Forget gourmet cuisine, decadent drug-soaked clubbing extravaganzas, and entertainment crossroads of the world for a moment. London is also about:
Kangkong belachan, beef rendang, nasi goreng, teh tarik and chin chow in Camden on a quiet Thursday night, when it no longer has the indier-student-than-thou, card-carrying nonconformist feel of the weekend. If you’re a Singaporean/Southeast Asian in London, give Singapore Sling (Inverness Road, across the road from the Camden tube exit) a try for pretty damn authentic tasting stuff, though of course at several million times more than what we’d pay at home.
Trying to blend in with what seems like the entire Irish community of London converging on the Electric Ballroom for an Aslan (described on their promotional poster as “The Best Rock Band In Ireland!”, more like Bon Jovi without sexy lead singer, cowboy fixation or, like, international fame) gig, watching fifty-year-olds sway along and belt out every line, all ultimately quite endearing and actually more entertaining than what I remember of Stephen Malkmus at ULU.
Mentioning to Sabrina that while we’re spending our Friday night in moot preparation drudgery, Alec is drinking the night away at Finsbury Park, getting her reply of “Oh, I used to live in Finsbury Park. A man got stabbed outside my front door.” and then worrying a bit.
Saving, yes, saving England from totally unforecasted gale-force winds and devastating storms by not going boating with Alec in Regent’s Park, although I do confess to unjustifiably endangering everyone all the same by daring to utter “Oh, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.”