Fly By Night

Friday has a unique quality, and while it isn't my favorite day of the week (Saturday is), I can't help but appreciate the unmatchable pardon that is Friday. Shakespeare said it best:

Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

Too true, Billy!

Another great lesson I learned this evening was, as convenient as it is to leave Shoreditch before midnight and catch the Tube on a Friday night, the trouble of drunken bastards mobbing the train almost makes waiting for a bus worthwhile. Almost. Ew, I'm not okay with that sentence but not enough to change it. I saw the most horrific thing on Old Street, a girl pulled down her stockings and underwear IN FRONT OF A CLUB and peed on a wall. It was disgusting and embarrassing and people came out from inside to behold the grotesque spectacle. It was as gross as Girls Gone Wild is totally so much fun!

Next drunken annoyance--violin player on the Tube. His bow had about 4 hairs left and he was wasted, so while the other passengers winced and made vomit-faces I cranked up baile funk on my iPod. But I did notice that he took the change he'd collected from his violin case and put it in his pocket before starting up again on the Tube. Capitalism in action.

Speaking of capitalism, true London reveals itself at night in the backstreets like Brik Lane, where Lydia and I navigated through a series of Pakistani, Indian, and Bangladeshi restaurateurs, each vying for our business. They'd jump out at us, offer us "drinks on the house", and one dude even did a little dance. The hand wasn't quite invisible.

Amidst all this hustle and flow, I did observe a lovely simple grace while riding the Tube back home. A guy helping his wasted girlfriend (she looked like she had been retching &/or crying earlier) stuff her sweater into her purse, then zipping it up for her, and just sorting her out and making her feel comfortable in her apparently semi-conscious state. He tucked her in, and it was considerate and sweet, like he'd been there before.

Weird dream from last night--I said:

"Profanity, for writers, it's our naked lunch."

???