowly, and ideas. The recent feeling that now, if ever, I'd be doing creative stuff if only life were less constraining and draining seems not to have been illusion. Hold that thought, even if it goes nowhere. The sun, which was really hot today, dips behind the buildings of Hoxton Square. It's a place I might have frequented in a different life.