Still in the artists colony. The whisky bar turned out to be somebodies shed, or sheds, with a brazier and broken furniture. The man plugged in a few lights, there was ricketty table football. I thought, Christ, our own Glastonbury! Actually such things are not so foreign to me as you might think, and the whole experience was a kind of regression therapy to farm life as a student in the summers of the seventies. The people, as they were back then, were terribly sweet, angel hipsters and beardy oldsters, and a man who's turned a whole floor of this place into his own fairground from bits and bobs. I wouldn't have expected anything else. Very unusual to find a bar backed by a workshop or three. Old clothes wurled crankily round the ceiling on hooks, apparantly discarded by revellers in the early hours as they got bored with clothes.
Leipzig has quite a lot of regression therapy going on, it looks like what the cool bits of Berlin looked like twenty years ago, and the occupants enjoy much the same things. Unfortunately all our jaundiced eyes can see in the horizon are rapascious developers and shops. Presently there's hardly a shop (just the world's biggest art store) at least in this part of town, but hell, who needs shops, they want artist's materials!
Shall we stay here forever? Absolutely not.
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