Saturday, January 19, 2008

DSC_9989 - Male Taking PicturesYay me, I've done it again. In addition to the flyer for the Village (yep, the one on Ambridge Street; and yep, people talking about the Village always wants to make me ask which one - Chid? And yes, it's the one where they insisted on searching my bag on entry, only to discover much dirty washing, Belgian chocolates and the outbound Eurostar tickets; I had said it didn't really seem like a suitable place but my companion at the time was adamant or possibly just train-[and other things]-lagged) this evening I returned home with a pink chit. Section 44 once again. Oddly POTA didn't get mentioned, despite the stop being written up as such [technically it's just the TA: Terrorism Act 2000, I think]. But then he wasn't a real policeman and didn't have have the short sidekick to remind him of the procedures.

So that was a fun 6 minutes, according to the report, but I think it was longer given the guy's chalkboard writing [or for non-unexpectedly-faux-Americans "blackboard"]. I suspect when one is stopped by the police one shouldn't really be leaning on the window one was taking photographs in, but in a blatant bit of plagiarism which I was watching... oh, bugger, can you tell the paragraphs aren't being written chronologically? But then again I did manage to be laconic enough that I found myself saying 'yah' in response to questions. I suspect next time I may just ask if they'd like me to fill in the paperwork on my own; it'd be quicker as for a start I know how to spell my own name (peculiarly he checked whilst radioing it in, and being prompted by the other end to extract more information, hence the reference to middle names in the middle of the 'other' section; 'other' presumably being 'miscellaneous forgotten').

Anyway, I got stopped by a hobby bobby* while taking photographs at St Pancras International (i.e. that big new shiny thing that still smells of wet paint). The reason for stopping me was given as "SEC 44, Male Taking Pictures", which is just sexist and suggests I'd just broken into one of the antique shops over the road (whose windows I'd been photographing through in front of a van full of real police entirely unhindered, except for the windows shaking with passing trains).

* The plagiarised phrase alluded to above. As spoken by 'a real policeman' in Jam and Jerusalem. Yes, I know the last post probably mentioned the same programme, but it is horrifically familiar - to the extent that Dawn French's character's alter-ego is disturbingly similar to GA's mother in phrases and tones of voice used - and wantonly amusing.

Laptop in the kitchen, legs entwined round a stool (which probably sums me up somehow). Admittedly the laptop has to be in the kitchen because my brother's bizarre notions of good housekeeping means he has no microwave, hence I actually have to pay attention to what I'm doing when I'm come back slightly too late and remembered eating, and its prerequisite cooking, might actually be a good idea at some point.

And this is far as I got before cooking distracted me. There now follow some notes of what has yet to be said:

vodka has more taste than this. I should know; I've just tried the three I took out of the freezer to get the bread in.
I'm feeling guilty for not doing something I had no reason to do.
JJ - Rosie - Magaret: GA's Mother.
umbrella boy
funeral of hearts
Male Taking Pictures.

All of which basically means that an alter-ego in Jam and Jerusalem reminds me very much of a friend's mother [yeah, I so read the old part of the post before writing this bit], that while loitering in Soho (the smiles are an ego boost - I know half the people passing would make eye contact with an advert for contact lenses but they don't turn away when they realise I'm not a poster) a guy was wandering past idly swinging his folded umbrella as he chatted to his friend, which connected with the back of his head as he drew up to me, "Owwah". Fleeting amusement flashes across my face, shortly stifled. A slightly camp Northern voice whines "I think he's laughing at me" thus spurring me to bite my lip to ensure I didn't, gaze held aloft. "He is laughing at me!" the voice protests as the guy wavers between flouncing off, trying to ignore me completely and bursting out laughing. He opts for the former, not quite convincingly carried off as the shoulder shudders betray him and several steps in he realises he's flouncing the umbrella too, and that's he started this whole thing. I continue to lean on my bollard, repeating to myself "I must not laugh at the misfortune of others" which was about as effective as saying "I will not think of orange penguins", eyes flitting down from the safe zone above some shop to check umbrella boy's progress and thereby catching him turn by the junction, looking back with a face that mirrors my "I-shall-not-laugh". He fails before vanishing round a corner. I suddenly become aware that I'm grinning loonishly at the passing crowd, thereby making one third of the passers-by every variant of attire. So that was umbrella boy, the daft 'ape'th who clouted himself round the back of the head with his absent minded umbrella flailing.

And God knows what the funeral of hearts thing is - the song presumably, but it must have turned up somewhere odd. Oh, that's it. Gang of hideously young gayer-than-thous walking down Old Compton Street (presumably having squeezed past the blood doused crime scene), singing Scandirock. Nice to know they weren't entirely conforming to stereotype.

Best be it.


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