Singin the Blues..

You can't move on Columbia Road market on Sunday for accordions and banjos. We even saw a floppy haired kid around eleven years plucking away at his acoustic guitar equipped with a music stand, probably be playing John Martyn next week. Not sure if this is a manifestation of the desperate middle class, they didn't look desperate to me even though the whole street seemed bedecked in 'Keep Calm and Carry On' memorabilia. Meanwhile newly banjoed youth sang and played their harmonicas. Most peculiar; hearing them howling about not being able to sign their name. Maybe they can't, maybe they can only text it. Meanwhile the head count on aviator shades and lattes was astronomical.

As we usually do, we made for The Birdcage. The Birdcage has just changed hands, so the old hands are worried, looking shifty as if their favourite chairs will disappear overnight. Their banter with the landlady has, after all, already gone. We walk in to find the blinds are up. This is not a good sign. The point of the Birdcage was your general wanker, if they stepped in the door, generally stepped right out again, that is the traditional way and caused us a great deal of amusement. If you expose the interior to passes by, they will not be so nervous about the exercise of coming in. Whatever the plan, it was empty. More empty than usual. Like sheep, it will take a while for the wankers to cotton on. But the big coffee machine had already been installed. It's already happened I thought, like a fucking virus, the old fellas see it and they just don't bother anymore and die to meals on wheels. When the music turned to African chanting, and not a hint of Arsenal or Tottenham, I knew it was all over, just a matter of time.

I went home and drew the kitchen again.