Song of the day: National Express by The Divine Comedy
Owing to the ridiculous expense of travelling by train these days, I opted to bus it down to London. It was about thirty quid cheaper, though the journey was a couple of hours longer in duration. I disembarked at Victoria and swam through a sea of people to get to the tube. A subterrenean busker did his best to croon Purple Rain by Prince to an unimpressed and unwilling audience, while sweaty, foil-clad entrants of the morning’s Marathon limped their way toward their respective destinations. In spite of the staggering expense, I quite like coming down to London – it’s a change of pace from sleepy Belper and you always feel like you’re at the centre of current affairs, rather than on the periphery.
Luke lives in Stratford, in an apartment that was once occupied by athletes from the New Zealand Olympic squad. Stratford is a strange, ultra-modern kind of place that’s in possession of a completely new skyline circa 2012. I met another mate, Lloyd, as I was getting off the tube before meeting Luke at his flat to drop my backpack off. Lloyd was somewhat worse for wear and told me about how he’d managed to misplace his coat and bag in seperate drunken incidents on Friday evening. The three of us tubed it to Whitechapel where we indulged in the first of MANY curries at a bring your own beer place called Needoes – a sumptuous feast of lamb chops, baby pumpkin and chicken karahi was enjoyed. To cap the evening off we met our mate Will at a boozer in Bethnal Green. Will is an extreme sports enthusiast, a climber and all-round man of action. He was once arrested for cycling drunk into a lampost dressed as Rambo. It was this thought that went through my head as he bade us adeiu, donned his crash helmet and biked off into the East London evening.
Refreshed and pleased to have caught up with good mates, we went back to Luke’s and I crashed on his sofa, knowing full well that we’d have to get up shortly before five in the morning.